Sinners Condemned (Sinners Anonymous, #2)

by Somme Sketcher

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” She picks up a deck of cards and splits it in two. “But I’m a cartomancer, not a medium.” “I don’t speak con-artist.” Her nostrils flare. “It means I tell fortunes with playing cards. I don’t make contact with the dead.” “Good thing I’m not here to make small talk with my mother’s ghost then.”

How is he cracking me up already?🤭

It’s the Queen of Hearts. “The red-haired lady,” the woman says softly. “Lucky for most, unlucky for a select few. And for you?” She lets out a low whistle. “The Queen of Hearts is detrimental. You could have all the success in the world, but she’ll bring you to your knees.”

His stare is just as likely to give me frostbite, too. “I’m not interested.” I blink. “I’m sorry?” “Apology accepted.”

Ain’t no way he just said that🤣

“I’m not hitting on you.” “Sure.” The word trickles from his mouth, easy and final. “Seriously,” I mutter, cheeks growing hot. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.” The typing stops. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets my gaze in the mirror. Deep-green and intense. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and it feels like self-preservation to look away. But as always, stubbornness has me in a choke hold, and I grip the edge of the bar to force myself to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry?” “Apology accepted,” I bite back.

Yes girl, give him a taste of his own medicine 💁🏼‍♀️

He smirks. “You sure are persistent for a man that isn’t interested.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I’m interested.”

Dan lays two drinks on the table. One’s a whiskey, the other is bright yellow and in a cocktail glass. I glare at the glazed cherry and pink curly straw. “Changed your drink?” “Changed yours. Lemon drop martinis are less of a choking hazard.” “Delightful,”

Stop, it’s the drink his mother used to have 🥹

“What if you fall in love?” I swig the remains of my champagne, put the empty glass on a passing tray, and pick up a fresh one. “I won’t.” “You can’t possibly know that.” “Women don’t fall in love, Matt. They fall into traps. They are lured in by sweet lies and smooth promises. Then years, maybe decades, down the line, they realize they’re tethered to a stranger, their chains made heavier by things like babies and mortgages and mothers-in-law with unhealthy obsessions with their sons. Some get divorced; some decide it’s easier just to stay shackled.” Heavy silence whistles in the wind. I turn to Matt and smirk at his expression. “What? Too much?” “Fuck, Pen. Who hurt you?”

“I’d rather shut my dick in a car door than do this again some time, Penelope.”

Raphael Visconti may look like a gentleman, may talk like a gentleman. But he is anything but a gentleman.

“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.”

“He needs to pay.” “Yeah, with a grenade,” Gabe grunts. Cas shrugs. “Not the worst idea you’ve had, cugino.” “Rafe? What do you think?” Feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on my skin, I turn to meet Angelo’s gaze. I spin the poker chip in the air and catch it, before slipping it back in my pocket. “I think it’s boring.” Gabe snorts. “You think a grenade is boring?” My gaze shifts lazily to him. “Only kids are entertained by things that go bang, brother.” Angelo huffs out a sardonic laugh.

why am i giggling at this?

That vein in Angelo’s temple does a tap dance. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?” It’s not really a question, because my brothers already know the answer. Gabe punches the table again, and this time, there’s a loud crack from under his fist. “Mama should have put you in anger management when she threatened she would,” I muse. “What, do you wanna challenge Dante to a friendly game of Tic, Tac, Toe?” Gabe’s eyes find mine, furious and wild. Unhinged. “He blew up our port. Three confirmed dead already, and fuck knows how many more to come. Do us all a favor and leave the combat to me and my men, and go back to dry-cleaning your suits.”

But something about plotting revenge has brought him to life, and I almost don’t want to take it away from him. And I wouldn’t, except, my ideas are always better. “Lay off the steroids, brother.” I stride over to the desk, giving Gabe a patronizing pat on the shoulder as I pass. “They make your brain fuzzy and your dick small.”

“You’re not a gentleman.” His eyes flicker with the tiniest flame of amusement. “No?” “You own two yachts.” “The Queen of England has eighty-three.” I blink. “You’re a Visconti.” “So is Nico, and you seem to like him just fine.” “You carry a gun!” He runs two fingers over his bottom lip, trying, and failing, to hide a smirk. “The gun is fake, Penelope.” “My ass.” “What about it?”

The banter is bantering

“Holy crow, did you see that?” “See what?” Angelo growls, brushing his hand over the back of his slacks, where I know he keeps his gun. “I’m pretty sure I just saw a humpback whale.” “Really?” “Uh-huh, look.” She points over the railing and out to the inky abyss. My brother untangles himself from her and squints to the horizon. “I don’t see—fuck’s sake.” He realized too late that Rory’s got her heels in her hand, sprinting down the side deck toward the bow. The strong wind carries her gleeful, parting retort. “Humpback whales in December? Don’t be an idiot, baby.” I laugh aloud, and from across the terrace, Angelo’s eyes find mine and darken with annoyance. I crack an imaginary whip, which only pisses him off even more. He mutters something bitter under his breath, before flipping me off and storming down the deck after his wife.

I’m winning this game. I prove it to myself by clamping my teeth down on his thumb as it comes back to the middle of my lip. A blaze of annoyance, a hot hiss of breath, and then Raphael’s gaze snaps up to mine. Three irregular heartbeats pass before he gains enough semblance to drag his thumb from my mouth and rest it lightly on the indentation of my chin. “I bet you bite when you fuck,” he says pensively, as if talking to himself rather than me. My heart hitches. “And I bet you a hundred bucks you’re hard right now,” I answer.

One interesting fact I learned about Penelope is that she detests ham and pineapple pizza, and tuna sandwiches make her gag. Which is why I bought my men both for lunch. “Where do you want us to put the plates, boss?” I run my tongue over my teeth, amused. “Just dump them in the sink.”

King of pettiness

“Your car? Not a chance. I’ll end up in a ditch somewhere.” “You’re walking around at midnight, Penelope. Seems like you want to be in a ditch somewhere.” “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” He takes a step forward; I take one back. “Get in the car.” “Say please.” I’m shivering from the inside out and my toes are swimming inside my boots, yet, I’m standing here, the dictionary definition of a girl cutting off her nose to spite her face. Raphael’s head dips between his shoulders, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Then his hand shoots out and grabs my throat so fast it steals my next breath. “Penelope. You’re five-foot-nothing and probably can’t throw a punch to save your life. Get in my car before I toss you over my shoulder and spank your ass for the inconvenience of getting me wet.” A tight, mocking smile flashes through the rain. “Please.”

I see Raphael’s irritated gaze fall to the small puddle I’ve created. “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.”

I’ve been in a similar situation before—twice, actually. I’ve only slept with two men, and both managed to fool me. They laughed when I insulted them, leaned over dining tables and feigned interest when a few glasses of wine loosened my tongue and softened my defenses. Both times, I let them fuck me rough in the backs of their cars, and then never heard from either again. And now here I am, sitting in silence, squirming in the passenger seat. It feels all too familiar. 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.”

“Penelope.” “Yes?” I whisper back. “Tell me what the weather is like today.” I blink. I couldn’t cut the air in here even if I had an obsidian knife, and he’s worried about the weather? “What?” As if trying to convey something calming with his eyes, he nods to the French doors behind me. “Look out the window, and tell me what the weather is like.” After a breathless second, I do as I'm told. My gait is clumsy as I make my way to the glass and press a sweaty hand against its cold surface. I swallow. “Well, uh. It’s cloudy, but I don’t think it’ll r—” My forecast is sliced in half by a sound I’d know anywhere. It's a sound I’ve heard before, twice, as it took the lives of both my dead-beat parents. Bang. The gunshot reverberates off the walls and rings in my ears. Everything stops—my words, the time, my pulse. “Penelope?” I latch on to the tranquility in Raphael’s voice like a life-line. “Don’t turn around. Just open the door and take a walk.”

“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.”

When he drops me again, there’s something soft under my head. A pillow. Expressionless, he reaches into the back seat again and produces a blanket. He throws it over my head and the engine whirs to life again. “Go to sleep.” “But—” “But nothing, Penelope. Forget about Martin O’Hare; he’s my problem now.”

I want to know why she can sleep in my car, but not in her bed. Why she’s still wearing my watch, instead of selling it. What she puts in my whiskey to make me want to protect her, when I should be putting a bullet in her head.

Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t so hyper-aware of every movement Penelope makes. If I wasn’t already staring at her plump lips when she whispered, low value, or if I wasn’t admiring my watch around her wrist when she squeezed Rory’s arm. I shift my attention to Rory and start honing in on other things I chalked up to her quirkiness. And then I realize: the strumming of her fingers against the table isn’t a nervous habit; she’s fucking counting. “Blackjack!” she squeals again. This time, I don’t congratulate her. Instead, I drag my eyes up to meet Penelope’s and raise my brows. Something in my expression wipes the grin off her face. “Penelope.” Her shoulders stiffen. “I’ll give you a ten-second head start.” But by the time the warning slides from my mouth, the little brat is already on her feet.

“You’re a bad girl, Penelope.” “Yes,” I gasp. “And you know what happens to bad girls?” I’m so close to an orgasm I can fucking taste it. But then Raphael snatches it away, his fingers leaving my panties with a light snap of elastic. Bewildered, my gaze falls from the ceiling to his, just as his damp hand comes to my jaw. He tracks his movement in dark fascination as he spreads my juices over my bottom lip. “They don’t get to come.”

“If it’s any consolation, you don’t look like you’ve just cracked open a man’s brain with a hammer claw and then donkey-kicked him into a fire.” I bite back a smirk. “I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, brother. Maybe we’re bonding.” “Maybe you have smoke inhalation.” He watches me for a moment. “Feel better?” Fuck yeah, I do. There’s a buzz in my blood and a lightness in my chest. Despite the ache between my shoulder blades and the thin veil of sweat cloaking my skin, my suit fits a little better now. Like the monster underneath has lost some bulk and is easier to conceal. Of course, Gabe gets a much simpler response. “Feel all right.”

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. Penelope’s eyes trail the river of red trickling down the back of my hand until it disappears under the cuff of my shirt. “Where are we going?” she murmurs. My hand slides off the steering wheel and finds her knee. “Home, Queenie.”