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“What’s wrong?” “Nothing—” But his eyes are already on the bag. This time, he’s faster, and he grabs it from me before I can stop him. He pulls out the gift. Flips over the tag and glances up at me. “This is for me?” “Yeah but—” “From you?” My cheeks grow hot. “No, from baby Jesus himself,” I snap back. “It’s nothing though, just a stupid little—” “Why are you trying to hide it? Is it going to blow up when I open it?” I glare at him. “No, but I wish I’d thought of that.”
“My Christmas present to you is that I’m going to fuck you so hard you—” I fake a yawn and put my hand on his face. “Boring. I’ve got ten of them. Did you keep the receipt?”
“My Queen of Hearts,” he rasps in fascination, more to himself than to me. “My beautiful demise.”
“What game are we playing now?” I breathe. His gaze is everything I don’t want it to be. “The game of make-believe, Queenie.”
Behind us, three shots ring out in quick succession. Angelo and I whip around in unison, guns cocked. We let them go slack when our idiot brother emerges from the fog, firing an AK-47 at the sky. “Good afternoon.” He squints up at the falling snow. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” I stare at him. “It’s a miracle you’ve never been to prison.” “Mm,” Angelo agrees. “Not even a short stint.”
Angelo runs a palm over his smirk, shaking his head. “You rigged up speakers? That’s fucking terrifying.” Gabe gives me a knowing look, touched with dry humor. “I like the acoustics.”
We stare at each other. Him naked and bloody, me soaking wet and shivering. We look nothing like the King of Diamonds and The Queen of Hearts. Just two fucking idiots in love.
“If I drown, you’re drowning with me. If you burn, I’m burning too. Pick your route to hell, Rafe. The destination and the company are the same.”
He makes a noise of anger. Grabs a fistful of my sopping ponytail. And then he...
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“Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to be distracted?” My vision blurs and there’s no turning back. The dam opens, the tears flow, and my sobs fill the car, ugly and loud. Nico lets out a tense breath and swings the car around. “Distracted it is.”
The night I wrote the check and scrawled a note, I turned up at the house because I didn’t know where else to go. Angelo opened the door with a gun, lowering it when he saw the look on my face. He held out his hand in silence, but I only shook my head. I couldn’t even keep my breathing steady, let alone my fucking hand.
Rory disappears upstairs and comes back in her sweats, her curls piled on top of her head and a paper bag tucked under her arm. “Therapy dog,” she says, dropping Maggie in my lap. She plonks down next to me, tosses the chips on the coffee table, and with a stolen glance over her shoulder, she upturns the contents of the bag between us. “Don’t tell anyone, but I keep all the good stuff upstairs,” she whispers, letting the candy fall through her fingers like it’s a pile of gold coins. She then reminds me that I’ve already watched this football game twice this week, and turns the channel to some
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“It’s red flavor.” “Yeah but—” “Shh. Kim is about to confront Kyle in the limo about stealing her goddamn house.”
Angelo’s voice booms through the foyer. “All right, that’s it.” He appears in the doorway of the living room, bringing in cold air and animosity with him. “I’ve put up with a week of this shit; now get up.” I glance at him. Pop the gummy in my mouth. “Nah, I’m good.” I turn to Rory. “Plot twist: I think it’s watermelon.” “Ooh,” she squeals, digging around in the candy pile for one.
He braces his palms on the sofa armrest and grits his teeth. “Get up. Shower. Shave. Put on something that doesn’t have an elastic waistband, and meet me in my car in twenty minutes.” “Can’t.” “Why not?” “Kim’s about to confront Kyle about stealing her goddamn house.” Beside me, Rory nods in approval. “We’ve been waiting all season for this.”
The lucky socks didn’t work, which confirms what I already knew: while the Queen of Hearts is in my bed and under my skin, I’ll burn until there’s nothing left of me. Doesn’t stop me wearing these ugly fucking socks, though.
“Just give him a few more days, baby,” Rory pipes up, flashing her husband her sweetest smile. “He’s moping.” “Rafe doesn’t mope,” Angelo grunts. “He does now that he’s a heartbroken little fool.” Angelo’s eyes slide to mine, narrowing in disgust. I don’t care if he thinks I’m pathetic. I just know if he tries to pull me off this sofa I’ll put him in a headlock, stomach wound or not. “Fine,” he snaps, rising to his full height. “I’ll meet Tor in Cove alone. I’ll be sure to bring back a box of tampons and some ice cream.” He storms to the foyer. “Make it chocolate chip,” Rory calls after him.
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“Libby asked what you want to order?” she whispers. She glances at the server but says to me, “Are you okay?” No, I’m not okay. The lights are too fucking bright and my chest is too fucking hollow. It feels like there’s not enough inside of me to prop my bones up, and I’m going to implode at any second. And whose fucking bright idea was it to get burgers? Her loud laugh. Her wet coat drip-dripping onto the checkered tiles. Cough up, sugar daddy.
“What’s this dick doing here?” Rory spots him a few seconds after I do, and tightens her grip on her dog. “No idea. We hate him, right?” I run my tongue over my teeth. Bad blood thins quickly in this family, aside from when certain members do extra-stupid shit, like blow up the port. “For now.” My eyes clash with his as I slam the driver’s door shut. I don’t break eye contact, even when I round the car and open Rory’s door. She walks into the house, whispering “attack, Maggie, attack” in her dog’s ear as she passes him.
I ignore him in favor of tossing my burger on a plate and feeding Maggie a French fry. “The housewives are going to Amsterdam in this episode, right?” I ask Rory. “Uh-huh. Apparently, they have the craziest fight over dinner.” “Gesù Cristo,” Tor grinds out. He lunges over, grabs my burger, and Frisbees it into the sink. “Let’s just put a pin in your meltdown for a minute. I’ve got the whole of Cove at my feet. Every bar, club, and casino. I own one-hundred-percent of everything, no Dante in sight. What do you want?” I palm the counter and look up at him. “I wanted that fucking burger.”
“What do you think I should do?” A glint sparks in her eye, like the darkness inside her is knocking to get out. She scoops up Maggie and strokes her, like Doctor Evil strokes Mr. Bigglesworth in Austin Powers. “I think you should hit him.” “And I think that’s an excellent idea.” Tor groans. “Fuck’s sake. Fine.” He straightens up, rubbing his hands together and cricking his neck. He rounds the counter and braces himself on the other side of it. “Just don’t knock out any teeth; my smile is my best feature.”
“I got hold of Matt. He came back from his trip and saw Penny had slid a note under his door,” she whispers. My heart climbs up my throat and sits there, choking me. I swallow, hard, and try to breathe like a person who hasn’t just had the life knocked out of him. I brace my bloody knuckles on either side of the sink. Meet her reflection again. “Tell Tor I want forty-nine-percent. And tell your husband I’m back.”
Penny was right. Love is a fucking trap. Not because you’re lured in by lies and shackled by deception, but because once you’re in these damn restraints and your captor walks away with the key, you’re fucking stuck here forever.
“You ready?” Gritting my teeth, I turn back to the fire and pull the deck of cards from my pocket. Give them a lazy shuffle. We both know he’s not asking if I’m ready to drive over to Cove, but rather, if I’m ready to be back. Of course I’m not, but I can’t fester on the sofa with a bowl of candy balancing on my stomach forever. She’s gone. Just like I needed her to be. I just didn’t think she’d take my entire center with her.
“There you are!” I stop in the foyer and glance up the stairs. Rory stands at the top of them, dog in one hand, a bundle of fluffy fabric in the other. “Guess what? I bought us wearable blankets! Look!” She lowers Maggie to the ground and holds out what looks like an oversized hoodie. “They’ve got pockets! I can put Maggie in mine, and you can put the snacks in yours.” She pauses, watching her dog bound down the stairs and paw at my feet. “Or you can carry Maggie. She likes those ear scritches you give her.”
“You must have really liked her to give her the watch Mama gave you when you opened Lucky Cat.” I’m too distracted. Can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. “I didn’t give it to her; she won it.” “Did she win Mama’s necklace, too?” My gaze slides down from the rotting beam to his. “What?” “The four-leaf clover necklace. Did she win that off you too?” But by the dry humor dancing behind his swollen eyelids, I know he already knows the answer.
Matt glances up from his cell to the television just in time to see Ryan Gosling wading through the lake. “Shit,” he mutters, swiping the remote off the coffee table and stabbing the fast-forward button. “Close your eyes for five seconds.” I do as I’m told. It’s pointless though, because we’ve been watching The Notebook on a loop for hours, so the kiss is burned into the backs of my eyelids anyway. When it came on screen four showings ago, I let out a whimper so loud it woke Matt up from his nap beside me. He hasn’t let the scene play through since. Keeping my eyes closed, I choke back the
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When the movie credits roll, Matt snatches up the remote before I can reach for it. “No. No more.” He flicks through the channels and settles on a World War II documentary. “Ryan Gosling’s abs have traumatized me. I swear; I’ll never eat junk food again.”
When I hang up, Matt high-fives me. These petty acts of revenge are what’s keeping me sane, but he takes even more delight in them than I do. Turns out, he has his own grudge against Rafe. On Christmas Day, Matt got drunk and confessed to him that he has a crush on Anna. Rafe told him to just text her. The worst that could happen is that she says ‘no.’ He was wrong. It turns out her replying to my friend’s heartfelt paragraph with seven laughing emojis and nothing else was the worst that could happen. “Fuck Raphael Visconti,” Matt mutters, flopping back on the sofa and putting his feet up on
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His attention turns down to the lump on the sofa and sparks black. One hand reaches for his gun, the other rips the duvet away. He points the gun in Matt’s face. “Are you fucking my girl?” Matt squeals and holds his palms up in surrender. As soon as Rafe realizes it’s just my Golden Retriever neighbor, he rolls his eyes. He flicks the end of the gun barrel in the direction of the hall. “All right. Get out before you piss yourself.” Matt doesn’t even glance back at me before bounding out of my apartment. Fucking traitor.
“Come home, Queenie. Come home and let me worship you every day for the rest of your life.” I groan, palming his chest. Maybe because his lips aren’t assaulting mine, I manage to reply with a somewhat coherent answer. “I am home.” His palm skims down my spine and spanks my ass. “Our home,” he growls into my collarbone, planting violent kisses along it. “The yacht, baby. Hang your stolen clothes up in my closet, make your god-awful lasagnas in my oven. Light your girly candles in every room. I want all of it, all of you. Just come home.
He looks so peaceful. He looks so heartbreakingly handsome. He looks like such a douche. I draw back my foot and kick him in the shin. His body moves before his eyes open, flipping me onto my back and coming down on top of me with a hot hiss. “Did you just kick me?” “You got lucky, I was aiming for your dick.” He finally pops an eye open, pinning me with a bleary yet blistering glare. “Fuck was that for?” “I’d give you three guesses, but all of them will probably be right.” His frown softens when his gaze drops to my lips. He shifts his weight to cup my cheek with one hand, and lowers his
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I storm over to the dresser, snatch up the million-dollar check and wave it around. “What the fuck is this? I’ll tell you what it is; it’s a coward’s way out. You thought I’d take the money and run, and then you wouldn’t have to break it off with me. Newsflash—” I toss the check at his feet. “I’m still here!” We both stare at the crumpled piece of paper on my carpet. I sweep it up and put it back on my dresser. I’m manic with anger, but I’m not stupid.
Silence trickles down the walls like syrup. Suddenly, I realize something: I don’t know what I want from him. He doesn’t know what to give me. We’re just two idiots who don’t know how love works. My throat feels like sandpaper. “Well, then. Figure it out.” He groans, rolling his neck. “Rory didn’t tell me about this bit.” “What?” He rises to his feet, shaking his head. “Nothing, baby.” I avert my eyes as he gets dressed, knowing that if I watch those biceps flex as he tightens his belt, I’ll be back face down on the bed, waving my ass in the air, and my monologue will have been pointless.
Angelo laughs again. He’s in an annoyingly good mood today. “You kidding? Anyone with eyes could see Rafe was always going to go crawling back. I was so certain, I’ve got three different bets going on how long it’d take.” I frown. “You don’t bet.” “And you don’t wear sweats and watch trash TV with my wife. I made an exception.”
“Here’s your tea, Rafey,” she says sweetly. Too sweetly. As I look down at the steaming liquid, Angelo nudges it out of reach. “Don’t drink that,” he mutters, chomping on a slice of toast. “I need you sharp today.” “Gesù Cristo.” I glance up at Rory’s back as she makes teas for her and Angelo. Using a different spoon, obviously. “Your girl’s a psycho,” I bite out in rapid Italian. “So’s yours,” he grunts back. “I overheard Gabe’s men talking about the state of your yacht
Wren whimpers in solidarity, because apparently seeing anyone cry sets her off, too. Rory jumps up to shuffle past her and hug me, while Tayce makes a beeline for the counter, with the promise to bring back something extra-chocolatey. As I sniffle into the shoulder of Rory’s hoodie, something dawns on me that makes me cry even harder. These girls would share their jeans with me in a heartbeat.
I’m just wasting time until Matt finishes hockey practice. Partly so I can eat all the left-over pizza in his apartment, and partly because I’m dying to rip the shit out of him for squealing like a little bitch when Rafe pointed a gun in his face.
“Grovels start with flowers.” I frown at the roses in his hands. They’re blood red and confusing. Rafe takes advantage of my disbelief by sliding me to the side and strolling into my apartment. “According to Google, anyway,” he continues, before disappearing into my kitchen. “But Google also thinks I’m thirty-eight and own a Rottweiler named Cookie, so who really knows?” I follow him in and hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He sets the roses down and opens cupboards and drawers like he owns the place. “Do you have a vase?” “What?” He glances at me, amused. “For the flowers.” “Um, no?”
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“All right, all right,” I squeal, wriggling out of his grip. “I suppose I have time for dinner. I’m not changing my clothes, though.” He sweeps a look of disbelief over my gray sweatpants, hoodie, and messy bun. “It’s a nice restaurant.” “Are you saying I don’t look nice?” He pauses, then flashes me a plastic smile. “You’d look beautiful in a potato sack,” he says insincerely. He hoists me off the counter and sets me on my feet. “Come on.”
There’s a click-thud as he locks my door. “You’re not changing your mind. I already said please.” I stare at his profile, emotion swelling in my throat. “Why are you bothering?” His gaze is lazy, trained on the windshield as he pulls out onto the road. “Because I love you,” he says simply.
He chuckles when I swat his hand away. Touching leads to fucking, and fucking leads to me saying silly shit I shouldn’t, like, I love you, too.
“Mr. Visconti, Mrs. Visconti,” she says, nodding at us politely. She makes more pleasantries but they swim around my ears, wobbly and incoherent. Mrs. Visconti? As Rafe’s hand finds my back again and guides me to a table, I glare up at his profile. “Why does she think we’re married?” His dimple deepens. “Because I told her we were.”
There’s a flurry of servers with smiles and napkins and leather-bound menus, but how can I focus on trivial things like the daily specials, at a time like this?
“Stalagmites,” Rafe says, watching me. “Produced by precipitation of minerals from water dripping through the cave ceiling.” “Stalactites.” “I’m sorry?” “Stalagmites rise up from the floor, stalactites hang from the ceiling.” Rubbing my sweaty palms on my joggers, I add, “You bought me Petrology for Dummies.”
“I groveled,” he says quietly. “Now. Come. Home.” I stare at his sharp profile, watching the muscle in his jaw twitch. “You groveled for three hours and twenty minutes.”
Rory’s yelp fills her dressing room. “Not so tight. Goose, you’re holding the strands like a Neanderthal.” I meet her glare in the vanity mirror. “Last time, you said it was too loose. Now, it’s too tight. Maybe it’s your knotty hair that’s the problem.” She’s impressively quick, swiping her brush off the dresser and reaching back to crack my knuckles with it. I hiss, tugging on her wonky braid.
“The Birkin didn’t work then?” I glance behind me to see Rory has joined her husband at the top of the stairs. “Which one?” I grunt back. Aside from being one unsatisfying fist-fuck away from breaking my dick, the only frustrating thing about living in simp-mode is that I haven’t found that thing that makes her eyes light up yet. No, the fucking Birkin didn’t work. The next three didn’t work either. Or the Cartier bracelet, or the Benz that’s been collecting parking fines outside her apartment.
“The shit you do indeed. Like, oh, I don’t know, secretly telling all your dinner guests not to touch your wife’s turkey because it’s as pink as Barbie’s playhouse, then proceeding to eat half of it and ride out a bout of salmonella instead of just telling her to shove it back in the oven for another forty-five minutes.” I hold my hand on my heart, enjoying the way Angelo’s expression turns dangerous. “That’s true love right there.” Rory’s jaw drops open as she turns to her husband. “You told everyone not to eat my turkey?” Her eyes slide to mine. “Really? No one ate my turkey?” I smile at her
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“I don’t know what I want,” she grits, her hot breath seeping through my shirt. “None of it’s working.” “What do you mean?” “Spending all your money isn’t making me feel better, Rafe. I don’t care for any of your gifts, either. Fuck, when you stopped for gas last night, I took three-hundred dollars from your wallet and felt nothing. She tilts her chin to look up at me. “I put it back.” “Jesus,” I mutter, rubbing her nape. “Really?”
