walls could talk, I bet they’d beg Alberto Visconti to shut up.
Just like every Friday night, he sits next to me at the head of the table, one hand curled around his whiskey glass the other weighing down my thigh like an anchor.
I once overheard a pool boy refer to him as Anecdote Alberto. As the head of the Devil’s Cove Cosa Nostra, I’ve heard him called a lot of things—capo, boss, Big Al—but Anecdote Alberto definitely seems to be the most fitting. It didn’t take me long to learn how to drown out his stories, but still, the baritone of his voice vibrates against my eardrums.
A server casts a shadow over my place setting. “The Merlot, signorina?”
“She’ll have just the one tonight,” Alberto growls, cutting his story short. “I won’t have a repeat of last week.”
Silence. The type that stretches over hills and canyons, not just across the long dining table. I can feel Tor’s amused grin heating one of my cheeks and Dante’s blistering glare scorching the other.
At last Friday’s dinner, I figured out that if my wine ever dipped below the curve of the glass, a server would top it up in under thirty seconds. The conversation was so darn boring that I tested this theory a few too many times, and after dessert, I stood up, buckled on my stilettos, and pulled down the velvet curtain I’d grabbed onto to stop myself from falling. As if the copper curtain rail bouncing off my head wasn’t punishment enough, Alberto is limiting my alcohol intake like I’m a child.
Squirming under the attention, I force a smile and nod to the server, like I totally agree with my fiance’s decision. When he’s gone, I stifle a sigh. The first—and last—time I sighed in front of Alberto, he yanked on my ponytail so hard my eyes watered.
I learned quickly it’s better to vent my frustrations silently, usually by balling my fists until my fingernails carve half-moons into my palms.
Oh, and spitting in his mouthwash.
Alberto continues to regale us with the story about the time he challenged Al Capone’s son to a sword fight, and I turn to gaze down the length of the table, deliberately avoiding eye contact with everyone sitting around it.
Tonight, it’s just immediate family, but the table is decorated like there’s a chance the Queen of England might swing by for an appetizer. Silky black table cloth, more silverware than I know the use for, and ornate flower displays that sit nail-bitingly close to dancing candle flames. In front of the French doors leading out to the beach, a pianist sits quietly behind the grand piano, waiting for Alberto to click his fingers, which signals the start of dinner service.
How the hell did I end up here?
Two-and-a-half months ago, I sank to my knees on the doorstep of Alberto’s white colonial mansion and begged for mercy. Now, I’m living a life I don’t recognize; playing a side character in a story I don’t understand.
Everyone on the Devil’s Coast knows the Visconti family because they own almost everything on it. Every bar, hotel, restaurant, and casino in Devil’s Cove. The Smugglers Club whiskey factory in Devil’s Hollow. The one corner of this coast their reach hasn’t touched is my humble hometown of Devil’s Dip.
And if Alberto keeps his side of the deal, it never will.
Taking a sip of water, I glance up and lock eyes with Dante Visconti. He’s Alberto’s oldest son, his underboss, and the coast’s bigger jerk. He’s tall, dark, and as much as I hate to admit it, very handsome. Everything about him is chiseled, including that scowl permanently carved into his forehead. His gaze darkens, and I know exactly what he’s about to say, because he says it aloud at every Friday night dinner without fail.
“The head of the table is for the underboss and the consigliere,” he growls quietly, ignoring Alberto’s monologue. He squeezes the napkin next to his plate. “Not my father’s plaything.”
And there it is.
“Aw, come off it, bro,” His brother Tor drawls beside him, shooting me a wink. “Aurora’s not a teenager, she’s twenty-one. Old enough to drink, just not old enough to handle it.”
On cue, my Merlot arrives in a glass barely bigger than a thimble. Embarrassment creeps across my chest, and instinctively, my eyes drop to the steak knife laid out neatly in front of me.
Tempting.
But instead of using the Viscontis’ silverware as a weapon, I do what I’ve become accustomed to: plastering on a fake smile and biting down my bitterness.
“Big Al keeping you on a tight leash tonight, hmm?” Tor says, lips twitching. Without waiting for an answer, he yanks a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, pulls one out, and tucks it into the crook of his mouth. Slapping the thigh of the blond next to him, he grunts, “Come on doll, let’s go for a smoke.”
He saunters across the dining room and throws open the French doors, letting in an icy chill that rattles the window panes and raises goosebumps along my arms. His date trots after him like a lost puppy.
I knew of Tor Visconti long before his father put a rock on my finger. Every girl on the Devil’s Coast knows Tor, some more intimately than others. Plump lips, tousled hair, and a smile that could melt the Arctic. And then there’s that stupid nose stud that glints every time he tips his head back to sneer at me. He’d look almost feminine if it weren’t for all the ink and the fact that his shoulders are the width of a football field.
I take a sip of wine and watch him through the window. I recognize his date as a fellow Devil’s Dip girl. She’s putting on a polished accent and clinging onto her designer purse like it’s a lifeline, but I can see right through her act. I watch as she coils her long blond hair around her finger, giggling at whatever he’s saying.
I get it. From the way he smokes his cigarette to the way he wears his suit—unbuttoned collar and a loosened tie—there’s an air of rebellion about him that makes girls want to drop their panties. Of course, it helps that he runs the nightlife in Devil’s Cove, so even in the unlikely event you don’t want to be in his bed, you at least want to be in his clubs. Plus, I see the way he looks at his dates. Gazing at them from underneath those dark, thick lashes as he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. It’s like a silent promise that he’ll give them the world. But that’s all these girls ever are: dates. I’ve never seen him bring the same girl to dinner twice.
“May I get you anything, Signor Visconti?” a server mutters to Alberto, taking advantage of a break in his newest anecdote.
“Smugglers Club. On the rock.”
Yes, rock. As in, one ice cube. In the short time I’ve personally known the Viscontis, I’ve learned two things about them.
The first, is that they aren’t just a powerful family, they are in fact, the mafia. Cold-hearted, hot-blooded Sicilian-Americans who live and die by the Glocks tucked into the waistbands of their Armani suits.
The second, is that whatever they want, they get. Including one ice cube in their lowball glass.
“They’ll be calling you Signora soon.”
I turn to Amelia, who’s sitting to my left. “I’m sorry?”
Her broad smile softens her sharp features. “Signora. See, Signorina is the title of an unmarried woman, like “Miss” in English. In just a month, you’ll be married, and then you’ll become Signora.” She tucks a silky brown strand behind her ear and grins. “Signora Aurora Visconti. It’s got quite the ring to it, don’t you think?”
The name curdles like milk in my stomach, and if anyone else around this darn table had uttered it, I’d have known they were just trying to get a rise out of me.
But Amelia Visconti: she’s different. She’s softly spoken and kind and now that I come to think of it, really damn delusional. She’s sitting around this table by choice—she married Donatello Visconti, Alberto’s second son and consigliere. He sits on the other side of her, sifting through paperwork, and, unlike Dante, he couldn’t care less that I took his seat at the table.
Donatello is clean in every sense of the world. Sharp suit, short, black hair, and he’s probably the only blood-related Visconti that doesn’t have a one-way ticket to hell. He and Amelia met at the Devil’s Coast Academy when they were tweens, got married the moment they turned eighteen, and have apparently been glued to each other’s side for the ten years since. I get the feeling he doesn’t really care for the sleeping-with-the-fishes persona Alberto and Dante put out. He has a business degree from Harvard and Amelia is an accountant by trade. Together, they run the legitimate businesses in Devil’s Cove. After one too many whiskeys, Alberto once told me he lets Amelia get away with having his son’s balls in a vice because she makes the family a bucket-load of money.
I believe it. The Lonely Planet Guide calls the Visconti Grand Hotel “the Burj Al Arab Of the Pacific Northwest,” and there are more Michelin Star restaurants in Devil’s Cove per square mile than there are anywhere else in the world.
“Not long to go until the Big Day,” Amelia whispers excitedly, nudging me with her elbow.
Unease sinks into the pit of my stomach like a lead balloon.
Amelia may have married a Visconti for love, but I’m sure that’s a hell of a lot easier when your husband looks like an Italian Ryan Reynolds. It only takes one look at my fiance to realize that I’m not doing the same.
Alberto Visconti. Sure, he would have been handsome in his hey-day, and if your imagination can’t stretch past the leathery skin, shock of white hair, and the enormous gut, then all you have to do is glance at his sons to get an idea of what he would have looked like. I’m sure his first wife married him for love—hell, maybe even his second and third wives, too. But pushing seventy, having unrelenting wealth, and living a life with a target on his back have ruined him.
Oh, and the fact that he’s the cruelest man on the Coast.
I settle my eyes on the quilted wallpaper above Dante’s head, another sigh brewing quietly under my rib cage.
My life wasn’t meant to be like this. The night before my eighteenth birthday, I sat on the dock at the end of our cabin and created a mood board for my five-year-plan, using clippings from my mom’s old magazines. I cut out a graduation cap and gown, and next to it stuck a photocopy of my acceptance letter to the Northwestern Aviation Academy. That girl…she was full of hope and had a pure heart. She didn’t have bad thoughts and do bad things. She didn’t have to call the Sinners Anonymous hotline every week.
What would she think if she saw me now? Dining with monsters.
A monster herself.
I guess I can’t even blame Alberto for my sins; I turned nasty years before I met him.
I take a slug of wine and glance back out the French doors, following Tor’s date’s tinkling laugh. The breeze is still snaking through the gap in the doors, bringing in the smell of cigarette smoke with it. Suddenly, I’m back on the edge of the cliff overlooking Devil’s Dip. My body at the mercy of the wind, my right sneaker hovering over nothing but air.
You hoping to fall, or fly?
“Oh, sparrow!” A sharp pain slices across my thigh. I look down and see Alberto has turned his hand over and dragged the faceted gem of his ring across my skin. “What the—”
“Aurora, Dante asked you a question,” Alberto says through gritted teeth. His eyes flash like warning signs. “It’s rude to ignore somebody when they are talking to you.”
I blink, dropping my gaze back to my thigh. Blood seeps to the surface and trickles into a small rivulet toward the hemline of my dress.
This time, I do more than look at the steak knife. My fingers twitch toward it.
No. Not like this. Remember why you’re here, Rory.
Forcing the anger deep down in my chest, I grab a napkin, dab it on my fresh wound, then turn my attention to Dante. His amusement is smeared all over his face and my goose, how I hate the way his lip curls into a sneer every time he’s forced to look at me.
He throws his arm over the back of Tor’s empty chair and cocks a brow.
“We’re building a spa retreat on the north headland.”
“Uninterrupted views of the sea and nothing else around for miles. The Russian tourists love that shit, especially in winter,” Alberto adds, before draining his glass and snapping his fingers for another.
Dante ignores him. “It’s a mess up there. Thick forest that’ll take months to clear before we can even think about laying down the foundations.” He takes a long sip of whiskey, eyes glittering at me over the rim. “But the main issue is these birds. They squawk at all hours, which doesn’t fit in with the peaceful vibe we’re going for. Hopefully, once we obliterate their habitat and their nests, they’ll fuck off on their own accord, but if they don’t…”
He trails off, letting his insinuation dangle over the table setting. “Then we’ll need a more…certain way to get rid of them. Smoke them out or put poison on the forest floor, maybe. Since you’re so passionate about wildlife, Aurora, I thought perhaps you might have some other suggestions?”
White heat burns through my veins, despite the chill coming in.
I suck in a lungful of air through my nostrils. Dab my bloodied thigh again.
“What bird is it?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.
He thrusts his cell under my nose. “I don’t know. One of my men sent me a photo of it. Perhaps you’ll recognize it.”
I squint at the grainy picture on his phone and feel the blood rush out of my face.
“Dante,” I croak. “That’s a fruit dove.”
“Sounds exotic.”
“Exotic? They are near extinction! A protected species—you can’t cut down the forest up there! In fact, you’ll need to call the Fish and Wildlife Service immediately.”
He leans back in his chair, a triumphant grin curling his lips. He’s gotten exactly what he wanted out of me—a reaction. But I don’t care; my mind is racing, trying to figure out how there could possibly be fruit doves in Devil’s Cove. The particular breed in the photo is native to South Australia and Polynesia, regions with humid climates. But then, I also know they can be found in secondary forests—woodland that has regrown after a timber harvest. I know the area he’s talking about, and I remember my father telling me it used to be a log farm, long before the Viscontis moved into the Cove and turned it into the Pacific Northwest’s answer to Vegas. That, plus the mangroves in the caves closer to Devil’s Hollow—
“Nah.”
I look up. “Huh?”
Dante throws me a bored expression. “No, I won’t be contacting Fish and Wildlife. They are a bunch of tree-hugging hippies just like you—”
“You can’t be serious?”
“You’ve interfered with our building plans enough, don’t you think? If it was up to you, the whole of the Devil’s Coast would be a goddamn swamp.”
Before I can bite back, there’s a loud crash from the patio. Dante leaps to his feet, hand brushing over the gun tucked in his waistband. Amelia shrieks and grabs her husband’s arm. At the far end of the table, Vittoria lets out a loud sigh, then turns back to her cell.
The French doors fly open and Tor saunters through them, his date’s arm slung over his shoulders. She’s giggling, wobbling on her heels, her eyes half-lidded.
Alberto mutters something under his breath in Italian.
“Apologies all round,” Tor says through a chuckle. “Skyler fell over. She says her heel got caught in the patio slats,” he says as he brushes his lips over her hair, “but I say she’s had one too many dirty martinis.”
With a giggle, Skyler wobbles off in the direction of a bathroom, and Tor sinks back down in his seat.
“Skyler,” Dante mutters darkly into the bottom of his glass. “Gesù Cristo. That’s a stripper name if I’ve ever heard one.” He glances to the swing doors. “She’s been to the bathroom three times and we haven’t even had our appetizers yet.”
“She’s probably nervous about being on a date with such a hearthrob,” Tor shoots back, throwing me a wink. The one thing that makes Tor slightly less insufferable than Dante is that at least he includes me in his jokes, even when I’m not the brunt of them.
“More like she’s trying to see how much powder she can get up her nose before the crab cakes are served. I hope she knows you cut your coke with horse tranquilizer, because I’m not removing her body from the guest bathroom.”
Tor’s fist thumps the table, anger flashing across his face. “Fuck you. My blow is cleaner than a nun’s browser history.”
“Basta,” Alberto hisses. His voice is low and quiet but it slices through the dining room like a hot knife in butter. His hand finds its way back to my thigh, and the heat of his palm makes my fresh wound burn. “I have had enough. This family can’t get through one goddamn dinner without arguing. If your mother was still here—”
“If our mother was still here, there wouldn’t be a capo chaser sitting opposite me.”
Silence.
Tor lets out a low whistle. Amelia’s fingers gently brush my forearm, and Alberto groans.
I should sip my wine and smooth down my hair and let the comment go over my head. But being that girl doesn’t come easy to me.
“A capo chaser?” My eyes dart to the steak knife, then up to Dante’s scowl. “What does that mean?”
Donatello drops his files onto the table with a heavy thud. “Dante, don’t—”
“It means you’re marrying my father because it’s the only hope you have of getting out of your peasant town. There’s loads of girls like you in Devil’s Dip,” he spits, jerking his thumb in the direction of the lobby. “I bet Tor’s whore is from the same slum as you.” Leaning his elbows on the table, he closes the gap between us. The way his eyes dance with pure hatred both terrifies me and excites me at the same time. “You’re all the goddamn same. Tits bigger than your IQ and a smile just as fake. You know what I find funny? You’ve never broken a law in your life, but you’re happy to look the other way and spread your legs, as long as your Amex doesn’t have a limit, right?”
“Dante,” Alberto snarls. “If you say another word, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Dante says sourly, eyes never leaving mine. “Find somebody else to do your job for you?”
Alberto leaps to his feet and Dante follows suit, squaring up to him.
Jesus. I’m still coming to grips with this whole mafia hierarchy thing, but even I know it breaks every Cosa Nostra code to go up against the clan’s capo. Even if you’re the underboss who pretty much runs the entire business, and even if the capo is your drunk, womanizing father.
The air swirls hot and heavy with unspoken gripes and inflated egos. This is bigger than me. Balling my fists, I dig my nails into my palms and mentally scream a bird-word. I’m too sober for this, and what’s worse, dinner hasn’t even started yet.
It’s going to be a long night.
Eventually, Donatello breaks the tension. “All right, all right,” he sighs, scraping back his chair and rounding the table to wedge himself between them. “Let’s all calm down and talk about this tomorrow.” He pries his father’s whiskey glass from his hand and sets it on the table. “We’ve all had too much to drink and said things we didn’t mean.”
The three of them lower their voices and start muttering in harsh Italian among themselves. Tor catches my eye and smirks, then slinks outside for another smoke.
There’s a nudge against my leg. “Aurora? Are you okay?”
I turn to meet Amelia’s kind gaze and realize I’m not.
This is not me.
I’m not the dumb, gold-digging blond everyone in this family thinks I am, and I’m sick of playing that part. I’m sick of these stupid high heels and short dresses that Alberto forces me to wear. I’m sick of the sneers and eye rolls and the insults from people who wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire. The escorts and itineraries and the sleepless nights staring at the gilded ceiling of Alberto’s bedroom, wondering if his fat belly will suffocate me when he finally clambers on top of me on our wedding night.
I hate the Viscontis.
And I hate that I have no choice but to suck it up and smile.
“Aurora?”
And I’m sick of being called Aurora. My name is Rory.
“Let’s put this down, shall we?” Amelia slips her hand over mine and gently pries the steak knife from my grip. She flashes me a pitying smile and says, “Don’t listen to Dante. He and his father have their own issues going on and he’s just dragging you into the mud.”
Before I can gather enough semblance to reply with a forced smile and a polite dismissal, the swinging doors crash open and a security guard with an earpiece crashes through them. He makes a beeline for Alberto and whispers something in his ear. Immediately, Alberto, Donatello, and Dante rip their guns from their waistbands and storm through the doors without another word.
“Oh, fuck,” comes a hiss from the patio. I turn to see Tor flick his half-smoked cigarette into the darkness and cross the dining room, also disappearing into the lobby with a gun in his hand.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. “What’s going on?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Amelia whispers.
A few heavy beats pass, before a gruff voice and a burst of laughter slice through the tension. Beside me, I feel Amelia relax, slumping in her chair and taking a slug of her wine. The collective noise is light and cheery, and it travels back into the dining room, bringing the Visconti men with it.
“Look who’s come for dinner!” Alberto roars, face pink with delight.
Before I can turn to see who it is, a gentle hand rests on my shoulder and I look up to meet the gaze of a server. “Signorina, Signor Visconti has requested to move you to the other end of the table to make room for his guest.”
I glance down to the far end of the table, where Vittoria and Leonardo, Alberto’s teenage twins, are glaring moodily at their phones. There’s an empty setting to the right of Vittoria, and next to it sits Max. He catches my eye and grins.
Great. I scowl back at him, but then I shrug. Whatever. I’m more than happy to get away from Dante’s laser-like glare and out of the reach of Alberto’s ruby ring.
More servers swarm me, plucking at my silverware and replacing it with a fresh setting with the speed of a Formula One pit stop team. When I settle in next to Max, he nudges my shoulder and grins. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. Now, I don’t have to just admire you from afar.” His eyes glitter, running over my red dress and coming to a stop at my chest. His throat bobs. “You look lovely tonight, by the way.”
I’m grateful that the server tending to this end of the table didn’t get the memo about my alcohol ban. He fills up my glass with red wine and I take a desperate gulp before turning back to Max. “You know I’m engaged to your boss, right?”
“You know me,” he purrs, pressing his knee against mine under the table. “I like living life on the edge.” But the way his eyes dart feverishly to the head of the table suggests otherwise.
Max isn’t a Visconti, but he sure wishes he were. He’s what they call an associate—he doesn’t have a drop of Italian blood in his veins but works for the mafia nonetheless. He’s just a lackey of sorts, doing whatever odd jobs the “made men” don’t want to dirty their hands with, including escorting the capo’s fiance to Devil’s Dip twice a week.
Max makes my blood boil. He has leering eyes and groping hands and he reminds me of the boys that made me like this. He went to the same school as them, too—the prestigious Devil’s Coast Academy—so I know he’s heard the rumors.
He’s only a year older than me, with big brown eyes and floppy hair that he huffs out of his face when he gets nervous. The only reason I haven’t done a bad thing to him yet is because we have a deal. I tolerate his lewd comments and lingering stares in exchange for two hours of alone time once we get to Devil’s Dip. We both know he’d get into serious trouble if Alberto found out he wasn’t trailing me at all times, so it’s our little secret.
Clink, clink, clink.
The sound of silverware bouncing off the side of a crystal glass. Of course the noise comes from Alberto—the only thing he loves more than young women and anecdotes is a long, boring speech. I look up at him as he clears his throat, and then immediately, my eyes are drawn to the man who took my place at the table.
A weird sensation creeps over my body, one my brain is racing to make sense of. It starts at the base of my spine and works its way up to my neck, before settling around my throat like a chokehold. I force myself to swallow and focus on the man’s profile. That sharp cheekbone, the stubble lining his jaw…
And then, as if he can feel my stare boring into the side of his face, he turns and locks eyes with me.
Oh, flamingo.
It’s him. The man from the cliff’s edge. The one with the cigarette and the wingtips and the indifferent tone.
Suicide is a sin.
He pins me with a disinterested stare, and then his gaze darkens.
I look away, fussing over the napkin on my lap with shaky hands. My heart is thumping like it’s trying to escape its cage, and I can feel the sweat pooling under my thighs, causing me to sink further into the chair. By the time I find the courage to look back up, he’s turned his attention to Dante. Still and silent, he listens to him talk with a neutral expression on his perfect features.
Alberto clears his throat, clinking on the glass with more force. The room finally settles.
“Attention, everybody,” he booms. With a shark-like grin, he turns to the dinner guest and raises his glass. “We have an unexpected but very welcome visitor. So, cheers to my favorite nephew, Vicious Visconti!”
Nephew. Vicious.
I’m drowning in the cheering that floods the room.
I bring the wineglass to my lips and sink every last drop of blood-red liquid, then hold it out for a top-up.
I have an uneasy feeling I’m going to need it.
