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He has that same untouchable air as his brother.
“Please don’t ask me any questions, because I’m sick of telling lies.” And so I didn’t.
The tattooless tattoo artist, the press call her.
“And if anything does happen to you,” she says, dropping her voice to a menacing whisper in my ear. “I’ll burn down every one of their hotels, restaurants, and bars to the ground. Everything.” A chill ripples down my spine. There’s so much I know about Tayce, yet so much I don’t. One thing I do know, though, is that she’s deadly serious.
“Well, it ain’t gonna be Gabe. I’m guessing after Sunday lunch he crawled back to his cave.” “I like you Tor, but you know I have no problem dislocating your jaw.” The calmness in Angelo’s voice forms an icicle along the length of my spine.
“See,” Tor drawls, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “That’s not the attitude of a man who pays his taxes.”
“Nice shot on Sunday by the way. You’ve still got it.” “Like riding a bike,” Angelo shoots back, looking bored. “You never forget.”
We stare at each other. His expression is disinterested as always, but behind his eyes something dark glitters. A challenge. Like he’s silently goading me to dispute his lie. I tilt my chin up and he cocks an eyebrow, as if to say, go on. I dare you. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but strangely, not in fear. It feels…exhilarating.
I’m being punished for his nephew’s hotheadedness and it’s not fair.
Then I remember last night. In bed. The way his bulge pressed against my lower back as he pressed himself up against me. The way his hot, whiskey breath tickled my ear as he told me he can’t wait for our wedding night.
because I’m watching him so intensely, I peel back his layers and notice something harder underneath his disdain. The thumping pulse in his jaw. The flair of his nostrils. He’s angry.
“I’m not a whore.” “You’re not unattractive, either.”
“Seems like you only get that dressed up when you want something, Magpie.” I pause. “Magpie?” Another smirk. Oh, right. He thinks I’m attracted to shiny things,
“Perhaps I’m not as innocent as I look,” I snap back. Immediately, I regret my outburst. Darn it. Why can’t I just be relieved that he’s unaware of my obsession with the hotline? But the way he looks at me so condescendingly, like I’m a child, makes my skin itch with the desire to prove I’m not.
His eyes dance with dark amusement, but his tone is more sinister. Dripping with an insinuation that ignites a flame between my thighs.
“What do you want from me?” “A sin.” I blink. “W-what?” “Tell me a sin, Aurora,”
I have a rule book as thick as my dick when it comes to women, but all rules can be boiled down to one word: Don’t. Don’t stick your dick in crazy. Don’t let them stay the night. And definitely don’t let them leave something they’ll want you to return the next day.
Oh, and don’t ogle your uncle’s fiancee. A bitter laugh slips through my lips. It tastes like disbelief. Big Al is one lucky fucker and he doesn’t even realize it. Turns out, his latest squeeze is more than a smoke show—she’s a guilty conscience locked in a tight, stubborn body. If she wasn’t so fucking hot, the fact she thinks petty theft and being a little scissor-happy warrants a confession to Sinners Anonymous would be kind of adorable.
The image of my uncle humping on top of her tiny body on their wedding night is enough to short-circuit my boner. Fuck. Now I’m all worked up in a different way. Hot, itchy annoyance prickles under my collar like a heat rash. Up until nine years ago, I would have probably started a Visconti civil war on this feeling alone, but I’m different now.
I don’t chase the thrill of violence or dish out revenge that’s way greater than the crime. I don’t explode over barely anything and cause irreparable damage. I am not Vicious anymore.
The girl wouldn’t know a real sin if it slapped her in the face. God, I can’t stand girls like her.
He’s tricked Aurora into believing the preserve is his territory, and he’s dangling it over her head as an excuse to get between her legs.
My mind goes to a darker place: if she’s marrying Alberto because she thinks it’ll save her precious nature reserve. What would she do for me if I told her I was the one with the real power?
Heat prickles under my collar, and I pop the top button. I never pop my damn top button.
A familiar feeling swirls through my veins like a nasty virus. It threatens to poison the moral compass I’ve tried so hard to build over the last nine years.
“A deal goes both ways, Aurora.” Her hot, shallow breaths stop. Thank God. “What do I get in return?” “What?” Her whisper goes straight to my dick. “Nothing is free in this world. How are you going to buy my silence?”
“Give your fiance a kiss, then.” My heart thumps against my rib cage,
As I pass, I slip the key between my thumb and forefinger and drag it along the driver’s side of Alberto’s Roll’s Royce Phantom.
And for the first time since we met, I see her smile. I think I like it when she smiles.
I need a woman with a damn backbone, both in and out of the bedroom. But especially in the bedroom. I like to fuck rough, but rough’s boring when she lies back and takes it.
An unsolicited image of Aurora bent over my knee, bare-assed and red-faced, pops into my head. I wonder if she’d lie back and take it, or if she’d writhe under the palm of my hand. If she’d scream in the way I’d want her to. Fucking hell.
“What’s your type, cugino?” Curly-haired and unavailable.
Rafe leans over the table and hisses, “Grazie, dickhead. You really had to embarrass me like that in front of the whole family?”
My eyes dart behind them. “Where’s Uncle Al?” Dante’s gaze darkens. “At home. Probably groping up his jail bait.”
No one on this earth hates Dante more than Rafe does, because he swears he caught him cheating at one of his poker games years ago. The only reason he didn’t put a bullet in his head is because he’s Tor’s brother.
As successful as Devil’s Cove is, it’ll never be Vegas, and as cut-throat as Dante is, he’ll never be as powerful as Rafe.
I turn to Castiel and Benny. “And what does the Hollow Clan want from Santa this year?”
And if it’d been the Hollow brothers who’d asked for the land, I’d have probably given it to them. But now I know Alberto wants it to hold over his hot, young fiance, there’s not a chance in hell I’d even consider it.
“Did you know, there’s thirteen pairs of American Bald Eagles in that park? It’s more than just a few shitty trees and a swamp.” “What do you care?” His eyes thin. “You sound like that bitch Aurora.” Bitch. An unnecessary amount of fury threads through my veins.
“God, I hate that cunt,” Rafe hisses, before sinking his whiskey and slamming the empty glass on the bar. “I swear, if you ever wanted to take over Dip, I’d be back here within the hour, drawing up hotel and casino plans that’ll make Cove look like Coney Island.”
“Hey, I like these kids,” Rafe murmurs to me with a lop-sided grin. “Maybe I can hire them to follow me around and kiss my ass.”
“Oh yeh, that Rory chick? From Devil’s Dip High?” He lets out a low whistle, shuffling closer to his buddy. “You know he thinks she’s a virgin?” Blond-boy glances over at Dante, then puts his hand in front of his face. But from behind him, I can still see and hear what he whispers. “I know. Hilarious. Remember when she let Spencer and his crew run a train on her?”
So, Aurora’s a whore. A far cry from the virgin she’s pretending to be for my uncle. I run my tongue over my teeth and take a slow, deep breath. Rafe’s silent now, and I can feel his gaze heating my cheek. And what do I care? Why does this revelation have me feeling all hot and itchy, have me feeling like I want to connect my fist to a jaw just to hear it crack?
That impassioned spiel she gave about all the fucking birds and the otters—she knew exactly what she was doing. Had me eating out the palm of her hand, and now I’m no fucking better than my dirty old uncle, believing her lies.
“Vicious Visconti is back,” he murmurs in my ear. I stare straight ahead, spine steeled, until he lets me go and moves off into the crowds. Maybe Vicious never really left.
I watch as she glances at my left hand clutching my stomach. More specifically, at the rock on my ring finger. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” she murmurs softly.
My eyes fall lazily to my reflection. I’m usually unbothered by the unrecognizable face staring back at me, but I have to admit, tonight I do look particularly impressive. The silver dress shimmers under the white vanity lights, and my hair, for once, isn’t poker straight and boring. Greta has styled it into big, loose waves, which cascade down my bare back and bounce when I walk.
He’s only saying what everybody in the house behind me is thinking: at Friday night dinners, I dress like a whore. My skirt is too short, my heels too high, and my makeup too thick. Too inappropriate.
Before that awful day three years ago, I’d never even been intimate with a boy.
He glances down at the red ring of lipstick around the filter and pauses. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and I swear, I see his pulse in his jaw. “Oh—”
