Carter and I do bad things.”
The words have barely left my lips before the wind snatches them up and carries them over the choppy sea. I say them in nothing more than a whisper; hyper-aware of the crowd just a few feet behind me.
All Saints Day. The first Sunday in November, dedicated to celebrating the loved ones that have passed. I already said a little prayer for my mom, and now, I’m among a sea of Viscontis, who’ve traveled far and wide to gather around the joint grave of Angelo’s parents.
It’s going to rain. The clouds are low and charcoal-colored, and there’s a familiar mix of moisture and static in the air. Just as I look up at a crow flying overhead, a fat, wet droplet lands on my cheek.
It’s followed by a heavy hand clamping down on my shoulder, and the way I flinch in response makes my ribs ache again. This morning, Greta gave me a handful of painkillers along with a side of I told you so, but they did little to numb the pain. She was right. She had told me not to wear my hair curly to the engagement party, but I didn’t listen. And apparently, that small act of defiance warranted Alberto pushing me down the stairs once we arrived back at the mansion.
Now, he’s standing beside me, his fingers clawing at my collarbone. “Get over here,” he growls in my ear. The anger in his tone is last night’s leftovers. It sends a shiver of disgust down my spine, and as more ice-cold droplets begin to fall, I close my eyes.
My name is Rory Carter and I might do a very, very bad thing.
But as always, I bite my tongue. Slip on that perfect smile. Alberto slides an umbrella over my head and a fat arm around my waist and guides me back to the crowd of mourners, stopping in front of the grave. It’s beautiful; carved from marble and covered in dozens of fresh red roses.
Behind it, the priest smooths down his robes and glances awkwardly to his side, where a woman I’ve never met is already crying. Sobbing behind her lace veil, choking into a silk handkerchief.
“Dio mio,” Alberto mutters under his breath. “Not again.” Then his hand slips off my waist and he presses the umbrella into my fist. “I’ll try to shut her up,” he grunts, ducking out into the rain and transforming into a gentleman. He pulls her into his arms and rubs her back.
Always has to be the center of attention.
Warmth kisses my knuckles as somebody slips the umbrella handle out of my fingers and into their own. My eyes land on the hand that now holds the umbrella over the both of us, and immediately, my heart stills.
It always does in Angelo’s presence.
“She pulled the same stunt at the funeral.”
Without looking up, I clench my fists against my chest. “Who is she?”
“No idea. My aunt’s cousin’s step-mom twice-removed, probably.”
Despite the pain in my chest and the butterflies in my stomach, I bite back a laugh.
His gaze heats my cheek. “It’s a rainy day in November. What’s with the sunglasses?”
Heart thumping, I push them up my nose and keep looking down at the muddy grass under my stilettos. Before Alberto shoved me down the stairs, he attempted to swing for my face, but being so drunk, he missed, and only the faceted surface of his ring managed to scrape my cheek.
It’s a small mark, but it’s the kind of mark that people ask about, even with an inch-thick layer of foundation on.
I’m trying my hardest not to look at Angelo, because doing so is always a dangerous game. He has a magnetic pull I can only resist for so long. I peer up over the rim of my shades and allow myself to drink him in. Goose, his strong profile will never cease to punch me in the gut. He’s standing tall under the black fabric of the umbrella, donning a crisp black blazer not unlike the one he slipped over my shoulders last night, and a soft turtleneck of the same color poking out from underneath. His jaw is tense, his cheekbone casting a shadow above it, and he’s staring straight ahead.
Although, I can’t tell what he’s staring at.
“You’re wearing sunglasses too,” I snap back, jerking my chin up to his mirrored Aviators. “What’s your excuse?”
“How else am I meant to check out your ass without getting caught?”
His retort comes quick and unexpected, and after the agreement we made last night, it gives me whiplash. Instinctively, my eyes shoot up and graze over the crowd from beneath the umbrella spikes, making sure nobody heard that.
But there’s an old lady under an umbrella of her own to my right, and next to Angelo, Vittoria and Leonardo tap away on their phones, bored.
“Christ, Angelo,” I mutter, pressing my lips together over my teeth to stop myself from smiling anyways. “What happened to the line in the sand?”
“Ask me for a sin.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“I—What?”
“A sin, Aurora. I know you’re familiar with the term.”
A cold cocktail of confusion pools in my stomach, peppered with a dash of annoyance. His tone is hard and the way he calls me by my formal name is even harder. I grit my teeth, staring at the priest’s moving mouth, despite not being able to hear a word that comes out of it.
“Okay, tell me a sin, Angelo.”
“I killed my father.”
My blood turns to ice. I blink. Shake my head. But nothing thaws me from the shock.
“I thought he died from a bleed on the brain?”
“He did. I shot him in the head and then his brain bled.”
“But why?” I hiss, emotion clawing at my throat.
“He was the one that ordered the hit on my mama. I found out a few days later that he had a whore from Devil’s Dip on the sideline, and wanted our mom out of the picture.” I steal a glance up at him, and the way he’s so nonchalant sends a shiver down my spine. He tilts his head down to me, his expression impossible to reach from behind his glasses. “I killed her too. That’s not my worst sin, though.”
“It’s not?” I choke out.
“No. Not telling my brothers is. They have no idea.”
Air leaves my lungs in a puff of condensation. The rain brought a cold snap with it, and the icy chill coasts down the neck of my dress, taunting me. As if it’s telling me that, although the cliff face is being battered by wind and rain, it’s safer out there than it is under the umbrella with Angelo.
My gaze burns into the mud. “Why are you telling me this?”
Angelo pulls the umbrella down tighter around us, trapping me in his world of darkness and deceit. He leans closer, his hot breath grazing my cheek steals mine.
“Because you should know what type of family you’re marrying into. Viscontis don’t keep their promises, and the Cove Clan in particular?” He lets out a bitter scoff. “After they shake your hand you have to check your watch is still on your wrist.” My pulse flutters even though it shouldn’t. And when his soft lips brush against my cold cheek, everything I thought I knew about right and wrong evaporates from my brain. “You’re disposable to Alberto,” he growls, his tone even darker than before. “He’ll fuck you and then do what he wants anyway. They are made men, Aurora. Cheats and liars.”
“And you? You’re a cheat and a liar, too?” I turn to face him so quickly, that my bottom lip swipes against his, sending a jolt of electricity to my lower stomach. I’d forgotten he was so close. I jerk back, like I’ve been shocked.
Angelo stills. I stare at the distorted version of myself in the reflection of his sunglasses, wishing I could see his eyes.
He swallows. “Like father like son, Aurora. I’ve cheated on every girlfriend I’ve ever had, lied to everyone I’ve ever known.” Then he uncoils to his full height and turns back to the priest. Anger rolls off him in waves. “You were right to want to draw a line in the sand. Because I’m no better than them.”
I feel nauseous. Like I’ve been punched in the back of the head and concussion is setting in. My eyes throb, and even when I close my eyes, it does nothing to relieve the pain.
My stomach is sinking like an anchor, dragging my heart down with it. But this is good. It’s great, right? If Angelo’s just like the rest of them, then he’s easier to hate. But I can’t ignore the unease creeping under my skin, the hollowness in my chest.
Because I know the old adage: from the deepest desire comes the deadliest hate.
If Angelo stays on the Coast much longer, I’ll hate him most of all.
