There Is No Devil (Sinners, #2)

by Sophie Lark

Right as I’m thinking that, some drunken oaf stumbles into my path, dumping his spritz down the front of my trousers, drenching my brand-new Italian leather loafers. “Scansarsi!” He shouts. “Brutto figlio di puttano bastardo Americano!” Since I speak Italian flawlessly, I catch every word of that insult. I turn to Mara, that old anger already blazing in my eyes. The drunk stumbles alone toward a dark alleyway. I could easily follow after him. In the chaos, no one would remember another Rugantino in a black mask. Mara follows my gaze, her eyes flicking ahead the alleyway, vibrant and alive beneath the smooth white porcelain of her mask. Before I can move, she dashes ahead of me, seizing the drunk by the shoulder. She plucks the plume from her hat and draws it across his throat in one sharp motion, the scarlet feathers liquid bright against his neck. The drunk—insensible to manners, but fully alive to horseplay—pretends to stiffen up and fall over dead in the gutter, clutching his throat dramatically and making dramatic gurgling sounds. “There,” Mara says, rejoining me, her feather tucked back into her pirate hat. “I got him for you.” “Thank you,” I say. “Saves me the trouble.”

Well ok then...