Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

the swinging doors crash open and a security guard with an earpiece crashes through them. He makes a beeline for Alberto and whispers something in his ear. Immediately, Alberto, Donatello, and Dante rip their guns from their waistbands and storm through the doors without another word. “Oh, fuck,” comes a hiss from the patio. I turn to see Tor flick his half-smoked cigarette into the darkness and cross the dining room, also disappearing into the lobby with a gun in his hand. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. “What’s going on?” “Your guess is as good as mine,” Amelia whispers.

“Look who’s come for dinner!” Alberto roars, face pink with delight. Before I can turn to see who it is, a gentle hand rests on my shoulder and I look up to meet the gaze of a server. “Signorina, Signor Visconti has requested to move you to the other end of the table to make room for his guest.” I glance down to the far end of the table, where Vittoria and Leonardo, Alberto’s teenage twins, are glaring moodily at their phones. There’s an empty setting to the right of Vittoria, and next to it sits Max. He catches my eye and grins. Great. I scowl back at him, but then I shrug. Whatever. I’m more than happy to get away from Dante’s laser-like glare and out of the reach of Alberto’s ruby ring.

When I settle in next to Max, he nudges my shoulder and grins. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. Now, I don’t have to just admire you from afar.” His eyes glitter, running over my red dress and coming to a stop at my chest. His throat bobs. “You look lovely tonight, by the way.” I’m grateful that the server tending to this end of the table didn’t get the memo about my alcohol ban. He fills up my glass with red wine and I take a desperate gulp before turning back to Max. “You know I’m engaged to your boss, right?” “You know me,” he purrs, pressing his knee against mine under the table. “I like living life on the edge.” But the way his eyes dart feverishly to the head of the table suggests otherwise.

Max makes my blood boil. He has leering eyes and groping hands and he reminds me of the boys that made me like this. He went to the same school as them, too—the prestigious Devil’s Coast Academy—so I know he’s heard the rumors. He’s only a year older than me, with big brown eyes and floppy hair that he huffs out of his face when he gets nervous. The only reason I haven’t done a bad thing to him yet is because we have a deal. I tolerate his lewd comments and lingering stares in exchange for two hours of alone time once we get to Devil’s Dip. We both know he’d get into serious trouble if Alberto found out he wasn’t trailing me at all times, so it’s our little secret.

I look up at him as he clears his throat, and then immediately, my eyes are drawn to the man who took my place at the table. A weird sensation creeps over my body, one my brain is racing to make sense of. It starts at the base of my spine and works its way up to my neck, before settling around my throat like a chokehold. I force myself to swallow and focus on the man’s profile. That sharp cheekbone, the stubble lining his jaw… And then, as if he can feel my stare boring into the side of his face, he turns and locks eyes with me. Oh, flamingo. It’s him. The man from the cliff’s edge. The one with the cigarette and the wingtips and the indifferent tone. Suicide is a sin.

By the time I find the courage to look back up, he’s turned his attention to Dante. Still and silent, he listens to him talk with a neutral expression on his perfect features. Alberto clears his throat, clinking on the glass with more force. The room finally settles. “Attention, everybody,” he booms. With a shark-like grin, he turns to the dinner guest and raises his glass. “We have an unexpected but very welcome visitor. So, cheers to my favorite nephew, Vicious Visconti!” Nephew. Vicious.

With a snap of my fiance’s ring-clad fingers, dinner begins. A lazy version of Ava Maria drifts out of the piano, serving as a backdrop to the easy chatter. Wine and whiskey flow, as much into my glass as anyone elses, but it does nothing to dull the unease brewing under my skin. I can’t take my eyes off him. At first, I watch his every move because I’m waiting for the moment he tells Alberto he recognizes me. The girl in the sweatpants balancing with one foot dangerously over the edge of a cliff. Alone. I’m waiting for Alberto to pin me with that blistering glare, jaw grinding, just like he did last Friday when I embarrassed him by pulling down his curtains. This time, the consequences will be a lot more severe than a slap across the face or a sharp tug on my ponytail. But as the fourth glass of merlot warms the pit of my stomach, the fear gives way to curiosity.

He hasn’t looked at me once. Maybe it’s the initial shock wearing off, or maybe it’s the wine working its way around my nervous system, but I start to allow myself to believe that I imagined his dark glare when Alberto introduced him. It was fleeting, I was probably just in his line of sight. What are the chances he recognizes me, anyway? He only looked at me once on the cliff, just as he was turning to leave,

“Angelo? Yeah, haven’t seen him in ages.” Angelo. At least his name’s not really Vicious. “And he’s part of the Hollow clan? I haven’t seen him before.”

“Nah, he’s from Dip.” I blink. “Dip?” She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Angelo’s from the Devil’s Dip clan. You know, the town you’re from?” My blood turns to ice. “There’s no clan in Devil’s Dip,” I almost whisper. No. There can’t be. There’s no Visconti presence in Devil’s Dip; that’s literally the whole point of this agreement. “Not anymore, there isn’t. He was meant to take over when Uncle Alonso died, but he never did.” “Uncle Alonso? Alberto has another brother?” “Had. Like I told you, he died.” “So why didn’t Angelo take over?” She sighs in that loud, bratty way spoiled teenagers do. “Why don’t you just ask him? He’s like, right there.” “Shh,” I hiss.

He thought I was going to jump, and yet…he did nothing except tell me it’s a long way to fall. He left me there, toeing the edge. He didn’t even glance back. If the last two months have taught me anything, it’s that the Viscontis are cruel. But this one? Holy Crow, there’s not a single ounce of humility in that sculpted body. Maybe that’s why Alberto referred to him as Vicious. “Aurora? Uh, maybe you should slow down. You’re looking a little tipsy.” “Shut up, Max.”

There’s a scrape of a fork. Someone coughs. “I was just telling Angelo you’re from Devil’s Dip,” Alberto says carefully, pinning me with a wary glare. A don’t-you-dare-embarrass-me glare. “Angelo grew up there too. I’m sure you two will have much to talk about.” Angelo checks his watch, then returns his gaze to the wallpaper above Dante’s head. “Not much to discuss,” he drawls. “That place is a shit hole.” Tor lets out a loud laugh, and next to him, Dante smirks into his lowball glass. “Why’d you go back then?” Silence. It’s hot and heavy and my comeback hangs in the dining room like an ugly painting. Oh, sparrow. What have I just done? Not only did I back-talk in front of Alberto, but I just let it slip that I’d seen his nephew in Devil’s Dip.

It suddenly dawns on me that something is off. I’m the only one looking at Alberto for his reaction. Everyone else? Their collective focus is on Angelo. It’s almost as if they are waiting with bated breath to see what he’s going to do next. I force myself to look at Angelo too, and realize that now he’s staring right at me. His gaze is heavy and cold. Indifferent. Like he’s looking at a McDonald’s dollar menu rather than the girl who just challenged him.

Everyone’s forgotten my tiny act of rebellion, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the consequences of my smart, drunken mouth will rear their ugly head later on. After the servers clear away dessert, Alberto pats his fat stomach, claps his hands, and announces, “Time to party!” Great.

I just need a moment to gather my thoughts. To sober up a little. The wine has gone straight to my head and I can barely keep upright on these stupid stilettos Alberto insists I wear. I just need a moment away from this family. To sit in a quiet room, then I’ll splash my face and— “Ouch!” There’s a sudden vise-like grip on my wrist. It spins me around and shoves me against the wall of the corridor. Despite the darkness and the drunken haze clouding my vision, I can smell the cocktail of cigars and liquor on Alberto’s hot breath. I twist my head away, gasping at the weight of his enormous body pinned against mine. Is this what it’s going to feel like on our wedding night? “Alberto!” I’m cut off by his fat hand clamping my jaw. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again,”

“If you want to act like a brat, I’ll punish you like a brat.”

“I’ll take away your father’s care team and I’ll stop your visits. Understood?” Despite the pain, I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief. He doesn’t realize I saw Angelo in Devil’s Dip; he’s only angry about the back-talk. I jer...

I think he’s going to release me but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes farther into me. Is that… Holy crow. The bulge now pressing against my thigh suggests he’s more than happy. Bile rises in my throat, and I fight the urge to connect my knee with his erection. “Or perhaps, I won’t wait until our wedding night to take what’s mine.” My heart stills. Alberto’s threat is loaded like a gun, and he lets it marinate in the tiny gap...

“Seen and not heard, Aurora,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Learn to keep that pretty little mouth shut.” I stay there, frozen to the wall, until the sound of heavy footsteps slapping against the marble dissolves into nothingness.

Who is this girl? I silently ask the mirror. Because I don’t recognize her with the inch-thick makeup and the poker-straight hair. Despite the fact that I signed my name in blood on the dotted line of Alberto’s contract, I’ll never be Aurora Visconti. I’ll always be Rory Carter from Devil’s Dip. The Rory who wears her hair curly and lives in Lululemon and sneakers. Who can start a fire with a soda can and can identify over three hundred birds by their tweets alone.

I hate that I immediately look around for Angelo. When I scan the sea of faces and don’t spot him, or my disgusting fiance, for that matter, the panic zig-zags up my spine. What if Angelo’s pulled him into the cigar room, or the games room, and is telling him what he saw? Because surely, after my outburst, he’s made the connection now.

The bartender turns around, locks eyes on me, and laughs. “Rory Carter,” he purrs, twisting a cloth around the inside of a beer glass. “I heard you were hanging out with the Viscontis these days. Didn’t believe it.” I squint under the amber glow and realize it’s Dan. He works with my friend Wren at The Rusty Anchor, the port bar in Devil’s Dip. Instinctively, I slip the hand with my engagement ring off the bar. “Dan, hey. What are you doing here?” “Picking up a few extra hours doing private bar work.” He slings the cloth over his shoulder and narrows his eyes. “I didn’t have you down as one of these girls.” My temples thump. One of these girls. I don’t even need to look around the bar to know what girls he’s talking about.

“Ladies, we’re taking bets. Want in?” Tor asks. Amelia looks up at her husband with a scowl. “I swear to God, Donnie. How many times have I told you to stop getting involved with these stupid bets? Your family are a bunch of scammers—you’ll never win.” Donatello stoops to chuck her under the chin. “Relax, mio amore. We are betting on how long Dante will stand outside the cigar room before he breaks the door down.” I glance over. Dante is still pacing, and now he’s muttering something under his breath. Tor laughs. “He’s pissed he hasn’t been invited to the meeting.” “What meeting?” Amelia asks. “Father is in there with Angelo. Apparently he wanted a private chat.”

“He’s thirty-fucking-two,” Tor chuckles, counting the bills in his hand. “And he’s still bitter about it.” “About what?” I find myself asking. Tor glances down at me and smirks. “Angelo fucked his prom date.” “Why?” He looks at Donatello, and in unison they say, “Because he’s Vicious Visconti.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Vicious?” “Yeah, he’s a nasty fucker,” Tor chuckles. “Well, he was before he went straight.” Nudging Donatello’s ribs, he adds, “Remember when he blew out his driver’s kneecap ‘cause he took the wrong turn?” Donatello nods. “Mmm. And when he locked all those port workers in a shipping container and blew it up, all because there was one boat log they couldn’t account for.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Of all the made men to go straight, I never thought it’d be Vicious.”

I’m watching as Dante thumps his fist against the cigar room door. It flies open and reveals Alberto’s looming silhouette. They have a short, heated discussion before Dante turns around and pins me with a blistering stare. I freeze, my drink halfway to my lips, and when he makes a beeline for me, my palms start sweating. This is not good. “It’s you,” he growls, coming to a stop just inches away from where I’m sitting. “He wants to speak with you.” My heart skips a beat. “Me?” I croak.

the impatient scowl smeared across Alberto’s face tells me my presence is non-negotiable.

He pushes me into the room. When Greta, the head housekeeper, showed me around the Visconti manor for the first time, she told me women weren’t allowed in here. It’s for the men. But I haven’t been missing much—it’s just a smaller version of Alberto’s office. Mahogany cabinets and plush armchairs, all sitting under a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke. It looks even smaller with Angelo Visconti spilling out of the armchair by the fire. “Aurora, I didn’t have the pleasure of formally introducing you to Angelo over dinner.” Behind me, the door clicks shut, plunging us into a deafening silence.

I’ve done this dance countless times. Different men, same suits. Kisses on the back of my hand, a frozen smile on my lips. But this time, it feels different. It feels like I can’t breathe. Why? Because for some inexplicable reason, I’d rather throw myself off the cliff in Devil’s Dip than do this dance with Angelo Visconti. Vicious Visconti. Taking a deep breath for courage, I force myself to look up from the carpet. A weight pushes down on my chest as I meet his heavy gaze. Oh, holy crow, he’s handsome. Maybe it’s because he’s no longer standing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, or perhaps it’s the way he reclines in that armchair, an irritated sneer on his face, but I can’t believe I never realized he was a Visconti. Green eyes glitter against his tanned skin, and black hair that looks like silk gleams under the spotlights built into the low ceiling. That jaw and those cheekbones; they are as sharp as I remember them, and they still have the effect of snatching the air from my lungs.

“Angelo, meet my fiancee Aurora, and Aurora, meet Angelo. He’s my favorite nephew. Of course,” he adds with a chuckle, “don’t tell Raphael or Gabriel I told you that.”

“Fiancee,” he drawls, settling back in his armchair. His eyes bore into mine and I can’t help but notice he’s the only man that Alberto has formally introduced me to that hasn’t immediately turned his attention to my chest or legs. I also can’t help but notice that for some unknown reason, this makes me despise him even more. “I’m losing count of how many wives you’ve had, Uncle Al.”

Alberto wraps his arm around my waist and plops down in an armchair, bringing me crashing into his lap. I gasp. Angelo looks mildly disgusted. “This wife is special,” Alberto huffs, his arm clamping me to his lap like a safety belt. “She’s a virgin.” Oh my goose. Did he really just say that? My head swims with disbelief and heat scorches my cheeks. It’s hard to fight the urge to elbow him in the gut, but I know I’m too drunk and my heels are too high to run away from him if I do. Instead, I break the eye contact I was determined to keep and choose the safety of the photograph hanging on the wall behind Angelo.

A pinch on my hip brings me back to the room. I clamp my aching jaw together and say, “My apologies, I missed that. What did you say, darling?” Darling. Perhaps my playing into Alberto’s sick fantasy will get me out of another punishment. I turn to him and flash my sweetest smile. It seems to work, because the fire in his eyes simmers and he grips my hand. “Show him the ring.” Swallowing hard, I meet Angelo’s gaze again, slowly inching my hand into the space between us. It’s trembling. Must be all the wine.

With a small, sudden huff, he leans forward and slips his hand around my wrist. My breathing shallows. I didn’t expect him to touch me. I look down at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. They are so long that the tip of his thumb meets the knuckle of his index finger. My hand sits tiny in his palm, looking ridiculously childlike. I don’t like it. It feels wrong. Dangerous. “It looks heavy.” The indifference in his voice sends static down my spine, and a strange feeling of exhilaration coasts down after it. The diamond is huge. It weighs down my ring finger like an anchor and Amelia once joked that the clarity is so high, it doesn’t just catch the light, but the darkness, too. Every man Alberto has forced me to show it off to has gushed over it, and yet… Angelo couldn’t give two swans about the million-dollar rock on my finger.

Alberto clears his throat. “I’m not sure how long you’ll be in town for, but the engagement party is next week and we’d love to have you there. Up.” To my horror, Alberto slaps my ass twice, catapulting me to my feet like I’m a darn mule refusing to work. “Come, Angelo. There’s something I want to show you.”

We’re alone and the heat is suffocating. His gaze burns up at me. I force myself to stare back down at him. His eyes flicker with something I can’t give a name to as he rubs his fingers over his lips. “Aurora Visconti,” he murmurs from behind them. My chest hitches. I’ve heard that name aloud before, even just hours ago at the dinner table, from Amelia. But the way it rolls off his tongue and into the silence between us sounds…inappropriate. And yet, my ears crave to hear it again.

“Heavy enough to weigh you down.” My eyes lift to his. “Excuse me?” He drops his gaze to my hand, then drags his teeth over his bottom lip. Heat floods between my thighs, unwanted yet unstoppable. “Your ring. It looks heavy enough to weigh you down if you choose to fall.” My heart collides with my rib cage, and my breathing stops. The only noise I can hear in the room is my blood pounding against my temples. I’m hyper-aware of his presence, feeling every heavy footstep as he moves around me to head toward the door. But then he stops right by my side, just like he did on the cliff. The stubble of his jaw grazes against my cheek, and his now-familiar scent makes my head spin. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Aurora.” The delirium that comes with the unknown transports me back to the cliff edge. And for the first time, I genuinely wish I’d jumped off it.

“Double Smugglers Club,” I rasp to Dan, unable to look him in the eye. “Hold the ice.” He lets out a low whistle and slides a crystal lowball glass across the bar. The warm whiskey hits the back of my throat, trickles past my thumping heart, then joins the bitterness in the pit of my stomach. It does nothing to cool the fever scorching my body. While the ghost of Alberto’s grip on my jaw aches, the memory of Angelo’s hand around my wrist burns. “Another,” I demand. Dan raises a brow, but tops me up regardless.

“Tell me everything you know about Angelo Visconti.” “What do you need to know?” Max purrs, his beer breath tickling my neck. Let’s start with: why does he make me so nervous? “What I said. Everything.” He sidles up closer, and the heat from his thigh pushing against mine makes my skin crawl. “What’s it worth?” “Your life, Max. He saw me alone in Devil’s Dip. You know, when you were meant to be escorting me at all times?” It takes a few moments for the penny to drop. “Vicious did? Fuck,” he groans, running his hands through his hair. “Alberto’s going to kill me.”

“Dante said he’s not even a made man anymore. I thought Visconti men were made men by default?” Max glugs his beer, making a gross gasp as he sets it back on the table. “Alright, here’s the rundown on Angelo. His father, Alonso, was the capo of the Devil’s Dip outfit. He ran imports and exports out of the port. Super lucrative business—what he was raking in over in Dip makes Cove look like a shanty town.”

“Really? What did he trade?” “Anything and to anyone. He had cocaine coming in from the Colombians, guns going out to the Russians. Nothing was off-limits.” I shake my head. Not a chance. The thing about living in a small town is that you grow up knowing everyone and their mamas. I know lots of the port workers—Bill, my dad’s best friend, Old Riley who married Wren’s mom—and they’d never get involved with something illegal like that. No, the only thing coming in and out of Devil’s Dip port are crayfish and canned food.

“Now, hold on. I haven’t finished the rundown, have I?”

“Alonso was very, very clever. You know the church up on the cliff?” For a moment, I can taste the salty air, feel the wind blowing through my curls. Smell the cigarette smoke. I nod. “When the Visconti brothers came to the Devil’s Coast, Alonso immediately bought that church, got ordained, and established himself as the parish deacon.” He sits back and crosses his arms. His eyebrows are raised, like he’s waiting for me to connect the dots. “And?” He sighs. “And, why do you go to church?” “Uh, to pray?” “To confess. Alonso knew Devil’s Dip’s deepest and darkest secrets. With that ammo hanging over their heads, they’d do anything he wanted them to, illegal or otherwise.

when I find myself staring into the eyes of Angelo Visconti. He’s leaning against the bar, holding a whiskey glass so loosely that it looks like he’s about to drop it. Dante is in his ear, talking animatedly while he remains still and silent. The contrast between them is like fire and ice. Our eyes lock and his stare is cold enough to give me frostbite. What is with this guy? When somebody is caught staring, they usually avert their gaze—if not out of embarrassment, then at least to be polite. But he’s regarding me like he has every right to, like I’m a painting hanging on the wall, or a statue in the lobby. Just not one he likes the look of. Then his eyes slide to my right. To Max. The storm that clouds his expression makes me look away. I clear my throat and mutter, “Let me guess: the reason he didn’t take over as capo was because he didn’t agree with his father’s seedy blackmail tactics.” He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “No. It’s because he watched both his mother and father die in the same week.”

“They were murdered?” “Nope. Maria had a heart attack, and a few days later, Alonso had a sudden bleed on the brain. We’re big on family around here, you know? He took it hard. After the funeral, instead of being sworn in as capo, he got on a flight back to London and has lived clean ever since.” “Clean?” “Guess that’s what Dante meant about him not being a made man anymore. Before his parents’ deaths, he was running a very successful loan shark business in England, waiting it out until his father retired and he’d take over. But after? He didn’t come back. Instead, he chose to stay in England and turned the whole business legit. Rumor has it he doesn’t even carry a gun anymore.”

“Why didn’t they take over Devil’s Dip instead?” “Rafe and Gabe?” he asks in a breezy manner that suggests they are the best of friends, which, I highly doubt. “Nah. It goes against tradition to pass on the position of capo through the bloodline. The only exception is death or incarceration. Besides, the Dip brothers…” he sticks his finger in his beer, scoops out some froth, and sucks on it. Gross. “They are fiercely loyal. Only a few years between them but you’d think they were triplets by the way they behave.” “Do they live in London, too?” “No, no. Rafe owns most of Vegas’s skyline. You’d have seen him about—he often comes to Cove to play poker with Tor and the Hollow brothers. But Gabe?” He laughs. “You won’t have seen him.” The scoff that punctuates his sentence piques my interest. “Why? What does he do?” “Dunno. I’m not brave enough to ask.”

“Baby. The villa we just bought in Tuscany, you didn’t even like it, right?” Amelia’s jaw juts. Her nostrils flair. Then she takes a deep breath and sweeps her gaze over me with a frozen smile. “Aurora, sweetheart, would you excuse us for a moment? I just have to remind my husband that if he continues making bets with his brothers, we’ll soon be living in a cardboard box under the pier.” “I’ll go check on Vittoria,” I mutter, clambering to my feet.

Jesus, I’m drunk. The floor breathes as the amber lights glow low and hazy. Each step through the sea of suits and stilettos is unsteady and reckless; it’ll take only one misstep to buckle on these stupid heels, and I don’t need to give Alberto another excuse to punish me. The stillness of the lobby feels like taking off my bra after a long day. I let out a lungful of air and slink back into the shadows of a connecting hallway, pressing my back into the cold mahogany paneling.

I smooth down my dress and take a deep breath. As I turn the corner, I collide with something large and stone-like. At first, I think I’ve turned too early, crashing into one of the gaudy statues that lurk in the alcoves. But then a hand shoots out and grabs my forearm, stopping me from tumbling backward. Angelo Visconti. We lock eyes. Then the shock snatches the air from my lungs, and I rip my arm from his grip like it burns. He slips the hand he grabbed me with into his pocket; the other holding a cell to his ear. Obviously he stepped out of the party to take a private phone call.

Oh, boy. Here’s when I mutter an apology. When I sidestep him and scurry back to the party, where the laughter and the music and a fresh glass of liquor will warm the chill on my skin. But I don’t, can’t, do anything but stand and stare at him. Jesus, was he this tall and broad on the cliff? Maybe this hallway is narrower than I remember, or maybe it’s the darkness. Monsters are always bigger and scarier in the dark.

But when he hangs up without a word, slides his phone in his pocket and takes a step forward, I take a step back. Growing up in the Preserve has sharpened my instincts, and standing in a dark corridor with this man gives me the same sense of unease as hearing a leaf crunch on the forest floor, or a howl in the distance. He might not be much of a made man, but it feels like I’m face to face with a predator.