still.”
“I am holding still.”
“No, you’re fidgeting like an innocent man on trial.” Greta emphasizes her point by slamming a bony hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “If I stab you with this needle, don’t go running to Alberto crying, because it’ll be your fault.”
Once again, she’s chosen a dress too small—so small, in fact, the back zipper won’t go past the curve of my hip. Instead of letting me wear something else, Greta’s solution is to physically sew me into it. I’ll probably have to sleep in it too, because I have no idea how I’ll get it off tonight.
“You’re nervous.”
Greta’s observation shoots down my spine like a laser beam. I lock eyes with her in the mirror and swallow. Silently begging my skin not to flush. “Why would I be nervous? It’s only a Friday night dinner.”
She frowns at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Nervous about next Saturday, you stupid little girl,” The point of her needle grazes over my flesh. “Your engagement party.”
“Oh.”
I watch as she glances at my left hand clutching my stomach. More specifically, at the rock on my ring finger. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” she murmurs softly.
My eyes flutter shut. “So you’ve said, Greta. Thousands of times.”
The moment I step into the Visconti Grand Hotel on Alberto’s arm next Saturday, the countdown to the wedding will begin. It’ll start with the engagement party, then it’ll be the wedding dress fitting and the cake tasting, meetings with the pastor and dinners with extended family, and then it’ll end in exactly two weeks with me walking down the aisle.
Or, more likely, being dragged down the aisle. Potentially kicking and screaming.
One week and one day. That’s all the time I have left to pretend that this isn’t really going to happen.
“Before you leave, remind me to put some more powder on your nose.” Greta stands to her full height and thins her eyes. “Why are you so shiny?” She takes a step back. “Are you sick?”
I hiss out a breath through the gap in my teeth and smooth down the front of my dress. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine, and haven’t been fine since the car ride with Angelo on Wednesday. Ever since I stood on the porch and watched his tail lights melt into the gray horizon, there’s been a thick unease trickling under my skin. Like being in a small car with him on a rainy day has turned my blood to syrup. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, akin to when I step outside first thing in the morning, and although the sky is clear and the weather forecast predicts sun, I know it’s about to rain. It’s inexplicable. Ominous. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck and tension clots between my shoulder blades, and yet, I can’t put a finger on why.
It’s only rain.
And Angelo is only a man. One I don’t even like.
I sit in blistering silence as Greta teases my curls. The cocktail of burnt hair and hairspray burns my nostrils, and my temples sting under the brunt of her comb. When she’s finished, she takes a step back and treats me to a tight smile.
“You look like Marilyn Monroe.”
It’d be a compliment if her tone weren’t so bitter.
My eyes fall lazily to my reflection. I’m usually unbothered by the unrecognizable face staring back at me, but I have to admit, tonight I do look particularly impressive. The silver dress shimmers under the white vanity lights, and my hair, for once, isn’t poker straight and boring. Greta has styled it into big, loose waves, which cascade down my bare back and bounce when I walk.
I bite back my smile because I’d never give the miserable old hag the satisfaction of being happy. I bristle out of the room without a glance back.
Tonight, the pianist has started early; lively jazz drifts from under the swinging doors of the dining room and fills the domed ceiling. I descend the stairs slowly, because, as always, my dress is too tight and my heels too high to do anything in a hurry. Peering over the banister, I notice there are more guests than usual. Several of the Hollow brothers have turned up, crowding in the foyer and swiping amuse-bouche off passing trays without breaking pace in their conversations.
I study each and every suit. And I hate how my stomach drops a few inches when I realize none of them belong to Angelo.
Stop it, Rory. I swallow the disappointment and steel my spine. The only reason I feel like this is because, even though I despise him, I can’t deny that he makes these long-winded gatherings more interesting. He gives me someone other than Dante to glare at.
Yes. That’s all it is.
As I hop off the last step, something moves in the corner of my eye and holds my attention. It’s coming from the gap in Alberto’s office door. Two figures, back-lit by the moonlight shining through the window behind them. I slow down to a stop and squint under the curtain of my hair, trying to get a better look.
It’s Alberto and Mortiz, deep in conversation. My heart skips a beat as I remember their conversation last week about changing the terms in our contract. I’ve been so distracted by…other things, that I totally forgot about it.
Well, doomsday is coming. In less than three weeks I’ll be chained to this sleazeball in sickness and in health, and I really need to find out what the hell he’s planning before I decide what I’m going to do.
Before I decide if I’m going to go ahead with my own plan.
With a glance toward the lobby, I take a sharp right down the hallway behind the stairs. There’s access to the pool from the game room, so I’ll slip out, skirt around the side of the house, and see if I can hear Alberto and his lawyer’s conversation from outside the office window.
Holy crow, it’s cold. As I step out onto the deck, the mid-fall chill blasts me, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs. It’s not even Halloween yet, but frost is already settling on the pool cover, and wisps of fog dance in the glow of the landscape lighting.
I creep left, hugging the wall of the house as I round the corner. Suddenly, there’s something soft underfoot, which causes my heel to sink into the ground and my ankle to buckle underneath me.
“Gah,” I yelp. I shoot out fingers and grasp for something, anything to stop me from tumbling over. They brush over a drainpipe and scrape down some bricks, but before I can find something, something finds me. A hand. It’s big and strong and I shouldn’t be able to recognize who it belongs to so easily.
Warmth brushes my bare back, a wave of adrenaline chasing after it. I twist around to find Angelo Visconti so close I can probably guess the thread count of his crisp, white shirt. I shift my gaze higher, meeting his eyes. He slips a cigarette between his lips and inhales.
Then he blows.
Hot and heavy smoke swirls between us; I find myself briefly closing my eyes, basking in the heat grazing my nose and cheeks. I open them again just as the cloud evaporates into the darkness, revealing the network of hard lines that make up Angelo’s expressionless face. I can’t be sure—the starless sky provides little light—but there’s something licking at the edges of his stare. Irritation, perhaps. I’m sure the last person he wants to bump into is me.
“Those silly little shoes of yours are very…inappropriate.”
Suffocating under the intensity of his stare, I glance down at my feet and swallow. I’d forgotten that the corner of the house is where the deck meets the beach.
“Sand.” I mutter, trying to control my breathing. “I’d forgotten there was sand.”
A grunt, low and sinister, rumbles in his chest. I’m so close I can feel the frequency of it. The cherry of his cigarette glows, and then I’m surrounded by his smoke once more. This time, I part my lips and slowly suck. It’s not lost on me that this smoke was in his mouth just seconds before it enters mine, and the thought feels so incredibly naughty that my face starts to burn.
“That’s not what I meant.”
My heart stills for a second, before reality brushes the comment away. He’s only saying what everybody in the house behind me is thinking: at Friday night dinners, I dress like a whore. My skirt is too short, my heels too high, and my makeup too thick. Too inappropriate.
Angelo’s gaze is too heavy, and it’s instinctive to try to crawl out from underneath it, but when my eyes dart around, I notice there’s nowhere to go. In front of me is the brick wall of the house, and behind, Angelo’s imposing figure. Sucking in a lungful of air, I slide my arm out of his grasp and twist around, so my back is flat against the wall.
Big mistake. He takes a step forward, closing the gap between us as quickly as it appeared. I force my expression to remain neutral, unbothered, even though I’m sure I’m not fooling him. I was never very good at acting, and if I can hear my heart beating like that, then he probably can too.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing out here?”
“Smoking.”
“Thought you didn’t smoke?”
His gaze rises up to mine, confusion crossing his face for a split second, before he realizes I’m referring to the night in the alley beside Tor’s half-built club.
His lips twitch. “You keep my secret—I’ll keep yours.”
“All of them?”
The moment the question tumbles from my lips in a puff of condensation, blood rises to my neck and chest. The memory of being in his car on Wednesday makes my bones cringe. A deal goes both ways, Aurora. I’d misread what he’d meant by that so badly that I almost did something…highly inappropriate. The worst part was that when I was sitting in the passenger seat contemplating it, my heart rate had quickened, and heat had pooled between my thighs in the most delicious of ways.
It felt like it would have been the best bad thing I’d ever done.
Flamingo, what must he think of me?
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, his gaze drops to my lips as he rakes his teeth over his own. I really wish he’d stop doing that; it makes my head feel all funny. In a bid to look at anything but the delicious curve of his cupid’s bow, I glance down at the cigarette glowing faintly in his right hand.
He must have noticed, because he brings it up into the small space between us, and twists it around so the filter is facing me.
He wants to share? My pulse flutters. It’s one thing sharing the same cloud of smoke, but putting my lips where his were…
It feels dangerous.
Goose, I’m pathetic. Truth is, I have almost no experience with boys, let alone men. Before that awful day three years ago, I’d never even been intimate with a boy. And I’d never had a childhood sweetheart growing up because all the boys in my class and in my town were so…familiar. I’d known them since kindergarten, just like my parents had known their parents and so on. There was nothing new or exciting to discover about them. Their memories were also mine, as were their experiences. That’s why I was so excited for college—not only would I be one step closer to my dream of becoming a pilot, but also I’d get to meet boys outside of the Devil’s Coast.
“I don’t smoke.”
Dark amusement dances in his eyes. “I thought you were a bad girl.”
Bad girl. The way he spits out those words, harsh and heated, makes me want to be just that. It’s easy to ignore the blatant mockery, and without another word, I take the cigarette from him, watching him watching me, and I bring it to my lips and inhale.
Immediately, the back of my throat starts to burn, and I drop the cigarette in the sand in the middle of my coughing fit.
I can barely hear his chuckle over the sound of my own labored breaths.
“Jesus Christ,” I wheeze, tilting my head back against the brick wall.
With a smirk that deepens the cleft of his chin, he pulls the pack from his slacks and tugs out a fresh cigarette. The flame of his Zippo lighter dances majestically against the dark night as he lights it.
“Watch me.” As if I ever do anything else these days. He slips it between his lips and takes a slow, sensual drag. This time, he has the courtesy to blow the smoke out above my head. I feel mildly disappointed. “Here.” He hands it to me. “Not so much this time, magpie.”
I like the way he watches my mouth as I slowly inhale. A few seconds later, smoke smoothly escapes my lips, coasting over the planes of his face.
“Better,” he purrs.
I smile, passing it back to him. He glances down at the red ring of lipstick around the filter and pauses. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and I swear, I see his pulse in his jaw.
“Oh—”
But before I can finish my sentence, he slides the cigarette between his lips and inhales. For some silly reason, my heartbeat skids to a stop at the mere sight of his mouth in the same spot where mine just was. It feels wrong. Too intimate.
In fact, standing out here with him, alone, feels too intimate.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I glance toward the garden. “I should probably get going.”
“Stay.”
It’s not a suggestion. Despite turning his back on the Cosa Nostra, Angelo Visconti doesn’t strike me as the type of man that merely suggests. I lean back, my heels sinking farther into the sand, anchoring me between the house my fiancee built and the man who could blow it down with a huff of his sarcastic breath.
Faint jazz drifts out from inside the house. Down by the sea, the waves crash angrily against the shore. Both serve as a backdrop to the sound of my heavy breathing.
“Alberto will wonder where I am.”
“So, tell him.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, that’ll go down well.” He cocks a brow, waiting for more. “How would you feel if you found your fiancee in a dark corner, sharing a cigarette with a handsome man?”
He stares at me. At first blankly, then his eyes thin. “You think I’m handsome.”
Oh, flamingo. Despite the chill coasting around us, my skin instantly burns up with embarrassment. I’m meant to hate him as much as he hates me.
I steel my jaw. “Don’t get too excited. I usually wear glasses.”
His laugh feels good against my skin. “Am I more handsome than your husband?”
“It’s not hard.”
“So, who would you rather kiss?”
I blink.
What?
My breathing shallows, eventually coming to a stop altogether. I’m burning up, blistering under the intensity of his attention, yet he’s as cool as a cucumber. We’re like fire and ice. He takes another drag on the cigarette and regards me with the indifference of a man who just asked me the time.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
My gaze drops to his lips.
Oh, swan.
A look can tell a thousand words, and judging by the smug grin that splits Angelo’s face, my glance at his lips have written him a whole frickin’ essay.
I feel the urge to clutch back some footing, and the only way I know how to do that these days is to be nasty.
“I don’t know. You’re almost as old as him anyway.”
Annoyance coasts across the planes of his face, but he rearranges his features immediately.
“I’m thirty-six.”
“Almost twice my age.”
“I suppose when you’re still a silly little girl, everyone above the age of thirty seems old.”
I’m glad it’s dark, because hopefully, he can’t see me fluster under the navy sky.
“Besides,” he continues, his voice hardening, “only silly little girls would think grown men would want to kiss them.”
“And only dirty old men would ask their uncle’s fiancee about her kissing preferences.”
Silence swirls us, thicker than the smoke escaping Angelo’s parted lips. “I was joking, Aurora.” So, he’s back to saying my name like that. “Alberto is family, and while we may not always see eye to eye, I’ll always respect him.”
I tilt my chin up. Now that my stilettos are halfway in the sand, he feels even taller than usual. “You can’t respect him that much. I saw you key his car.”
“When?” he asks, without missing a beat.
“On Wednesday, when you dropped me off.”
“Wednesday…” he murmurs, scratching his jaw as he pretends to think. “You mean the day you kissed him in front of me? ”
My stomach churns at the memory, but I’m irritated about playing his game. “Yes.”
“Hmm. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His face is deadpan; as emotionless as his tone. But still, a little firework sparks inside my chest. I was disorientated by Alberto’s sudden PDA, and the rain was so heavy it distorted Angelo’s body as he moved toward his car. I thought perhaps I’d imagined the childish act of vandalism, but now, I know I didn’t.
He keyed his uncle’s car because of that kiss.
Confusion prickles on my skin but I ignore it in favor of the adrenaline skating down my spine.
This is bad. Three-thousand feet in the air, toeing a tightrope no wider than dental floss type of bad. I have the weight of my world on my shoulders, and if I fall, there’s more than just my own life on the line.
It’s excitingly dangerous, but still, dangerous.
I should be more afraid of heights.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
This time, he doesn’t tell me to stay. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, then closes the gap between us. Instinctively, I push myself further into the wall, flattening my palms against the cold brickwork. He looms over me like an incoming storm, placing one hand next to my shoulder, using the other to grind the butt into the wall, just inches from my ear.
He stays there for a moment. And then another. Trapping me in with the weight of his body and the intensity of his gaze. Time seems to crawl; even the music drifting out of the house sounds slower.
I don’t think I want it to speed up.
“Tell me a sin, Aurora.”
The gravel in his voice grates me in places that it shouldn’t. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and close my eyes. Jesus, is all that heat radiating from his body? It’s October, and yet he’s out here in little more than a suit and feeling like a furnace.
And yet, I realize I’m not cold anymore, either.
“Is this what it’s going to be like now?” I rasp. “Me drip-feeding you sins so you don’t listen to the ones I dialed in?”
He licks his teeth. Slowly nods.
I suck in a lungful of air and drag my gaze up to the starless sky. I’m trying to concentrate on anything that’ll give me respite from the dull ache forming low in my stomach, but the feeling of his hot breath grazing my nose makes it impossible.
“Every time he makes me kiss him like that, I spit in his whiskey.”
My sin lingers in the air, filling the tiny gap between us. As his body stills against mine, I tear my gaze from the sky and land on his. It’s darker than the night and just as cold. Oh no. My heartbeat thrums; perhaps I’ve overstepped the mark. Perhaps I should have gone with something lighter; perhaps—
But then a laugh trickles from the parting of his lips, a cocktail of velvet and nails. Husky and raw. It lights up my nervous system, like I’ve just heard a song that was once my favorite, yet I hadn’t heard it in years.
I laugh too. And I laugh more, harder, leaning into his hard body.
Until something dawns on me like a new day.
I’m utterly, madly, unacceptably obsessed with Angelo Visconti. My fiance’s nephew, near-stranger, and keeper of my darkest secrets.
And suddenly, my sin isn’t so funny anymore.
