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October 15 - October 15, 2024
“The Queen of Hearts is detrimental. You could have all the success in the world, but she’ll bring you to your knees.”
It should scare me, but it just pisses me off. I’ve never taken too kindly to being told what to do, especially by a man, even if said man is a Visconti.
He can hear mine thumping in fear and he relishes it.
Raphael Visconti may look like a gentleman, may talk like a gentleman. But he is anything but a gentleman.
Another break in his facade and another notch of victory on my belt.
Self-control sits at my very core, tethering me like an anchor, and yet, it seems to defy gravity the moment she steps into my vision.
“That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, Penelope.” “You’re not a gentleman,” I whisper back. Tension crackles like static. It’s so heavy I could stick my tongue out and fucking taste it.
“Careful calling me boss when you’re half naked, Penelope,” he drawls. “I might just get the wrong idea.”
Only, this game feels riskier than a roll of a dice or a halfhearted bet. And I can’t say for sure I’ll be the one who wins.
My heart hitches. “And I bet you a hundred bucks you’re hard right now,” I answer.
Just as Raphael strides out of the garage and out of sight, a light thump hits the deck. On shaky legs, I walk over and see what he dropped. Now it’s my turn to laugh, although it has a more nervous undertone than Raphael’s did. Five twenty-dollar bills in a silver money clip.
“If Blake’s an easy target, what does that make you?” She pulls a wallet out from under her dress. Son of a bitch. She holds it up like a trophy, and the initials RV glint in gold under the spotlights. My own name, taunting me with how fucking complacent I’ve become.
With a lazy smirk, she flips open my wallet and peers inside. She tugs out a hundred-dollar bill and slides it into her bra. “That’s for winning the bet.” She pulls out another hundred. “Plus VAT.” She cocks her head in thought, then pulls out another. “Plus tip.”
“These seats are Nappa leather.” “And my sweater is cotton.” “What?” I hitch a shoulder. Glare at the glow of fragmented headlights through the windshield. “Thought we were naming fabrics no one gives a shit about.”
“You were a stripper.”
When his eyes fall down to mine, they’re blacker than an oil spill and just as dangerous. “Were you any good at it?” he asks tensely. I jut my jaw in defiance. “Yes.”
“So show me.”
My sass morphs into a gasp as Raphael’s thick fingers find purchase in the base of my hair and yank my head back. I open my mouth to protest, then something cold and smooth slides into it. At first, I think it’s another playing card, but when I pull it out, I realize it’s a Black Amex. My eyes clash with Raphael’s. “Pin is four, eight, four, two,” he says
Every time Penelope has dug under my skin, it’s been my own fault.
If Angelo is the rough outline and Raphael is the clean, final portrait, Gabriel is the demon that lives in the artist’s nightmares.
She was comfortable here, in my car, beside me, her hair piled on top of her head and her face make-up free. It was with a sickening sweetness that I realized she sought out the warmth of my car to do the most vulnerable thing a human can do: sleep.
Tranquility. Acceptance. A calmness washes over me and I breathe out easy. It’s comforting, I suppose, knowing I’ve fallen to the bottom and can fall no further.
