Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

Eventually, his eyes release mine, moving down my neck and settling on my chest. His gaze burns even more than his touch. It’s so brazen, so shameless. Like my body belongs to him, instead of me. “It’s rude to stare.” The retort flies from my mouth, haughty and slurred, before I can stop it. Oh, swan.

How many times has Alberto hissed in my ear, don’t you dare embarrass me. I’m sure everybody finding out your fiancee would supposedly rather throw herself into the sea than marry you is the ultimate humiliation. I have no doubts he’d follow through on his threats. Take away my father’s care team. Stop my visits.

Stupefied under the intensity of his attention. As he drags his gaze back to mine, my skin grows hotter, like I’m standing in front of an open fire. It’s dangerous but oh-so-enticing. He takes another step forward, and I, another step back. Now in the vast foyer, the stained glass in the entryway windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors over his face. Greens, blues, pinks, warming his cold features and softening his sharpness. He runs a thumb over his bottom lip. Gives a slight shake of his head. Then he reaches out toward my chest, his knuckles grazing the silk fabric cutting across the curve of my breasts. What the— I glance down and my blood freezes. Before I can protest, his thumb and forefinger grip onto the lone pearl poking out of the neckline, and he pulls. Pearl by pearl, Vittoria’s necklace unfurls from my bra and into his hand.

I can’t ignore how each cold bead grazes past my nipple as he slowly pulls. I can’t ignore the flame flickering between my legs, or the way my breathing shallows under his touch. When the clasp finally falls from my chest, he holds up the necklace by the end pearl, in the same way people hold a bag of dog poop from a dog that isn’t theirs.

But for some inexplicable reason, this man makes me want to be stubborn. I have the urge to go toe to toe with him, to prove I won’t be the one that backs away from the edge of the cliff before he does, no matter how many rocks crumble under my sneakers, or how strong the wind blows. Annoyance flickers in his irises, like I’m a fly he can’t swat away. “If you looked more enthusiastic when sitting on your fiance’s lap, then perhaps he’d buy you a pearl necklace of your own.”

His hand finds my wrist, stopping all of my racing thoughts in their tracks. Now, all I can focus on is the burning band of fire on my skin; like a venomous bracelet. He pulls my hand up to my side, and we both look down at it. He turns my fist over. Instinctively, I uncurl my fingers to reveal my palm. To my surprise, he lets out a small hiss, like something about my action bothers him. Then he pools the necklace into my palm, creating a small, careful coil of pearls, and closes my hands back into a fist. I can feel his gaze, a heavy burden, against my cheek. But I don’t lift my eyes up from his hand wrapped around mine. It’s so big. Thick fingers and a heavy, hot touch.

“Stealing is a sin, Aurora.”

He strides across the lobby, the stained glass creating rainbows against his suit jacket, and disappears into the shadows. Just like on the cliff, he didn’t even glance back. I stand there in the darkness, with a stolen pearl necklace and a pounding heart.

The Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill. The sign slapped above the door is missing most of its vowels, and I’d bet my Bugatti the inside is just as neglected. Ever since I was a kid, it’s always been the type of joint that makes you want to wipe your feet on the way out. That’s the thing about Devil’s Dip. The places, the people. The fucking weather. Nothing about this shit-hole town ever changes. Stepping out of the storm and into the shipping container, I’m immediately proven right.

The girl flashes me an apologetic smile. She’s blond, all sunny smiles and nervous energy. “Sorry about that. Uh, the Smugglers Club factory is in the town over, and the people around here aren’t too fond of the family who owns it.” I ignore her in favor of holding the man’s gaze. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. Crack my knuckles. It’d be so easy to take the two strides over to him, wrap my hand around his throat and make sure he’s unable to ever fucking hiss again. I break my blistering glare and turn back to sunny smile girl. “He’ll have one too. And make it a double.” Guess I’m not that loyal to the Visconti name.

Girls with the biggest smiles harvest the darkest secrets. And besides, you must be repenting for something if you’re working in this joint.

The Angels of Devil’s Dip. That’s what the locals used to call me and my brothers growing up, because we were the deacon’s sons. That and the fact we were pale, blond, and angelic-looking.

She glances at my Rolex. “If you’re looking for Devil’s Cove, you got off the interstate two junctions too early.” “Wren,” the beanie-wearing man hisses, “that’s Alonso Visconti’s son.” I don’t tear my gaze away from the fire. I don’t need to, because I can hear the cogs whirring in her brain. She mutters a curse word, followed by a mumbled apology, then scurries back to the safety of the bar.

You either loved or hated my father, and in the rare event you were impartial, you still sure as hell knew who he was. He and his two brothers were the first generation of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra to cross the Atlantic. New York was overcrowded and Boston was dominated by the Irish, so they traveled up and west until they found the isolated Devil’s Coast.

“Oh look, it’s the Good Samaritan.” “I have a name, you know.” “Yeah, yeah, just give us that.” Tor grunts, lunging over and grabbing the bottle from her. “Uh, okay. Um, anything else?” “Yeah, a tetanus shot.” I shake my head, mildly amused. “Can’t bring him anywhere.”

“Is it finally the return of Vicious Visconti?” My jaw works. Just like Angels of Devil’s Dip, Vicious Visconti is a nickname from a different lifetime. For the last nine years, there’s been nothing vicious about me. But I can’t deny it—hearing Tor call me that sends a zap of adrenaline down my spine. It felt good to be vicious. “I’m not moving back. Like I said last night, I’m just visiting.” Lie. You’d have to be lobotomized to visit Devil’s Dip without an agenda.

Being in this town for too long makes me feel like I’m losing brain cells. Plus, there’s only so many times I can hear the question: When are you coming back? Everyone always wants to know when I’m fucking coming back. I don’t like Dante even nearly enough to tell him that I’m here because of a goddamn fortune cookie.

Then, when the tension is deliciously thick, I meet his glare with one of my own. “So, when I decide to return, you’ll show me how it’s done.” “Return? It must be nice, having the luxury to come and go as you please while I hold down your territory for you.” And there it is—one of the many reasons why Dante despises me. The sneers and the loaded comments, they’ve been a wedge between us for as long as I can remember, and being a whole continent apart for almost a decade hasn’t changed a thing. It started when we were just kids; he always thought my brothers and I were childish because of the special game we’d play. And then that disdain turned into jealousy when our game meant we killed a man long before he was even allowed to pick up a gun. Oh, and then I fucked his prom date. Can’t remember why, though.

I can feel that familiar darkness swirling in the pit of my stomach. The adrenaline buzzing around the edges of my brain. I lick my lips, ignoring the rattling sound of Vicious Visconti trying to escape his cage. Since going straight, I’ve tried to chase the high with fast cars and whores that don’t have the word “no” in their vocabulary, but nothing comes close to the feeling of being a cruel fucker.

At least I get to indulge in my dark side once a month. That’s probably the only reason I’m not stuffing my fist through his face.

Wedged a few yards up the side of the cliff, the patio of the Rusty Anchor offers an uninterrupted view of the port. Despite my disdain for it, I can’t deny that it’s glossier than when I was a kid. The harbor is twice the size, the gangways and the ramps have been fully restored. Hell, even the harbormaster’s office has been renovated—it used to be nothing but a creaky old hut that’d groan in the wind, and now, it’s made from bricks and even has windows.

“What are you guys running through here now?” “Still what you agreed to. Ammo goes out. Coke and party pills come in. Along with the usual restaurant and hotel supplies for Cove, of course.” He blows out smoke into the rain and grins at me sideways. “Don’t worry, if we decide to start trafficking Russian whores, we’ll make sure to run it by you first.” “Sounds lucrative.” “Sounds like you want a cut,” Dante growls.

I turn my back to the stormy sea and look left, taking in the glittery lights of Devil’s Cove in the distance. In front of it, Devil’s Hollow looms like a dark shadow, and our old school, the Devil’s Coast Academy sits on top of it like a poisonous cherry on top of a cake. I crane my neck directly upward, eyes landing on my father’s church. Then focus on the headland in front of it, where, Wednesday morning, I came across my uncle’s latest whore standing too close to the edge. I’d barely gotten a glimpse of her, just a shock of blond hair peeking out from under her hoodie and a brief glance at her face as I’d turned to leave. Usually, it wouldn’t be enough to recognize her from across the dining table like I did last night. But then when she glared at me from the other side of the room, I knew those eyes instantly. They are the color of warm whiskey.

Fair play to the old bastard—she’s a smoke show for sure. That fucking red dress she’d poured herself into; Jesus, any man with a pulse would get a hard-on at that visual. “Speaking of your father, I see he has another gold-digging whore already,” I drawl, lazily dragging my gaze back down the rocks to Tor. “They get younger every year.” He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, younger and hotter. Fuck knows where he picked her up.” “Meaning?” “Usually Big Al’s girls are club rats. You know, lingering around the VIP area in my clubs trying to find a meal ticket. But Aurora? I’d never seen her before.” He flicks the butt of his cigarette into the rain and tucks his chin into his jacket. “Trust me, I’d have spotted that hot piece of ass a mile away,”

Interesting. Sure, she has all the same components as the others that came before her—blond hair, big tits, and legs as long as a Monday—but she’s definitely different. A smarter mouth. A smirk prickles my lips as I remember pulling Vivi’s pearl necklace out of her ample cleavage. And a dirty little thief. I glance back up at the cliff edge and an uninvited thought seeps into my brain. Why did she want to jump? But I shake it off as quickly as it arrives. I truly don’t give a flying fuck about my uncle’s latest leech. And besides, I’d kill myself too if my only way out of Devil’s Dip was to hand my virginity over to a seventy-year-old sleazeball.

the only people in this family dumb enough to marry for love are Donatello and Amelia. And my mother.

Of course. I’d forgotten I have to pass my father’s church on the way to Hollow, and I can’t be fucked to deal with all the memories it drags up right now. When I arrived on the coast on Wednesday, I decided to do what I always do: head straight to the church even before dumping off my bags at the Visconti Grand hotel. Get all the anger and the bitter nostalgia out of my system before I dive into the family gatherings and the air kisses and the small talk. But then a certain somebody was already in my usual spot, and she proved to be quite the distraction. As I round the graveyard, I notice a car parked at the entrance. Strange. The only people buried here within the last century are Viscontis, and the only reason a local would visit a Visconti grave is to piss on it.

Gripping the steering wheel, I frown and lean closer, trying to get a better look at who’s in the car, and realize their head is turned, as if they are looking to the right. I follow their gaze across the road. The bus stop is empty, but the phone booth next to it is not. My frown deepens. Jesus, who the fuck uses a phone booth these days? The flickering bulb built into the roof of it illuminates a silhouette. A female with long blond hair and a willowy figure. Letting out a huff of air, I slump back into the seat and mutter under my breath. You’ve gotta be shitting me. It’s Alberto’s girl, Aurora. Sure, her hair is different—wild curls instead of poker-straight strands—and she’s in sweats and sneakers instead of that sexy red dress, but it’s definitely her.

What the fuck are you doing here, girl? And who are you talking to? Shaking my head, my fingers graze the key in the ignition. I don’t give a flying fuck who she’s talking to. It’s clearly someone she doesn’t want my uncle to know about, otherwise she’d use her cell. Whatever. Alberto’s sugar baby is none of my business, and I couldn’t care less what she gets up to behind his back.

The car lights switch off, and the figure gets out the driver’s side, holding an umbrella. He hustles across the road, opens the door, and holds the umbrella above her head with one hand, then snakes the other around her waist. As he guides her across the road, I get a good look at him. It’s that kid, the lackey. Max, or whatever his name is; he must be her escort. My knuckles whiten over the steering wheel and annoyance prickles my skin. He’s holding her close, really fucking close, and by the way he’s gazing at her under the streetlights, I can tell it’s not just because he’s trying to keep her dry. None of my business. This is not why I’m here.

They reach the car, and to my surprise, Aurora doesn’t get in. Instead, they have a short conversation, Max hands her the umbrella—fingers brushing against hers—then he gets in the car and drives off. A low whistle slips through my lips. Leaving the Don’s fiancee on the side of the road alone? In a shit hole like Devil’s Dip? That kid’s asking for a bullet in his head. If I were a better man, I’d kick this car into gear and take her home. Too bad I’m not. Instead, I watch as she stands there, eyes following the car until the lights disappear into the fog, before she turns her attention to the graveyard.

The cliff edge. Is she going to finish what I interrupted? There’s a lump in my throat and I’m not sure how it got there. Or how my hand moved from the steering wheel to the door handle. I’ve seen people kill themselves dozens of times. Hell, I forced some of them to write their suicide notes. My fingers drop off the handle and into my lap. Not my problem—I have enough of those. I’m not getting out the car.

Fuck it, I’m getting out the car. Just as I yank on the handle, she comes to an abrupt stop, then turns. Walks down the road. “Fucking hell, girl. Make up your mind,” I grumble to myself.

I’m not a patient man, never have been. And as the owner of the largest supercar collection in Europe, I’m not used to driving at this speed. Nor am I used to following young women down empty roads without their knowledge. Not really my bag. After what feels like forever, she turns off, and I realize she’s heading into the Preserve. First the phone booth, then the forest. What the fuck is this girl up to? I don’t mean to wait. I tell myself just a couple more minutes, but an hour ticks by, and I still haven’t moved. And then I see her. She steps out from behind the trees, then Max’s car crawls back down the street to greet her. He gets out, plants a kiss on her neck, and guides her back to the car. As they drive off, I realize I’m grinding my jaw.

So, she’s a gold-digger and a thief. She represents everything I hate about this life. To my uncle, she’s nothing but a piece of pretty pussy and something to brag about over a poker game. To her, my uncle is a walking, talking Amex, with a spend limit worth spreading her legs for. Whatever. I have more important things to do than spy on my uncle's whore.

The dress Greta is trying to squeeze me into is two sizes too small, but she’s not the type of woman to back down from a challenge.

“Oh, flamingo,” I hiss, glowering at her in the full-length mirror. She looks up and pins me with a glare of her own. “You need to stop with all the candy,” she snaps, bending down to tug on my hemline. It’s pointless; the dress still barely covers the curve of my ass. “You think I don’t see all those wrappers in the garbage? Stuffed inside your purses? Cut them out and your waistline will thank you.” “Or you could stop buying me dresses meant for a twelve-year-old,” I snap back. Of course, with its plunging neckline, it’d be very inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. It’s also incredibly inappropriate for lunch, but I’m not feeling very argumentative today;

Greta’s hand clamps my shoulder as she nods to the vanity. “Sit.” My heart sinks. “Aw come on. Can’t I just have one lunch where I don’t have to—” “Aurora, sit in the chair and keep your mouth shut.” Nostrils flaring, I slowly sink in front of the mirror. “I don’t know why you always insist on arguing,” she mutters, ripping open the dresser drawer and pulling out her torture tools: the straightener and the hairbrush. “Signore Alberto likes your hair straight. He doesn’t ask much of you but gives you so much in return. The very least you could do is wear your hair how he likes.”

“You don’t realize how lucky you are.” “You marry him, then.” My retort is met by a swift thwack on my head with the back of the brush. I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter a bird-word under my breath. The bitterness swirls in the pit of my stomach, and my fingers ache with the need to curl into a fist and connect it with her stupid face. But Greta is Alberto’s head housekeeper and most brainwashed follower, so I know she reports everything back to him without fail. I’d rather a crack around my head from her than something more sinister from Alberto.

“Don’t move, I need to grab the anti-frizz serum.” She twirls around and stalks into the en-suite attached to the dressing room. Naturally, my eyes fall to her Cartier watch on the vanity, which she always takes off when tackling my mane. With a cursory glance to the bathroom door, I pluck a pin from a sewing cushion and scratch the pointed end deep into the watch face. I’ve considered stealing it several times because I’m sure it’s worth a hefty amount, but it was a gift from Alberto, so I’m sure she’d notice.

Bad things, petty bad things, are what keep me from going insane in my new, messed-up version of reality. Little acts of revenge keep me calm. Those, and candy.

My fingers brush over a half-melted Reece’s peanut butter cup. That’ll do. As I pull it out, a small, glossy card falls into my lap. Absentmindedly, I pick it up and flip it over. Sinners Anonymous. The letters are embossed in gold, and underneath, the number is printed in silky black numerals. The card has taken a battering; there’s a crease in the middle where I once sat down with it in the back pocket of my jeans, and the edges curl in, like they are protecting my special little secret. I don’t know why I still carry the card with me after all this time, because I’d be able to recite the number in my sleep.

I do know it was more than just a coincidence that I found this card on the darkest day of my life. I remember it like it was yesterday. A mouth full of blood, not all of it my own. Fresh finger-shaped bruises forming on my throat, and an ache between my thighs I didn’t ask for. I’d stumbled out of the Devil’s Coast Academy and into the parking lot. Got in my car and drove, until I could no longer see the school’s Gothic spires in my rear-view mirror. I made it as far as the church in Devil’s Dip before the reality of what they’d done to me—what I’d done to them—hit me like a tsunami. I couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t sure if I wanted to. If I deserved to. I staggered out of the car and into the rain, just to feel something other than the crushing sensation on my chest. As I leaned against the bus shelter, sobbing, I looked up, and that’s when I saw it. The small card pinned to the board in the phone booth opposite. Sinners Anonymous.

When you called the number, it took you straight to an automated voicemail service, which prompted you to confess whatever sin or secret was weighing on your mind. It was so mysterious, and the excitement of it all rippled down the coast for a while, until the hype settled down like dust, and eventually, Sinners Anonymous just became entwined into the fabric of the area.

Just like how religious people go to church to confess every Sunday, I call the Sinners Anonymous hotline twice a week from the same phone booth by the church. I confess everything I’ve done, from the slightly gray to the dark.

By the time Greta steps back and claps her hands, I’m the girl Alberto wants me to be again. Smokey eye makeup, blood-red lipstick, and a dress that clings to my curves like second skin. Time for Sunday lunch.

But just before I descend the marble staircase, a hushed voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Two voices, and something in the tone of the conversation makes me freeze, my foot hovering over the first step. “It’s a standard contract. Just add the fucking clause and be done with it.”

I can’t see the man he’s talking to, but as soon as he speaks, my blood runs cold. “She’s already signed it. You know I can’t tamper with signed contracts, Alberto.” That’s Mortiz, his lawyer. The one that breathed over me in Alberto’s office as I signed my life away. “Oh, please. We both know she’s too stupid to have read it. Just draw up a new contract, add her signature to the bottom and we’ll be done with it.” There’s a stagnant silence, followed by a nasal sigh. “Give me a few days to find another way. In the meantime, read through the new clause and let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to add.”

“You understand, don’t you, Alberto? If she realizes the contract is not the one she signed, she could sue. And you know the Superior Court isn’t your biggest fan right now— ” Alberto cuts him off with a laugh so loud it echoes off the domed ceiling. “That girl doesn’t have two dimes to rub together. She’s a nobody, Mortiz. Besides, who’d believe her? Everyone knows her father is an old quack, so it’d be easy to convince everyone else she hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

What the hell is Alberto up to? Changing the terms of our contract? Heat prickles under my skin and the lone Reese’s peanut butter cup in my stomach threatens to make an appearance. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. But he’s right. I’m a nobody, especially in this world. I don’t come from money or power. If he wants to screw me over, the three hundred dollars in my bank account will do nothing to stop him.