Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

Life is all about balance, Angelo. The good always cancels out the bad.

Seek hope where the air is salty and the cliffs are steep.

My father always said my temper was different from my brothers. Their anger burns slow like a candle and is easy to extinguish, whereas mine is like a firework. Light my fuse and I explode mere seconds later, with no thought to the irreparable damage I will cause. You’re vicious, son.

“Suicide is a sin,” he rasps, his stubble grazing my cheek. “But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself over the edge, doesn’t it?”

While the ghost of Alberto’s grip on my jaw aches, the memory of Angelo’s hand around my wrist burns.

“Stealing is a sin, Aurora.”

My eyes shift to Angelo, just in time to see him throw his head back and laugh. My heart stills. Whoa. It’s deep, throaty, and genuine. The type of laugh that carves a mark in your memory. There’s

Looking like that, she could never be a sinner. Her eyes are too big. Each of her pitiful secrets swirls in her irises, which are the color of warm whiskey. Her skin is too pale and perfect. The slightest sin will make her flush a beautiful shade of pink. My gaze drops to her plump, parted lips. And that fucking mouth. The only sound inside the car is the small, shallow breaths escaping it.

And for the first time since we met, I see her smile. I think I like it when she smiles.

I’m utterly, madly, unacceptably obsessed with Angelo Visconti. My fiance's nephew, near-stranger, and keeper of my darkest secrets.

“Papa always used to ask me and Gabe, if Angelo jumped off a cliff, would you jump, too?” He smirks at the memory. “Know what I’d always say?”

“Without a parachute.” He laughs into his hand as he wipes his mouth.

should have told him that it won’t come to that. He won’t have to choose because we drew a line in the sand. But that’s the thing about lines in the sand. Eventually, they wash away, and you can’t remember where you drew them. But when there are no boundaries, no lines to box you in, bad things happen. Wars happen, murders happen. And I can’t, won’t, stay on the Coast to prevent them.

Angelo Visconti isn’t a knight in shining armor, he’s a monster in an Armani suit.

“Rory?”

“Yes?”

“Out of all my sins, you’re my favorite.”

What the hell? Hot hands scorch my rib cage, strong and warm. A familiar scent—one I associate with danger—assaults my senses. “I swear to God, Rory. You better know how to fly, because if you fall, I’m coming with you.”