Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

The wooden pews are getting harder by the second, and minds are drifting away from grief and towards the Grand Visconti Hotel over in Devil’s Cove, where the wake will take place. Nobody throws a party like a recently deceased Visconti, let alone two of them.

“Dearly beloved, the family requests that you join them in the courtyard for the committal.” Eyes filled with pity and unspent tears land on me. My brothers and I stand, and with one last lingering look towards the coffins, I swallow the knot in my throat, roll my shoulders, and lead the way to the back of the church. I stride through the sea of whispers, eyes fixed on the wrought iron doors ahead. Nearly there. Nearly over. My cell buzzes in my breast pocket. I hope it’s my assistant letting me know the jet is refueled and ready to take me back to London.

Mama, ever the optimist, would remind us that while it was colder in the wintertime, it was always warmer in the summer, too. Life is all about balance, Angelo. The good always cancels out the bad.

They both follow my gaze up to the low-hanging clouds, their bellies pregnant with the incoming storm. Rafe lets out a hiss. “What a beautiful day to bury our parents.” Gabe says nothing.

we are standing just yards from the edge of the cliff. There are two rectangular holes cut out of the muddy grass. My fists clench. Side by side. Together for eternity. There will be a sanitized version of their love story etched onto a joint headstone. I think of all the mid-morning joggers and wayward tourists that will stop to read it and believe it’s their daily reminder that love exists. Meanwhile, the sinful truth is buried six feet underneath them.

Made men know love doesn’t exist. Uncles and cousins grip their wives’ and girlfriends’ wrists instead of holding their hands. They offer clipped comfort in the hope they’ll shut up, all while checking their watches, calculating when they’ll be able to slip away to their whores, loosen their ties, and forget about their duties to the Cosa Nostra. Visconti men in particular don’t fall in love. Because falling suggests it was accidental, and everything this family does is cold and calculated.

Mama is lowered first and I find myself sinking with her; the only woman I’ll ever get on my knees for. My balled fists disappear into the mud. Another hand rests on my shoulder, and by the glint of the citrine ring, I know it’s Rafe’s.

Rafe crouches next to me, brings his fist up to his mouth, and blows. With a flick of his wrist, a pair of dice scatters across the lid, rolling off the curve and falling into the gap between the coffin and the soil. “For my Lady Luck,” he rasps, running a hand through his hair. “Good luck up there, Mama.” Gabe sinks to his knees too. Instead of throwing in the rose in his hand, he leans over, plants his lips to the wood and mutters something long and heartfelt. It’s the most I’ve seen him speak in years. The flowers and the cards stop falling, and eyes turn to me, expectantly. Slowly, I dig something out of my pocket. The wrapper crinkles in my hand, and I place it carefully on the coffin so it doesn’t break. There’s a small laugh next to me. “A fortune cookie,” Rafe says weakly, a sad smile stretching his lips. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Mama believed in fate as much as she believed in God. But while she was content having never seen or heard the big man in the sky, she constantly sought out proof that fate existed. She searched for it everywhere. Five-dollar tarot readings by fortune tellers at the fair, the little eight-ball key ring attached to her house keys. And goddamn fortune cookies.

It was a fortune cookie that had brought her from New York to Devil’s Dip, Washington, in the first place. Seek hope where the air is salty and the cliffs are steep. She loved this damn town because she thought it was her destiny to start a life here.

I know what they are all thinking. The death of my father marks a new era for the Cosa Nostra, and it starts with me. The new capo of Devil’s Dip.

I lock eyes with an old man. His face is leathery and weather-worn, just like all the workers who have spent a lifetime fighting the elements down in the port below. He’s wearing a brick-red coat and a yellow scarf, and after a few moments, he pulls his lips back to form a shit-eating grin.

“Angelo, put the damn gun away,” Uncle Alberto hisses in my ear, suddenly appearing beside me. I don’t even remember pulling it out of my waistband, let alone pointing it at the smug bastard across the road. But now the crowd is scattering like a shaken flock of pigeons,

“They’re here to make sure he’s really dead,” I growl. “No, they are here to catch a glimpse of the man who will replace him.” Uncle Alberto steps in front of me, blocking my view of the locals piling into trucks and cars, and grips my jaw. His eyes are a cocktail of pride and sorrow. “I can’t wait to see what you do, Vicious. You’re going to make your father proud.”

Uncle Alfredo slides in a bottle of special-edition Smugglers Club whiskey, and, next to me, Uncle Alberto takes the Rolex off his wrist and tosses it in. “I won it off the old bastard years ago. Your old man was never good at poker.” He cranes his neck to look at Rafe. “I don’t know where you got your talent from, kid.” It’s my turn. I don’t sink to my knees like I did with my mama; instead, I lean over the coffin, his black rosary in my hand. The beaded chain is wrapped around my wrist twice, the cross swaying in the wind like a pendulum. He never took it off. Until I took it off for him. I pause, curl the cross into the palm of my hand and slip it back into the pocket of my slacks. When I look up, my cousin Dante is glaring at me from the other side of the grave.

I bring the rosary back out of my pocket and to my lips. “Forgive me Father,” I mutter into the cold metal as a raindrop lands on my cheek, “for I have sinned.” Rafe appears beside me. Gabe strides over soon after.

“It’s like that scene in The Lion King,” Rafe murmurs into the collar of his shirt, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Whatever the light touches is your kingdom now, or something like that. It’s all yours, bro.” I look down at my supposed kingdom. The creaky port on the left and the small town nestled into the dip of the cliff to the right. Then I turn to look further down the coast, to the darkness of Devil’s Hollow and then to Devil’s Cove, which, even through the mist and rain, is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. “I don’t want it.” The words slip from my tongue like I knew they would.

“Big shoes to fill, my brother. But if anyone is up for the job, it’s Vicious Visconti.” “My flight to London is in twenty minutes and I’m not coming back.”

“You’re not coming back to Devil’s Dip?” I’m not coming back to this life. I don’t explain. Instead, I nod toward the lone car still on the side of the road. Rafe’s driver rolls down the window and stares at us impatiently. Next to it, Gabe’s Harley is parked under a tree. “Go to the wake. I’ll catch up with you another time.”

Only when the roar of Gabe’s motorcycle fades out of earshot do I turn back to my parents’ graves. One of the gravediggers stops piling soil on top of my mother. He leans his weight against the handle of his shovel and stares up at me, warily. As I pass, I slap a brick of notes against his muddy chest. “Dig her up,” I growl. “My mama doesn’t belong here.”

“My name is Rory Carter and I do bad things.” The wind snatches the words from my lips, carrying them away from the cliff edge and over the choppy sea. I like to do that sometimes. Say it aloud when I’m alone just to see how the truth tastes. I’m not a criminal. I just do bad things. Morally questionable things. Spiteful, revengeful things. I didn’t used to be like this, but now there’s a stain on my soul so dark and stubborn that there’s nothing I can do to scrub it away. So, I don’t bother trying anymore. Instead, I confess.

A bitter laugh escapes me. It was always going to come to this. Me, standing on the edge of Devil’s Dip’s highest cliff and thinking bad thoughts. Which is ironic, because, for the first time in three years, I’m doing a good thing. A completely selfless, self-sacrificing act that nobody in their right darn mind would do if they weren’t desperate. I twist the ring around my finger and swallow the knot in my throat. If I was to…jump. What would it feel like? Would it hurt? Would everything go black? I don’t believe in God, or heaven and hell, but I wonder—would I still scream a confession as I broke the surface of the water, in a last-bid attempt to save my soul? Balling my fists and stuffing them into the pockets of my hoodie, I lift my toe and inch it farther toward the edge, until there’s nothing underneath my foot but air. Adrenaline zaps down my spine, and for a moment, I close my eyes and stick out my tongue, tasting the salt and moisture and danger. I let the wind take control of my body. Is this the closest I’ll ever get to being free?

“You hoping to fall, or fly?” Oh, sparrow. My eyes snap open and I scurry away from the edge, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl caught doing something she shouldn’t. Heart hammering, I twist my head to follow the voice, and my eyes lock on a man. He stands less than a foot away. Sharp suit and an even sharper cheekbone, from what I can see of his profile. It becomes even more defined when he slips a cigarette between his lips and inhales deeply. Smoke. That’s what I could taste.

I glance to the road behind me, which runs parallel to the graveyard. A black sports car is parked haphazardly, the front wheels mounting the edge of an old tombstone. The initial shock loses its grip on my shoulders, leaving room for another feeling. Panic. The last person I should be standing on an edge of a cliff with is a man who parks like that. Because if he has no respect for the dead, then he certainly doesn’t respect the living. Maybe he’s the grim reaper?

I tuck a wayward curl back under the hood of my sweater and draw the cord tighter under my chin. I should go. Not just because this man gives me the creeps, but because Alberto has eyes and ears everywhere. Max, my escort, isn’t a snitch, but he’ll be back any minute and— “Because if you’re hoping to fall…” He takes a deliberate step toward the edge and my heart leaps into my throat. He has the confidence of someone simply peering over the side of a swimming pool and not into the raging sea a hundred and fifty feet below. “You’ve got a long way to go.”

Not only does this man not respect the dead, he doesn’t respect death.

What would I do if he fell? The question leaves my head as quickly as it arrives. Of course, I already know what I’d do. I’d cross the graveyard, round the church, and slip into my favorite phone box across the road. Then, instead of calling the Coast Guard, I’d dial the number I know better than my own, and I’d confess that I’d done nothing to help. Because that’s what compulsive sinners do.

I glance up at his profile, just as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and flicks it into the sea. And then he turns and gazes right into my eyes, as if he knew exactly where to find them. My heart hitches. Whew, falcon. He’s handsome.

I stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, trying to remain still. Trying not to breathe too hard or fidget too much. Trying to ignore how the pressure of his arm burns through my raincoat, or how the ghost of his cigarette entwined with the oaky notes in his aftershave make my nipples tighten. He stoops low to meet my ear and I brace for impact. “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?” And then he’s gone, those wingtips crunching over the gravel toward his car.

I pass the church and cross the road, tutting at the black tire marks on the asphalt, and slip into the phone booth next to the bus stop. Tucking the receiver between my shoulder and cheek, I dial the number. The line rings three times, then it clicks into the voicemail service. “You have reached Sinners Anonymous,” a woman’s robotic voice says. “Please leave your sin after the tone.” After the long beep, I take a deep breath and let my soul bleed.

If these dining room walls could talk, I bet they’d beg Alberto Visconti to shut up. Just like every Friday night, he sits next to me at the head of the table, one hand curled around his whiskey glass the other weighing down my thigh like an anchor. I once overheard a pool boy refer to him as Anecdote Alberto. As the head of the Devil’s Cove Cosa Nostra, I’ve heard him called a lot of things—capo, boss, Big Al—but Anecdote Alberto definitely seems to be the most fitting. It didn’t take me long to learn how to drown out his stories, but still, the baritone of his voice vibrates against my eardrums.

I can feel Tor’s amused grin heating one of my cheeks and Dante’s blistering glare scorching the other. At last Friday’s dinner, I figured out that if my wine ever dipped below the curve of the glass, a server would top it up in under thirty seconds. The conversation was so darn boring that I tested this theory a few too many times, and after dessert, I stood up, buckled on my stilettos, and pulled down the velvet curtain I’d grabbed onto to stop myself from falling. As if the copper curtain rail bouncing off my head wasn’t punishment enough, Alberto is limiting my alcohol intake like I’m a child.

When he’s gone, I stifle a sigh. The first—and last—time I sighed in front of Alberto, he yanked on my ponytail so hard my eyes watered. I learned quickly it’s better to vent my frustrations silently, usually by balling my fists until my fingernails carve half-moons into my palms. Oh, and spitting in his mouthwash.

Two-and-a-half months ago, I sank to my knees on the doorstep of Alberto’s white colonial mansion and begged for mercy. Now, I’m living a life I don’t recognize; playing a side character in a story I don’t understand. Everyone on the Devil’s Coast knows the Visconti family because they own almost everything on it. Every bar, hotel, restaurant, and casino in Devil’s Cove. The Smugglers Club whiskey factory in Devil’s Hollow. The one corner of this coast their reach hasn’t touched is my humble hometown of Devil’s Dip. And if Alberto keeps his side of the deal, it never will.

His gaze darkens, and I know exactly what he’s about to say, because he says it aloud at every Friday night dinner without fail. “The head of the table is for the underboss and the consigliere,” he growls quietly, ignoring Alberto’s monologue. He squeezes the napkin next to his plate. “Not my father’s plaything.” And there it is.

“Aurora’s not a teenager, she’s twenty-one. Old enough to drink, just not old enough to handle it.” On cue, my Merlot arrives in a glass barely bigger than a thimble. Embarrassment creeps across my chest, and instinctively, my eyes drop to the steak knife laid out neatly in front of me. Tempting. But instead of using the Viscontis’ silverware as a weapon, I do what I’ve become accustomed to: plastering on a fake smile and biting down my bitterness. “Big Al keeping you on a tight leash tonight, hmm?” Tor says, lips twitching.

I take a sip of wine and watch him through the window. I recognize his date as a fellow Devil’s Dip girl. She’s putting on a polished accent and clinging onto her designer purse like it’s a lifeline, but I can see right through her act. I watch as she coils her long blond hair around her finger, giggling at whatever he’s saying. I get it. From the way he smokes his cigarette to the way he wears his suit—unbuttoned collar and a loosened tie—there’s an air of rebellion about him that makes girls want to drop their panties. Of course, it helps that he runs the nightlife in Devil’s Cove, so even in the unlikely event you don’t want to be in his bed, you at least want to be in his clubs.

“Smugglers Club. On the rock.” Yes, rock. As in, one ice cube. In the short time I’ve personally known the Viscontis, I’ve learned two things about them. The first, is that they aren’t just a powerful family, they are in fact, the mafia. Cold-hearted, hot-blooded Sicilian-Americans who live and die by the Glocks tucked into the waistbands of their Armani suits. The second, is that whatever they want, they get. Including one ice cube in their lowball glass.

But Amelia Visconti: she’s different. She’s softly spoken and kind and now that I come to think of it, really damn delusional. She’s sitting around this table by choice—she married Donatello Visconti, Alberto’s second son and consigliere. He sits on the other side of her, sifting through paperwork, and, unlike Dante, he couldn’t care less that I took his seat at the table. Donatello is clean in every sense of the word. Sharp suit, short, black hair, and he’s probably the only blood-related Visconti that doesn’t have a one-way ticket to hell. He and Amelia met at the Devil’s Coast Academy when they were tweens, got married the moment they turned eighteen, and have apparently been glued to each other’s side for the ten years since.

Alberto Visconti. Sure, he would have been handsome in his hey-day, and if your imagination can’t stretch past the leathery skin, shock of white hair, and the enormous gut, then all you have to do is glance at his sons to get an idea of what he would have looked like. I’m sure his first wife married him for love—hell, maybe even his second and third wives, too. But pushing seventy, having unrelenting wealth, and living a life with a target on his back have ruined him. Oh, and the fact that he’s the cruelest man on the Coast.

My life wasn’t meant to be like this. The night before my eighteenth birthday, I sat on the dock at the end of our cabin and created a mood board for my five-year-plan, using clippings from my mom’s old magazines. I cut out a graduation cap and gown, and next to it stuck a photocopy of my acceptance letter to the Northwestern Aviation Academy. That girl…she was full of hope and had a pure heart. She didn’t have bad thoughts and do bad things. She didn’t have to call the Sinners Anonymous hotline every week. What would she think if she saw me now? Dining with monsters. A monster herself.

The breeze is still snaking through the gap in the doors, bringing in the smell of cigarette smoke with it. Suddenly, I’m back on the edge of the cliff overlooking Devil’s Dip. My body at the mercy of the wind, my right sneaker hovering over nothing but air. You hoping to fall, or fly? “Oh, sparrow!” A sharp pain slices across my thigh. I look down and see Alberto has turned his hand over and dragged the faceted gem of his ring across my skin. “What the—” “Aurora, Dante asked you a question,” Alberto says through gritted teeth. His eyes flash like warning signs. “It’s rude to ignore somebody when they are talking to you.” I blink, dropping my gaze back to my thigh. Blood seeps to the surface and trickles into a small rivulet toward the hemline of my dress.

Dante ignores him. “It’s a mess up there. Thick forest that’ll take months to clear before we can even think about laying down the foundations.” He takes a long sip of whiskey, eyes glittering at me over the rim. “But the main issue is these birds. They squawk at all hours, which doesn’t fit in with the peaceful vibe we’re going for. Hopefully, once we obliterate their habitat and their nests, they’ll fuck off on their own accord, but if they don’t…” He trails off, letting his insinuation dangle over the table setting. “Then we’ll need a more…certain way to get rid of them. Smoke them out or put poison on the forest floor, maybe. Since you’re so passionate about wildlife, Aurora, I thought perhaps you might have some other suggestions?” White heat burns through my veins, despite the chill coming in. I suck in a lungful of air through my nostrils. Dab my bloodied thigh again. “What bird is it?” I ask as calmly as I can manage. He thrusts his cell under my nose. “I don’t know. One of my men sent me a photo of it. Perhaps you’ll recognize it.”

“Dante,” I croak. “That’s a fruit dove.” “Sounds exotic.” “Exotic? They are near extinction! A protected species—you can’t cut down the forest up there! In fact, you’ll need to call the Fish and Wildlife Service immediately.” He leans back in his chair, a triumphant grin curling his lips. He’s gotten exactly what he wanted out of me—a reaction.

“Nah.” I look up. “Huh?” Dante throws me a bored expression. “No, I won’t be contacting Fish and Wildlife. They are a bunch of tree-hugging hippies just like you—” “You can’t be serious?” “You’ve interfered with our building plans enough, don’t you think? If it was up to you, the whole of the Devil’s Coast would be a goddamn swamp.” Before I can bite back, there’s a loud crash from the patio. Dante leaps to his feet, hand brushing over the gun tucked in his waistband. Amelia shrieks and grabs her husband’s arm. At the far end of the table, Vittoria lets out a loud sigh, then turns back to her cell.

“Apologies all round,” Tor says through a chuckle. “Skyler fell over. She says her heel got caught in the patio slats,” he says as he brushes his lips over her hair, “but I say she’s had one too many dirty martinis.” With a giggle, Skyler wobbles off in the direction of a bathroom, and Tor sinks back down in his seat. “Skyler,” Dante mutters darkly into the bottom of his glass. “Gesù Cristo. That’s a stripper name if I’ve ever heard one.” He glances to the swing doors. “She’s been to the bathroom three times and we haven’t even had our appetizers yet.” “She’s probably nervous about being on a date with such a hearthrob,” Tor shoots back,

“More like she’s trying to see how much powder she can get up her nose before the crab cakes are served. I hope she knows you cut your coke with horse tranquilizer, because I’m not removing her body from the guest bathroom.” Tor’s fist thumps the table, anger flashing across his face. “Fuck you. My blow is cleaner than a nun’s browser history.”

“I have had enough. This family can’t get through one goddamn dinner without arguing. If your mother was still here—” “If our mother was still here, there wouldn’t be a capo chaser sitting opposite me.” Silence. Tor lets out a low whistle. Amelia’s fingers gently brush my forearm, and Alberto groans. I should sip my wine and smooth down my hair and let the comment go over my head. But being that girl doesn’t come easy to me. “A capo chaser?” My eyes dart to the steak knife, then up to Dante’s scowl. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re marrying my father because it’s the only hope you have of getting out of your peasant town. There’s loads of girls like you in Devil’s Dip,” he spits, jerking his thumb in the direction of the lobby. “I bet Tor’s whore is from the same slum as you.” Leaning his elbows on the table, he closes the gap between us. The way his eyes dance with pure hatred both terrifies me and excites me at the same time. “You’re all the goddamn same. Tits bigger than your IQ and a smile just as fake. You know what I find funny? You’ve never broken a law in your life, but you’re happy to look the other way and spread your legs, as long as your Amex doesn’t have a limit, right?” “Dante,” Alberto snarls. “If you say another word, I’ll—” “You’ll what?” Dante says sourly, eyes never leaving mine. “Find somebody else to do your job for you?”

There’s a nudge against my leg. “Aurora? Are you okay?” I turn to meet Amelia’s kind gaze and realize I’m not. This is not me. I’m not the dumb, gold-digging blond everyone in this family thinks I am, and I’m sick of playing that part. I’m sick of these stupid high heels and short dresses that Alberto forces me to wear. I’m sick of the sneers and eye rolls and the insults from people who wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire.

I hate the Viscontis. And I hate that I have no choice but to suck it up and smile. “Aurora?” And I’m sick of being called Aurora. My name is Rory. “Let’s put this down, shall we?” Amelia slips her hand over mine and gently pries the steak knife from my grip. She flashes me a pitying smile and says, “Don’t listen to Dante. He and his father have their own issues going on and he’s just dragging you into the mud.”