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October 11 - October 12, 2025
“The Queen of Hearts is detrimental. You could have all the success in the world, but she’ll bring you to your knees.”
Don’t fuck with the Viscontis.
I’d bet my left kidney I could twist my head around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees like a fucking owl, and everything my eyes touched would be Visconti-owned.
“You sure are persistent for a man that isn’t interested.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I’m interested.”
He’s a great white shark about to swallow me whole.
“I’d rather shut my dick in a car door than do this again some time, Penelope.”
“It feels like your heart is walking outside of your body.” Her gaze finds Angelo’s again, and I watch in fascination as a pink flush creeps from underneath her necklace. “My heart now wears Armani and has a Glock for every day of the week.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re rather hot when you’re gagged.”
“You’re a dog, Penelope,” he says breezily over his shoulder. “I should look into putting you down.” “They already tried.” His footsteps slow to a stop and he glances back at me. “And?” “I bit the vet.”
“Were you born a cunt, or were you turned into one by school bullies and a father that didn’t love you?”
Dead parents, bratty behavior. That’s a recipe for a sinner if I’ve ever seen one.
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.”
This girl isn’t the Queen of Hearts, but the Devil in disguise. Unfortunately, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t follow her into hell.
“Talk shit, get hit,”
“Don’t worry about it, Libby,” I say breezily. “Mr. Visconti is filthy, stinking, rich.”
“Pin is four, eight, four, two,” he says quietly. He locks his fingers behind his head and leans back against the headrest.
His gaze flashes like a warning sign. “Now, take it off.”
But then a firm, hot hand slides under the blazer and rests on my thigh. I glance up at Raphael, but he’s focusing on the gap between the whooshing wipers, steering the car with the palm of his other hand. “Strip for another man again, and he’ll die crossing the road.”
“He left his head in the trunk of my Sedan with a cocktail umbrella in his mouth.” I bite out a laugh.
“Good girl,”
“Why do you care if I cry?” He tracks his thumb as it trails further down, across my bottom lip and along my chin. He grips me there for a moment, regret coating his features.
“Because last night, I saw you laugh.”
“Go to sleep.” “But—” “But nothing, Penelope. Forget about Martin O’Hare; he’s my problem now.”
“Home, Queenie.”
