twelve, its chimes momentarily interrupting the silence of the suite.
Amelia sits in the armchair opposite me, spine rigid and staring out to the terrace with a blank expression. I know she’s not watching anyone on the other side of the glass except her husband.
“If it was up to me, we’d be on the next flight to Colorado.”
I stop picking at the stitching of the cushion on my lap. “What’s in Colorado?”
“It’s what’s not in Colorado that matters.” Her gaze shifts unwillingly to me. “Aurora, I sleep with a gun under my pillow every night. If Donatello is more than five minutes late to anything, I start to panic.” Her fingers gently brush over her stomach. “All this constant stress—it’s not good for me.”
I stare at her stomach but say nothing. Instead, I twist around and look out onto the terrace. The Cove brothers stand in a tight circle, each with a stern expression on his face. Dante’s talking, his lip curled as he spits venom. Next to him, Donatello is solemn, stroking his chin and occasionally nodding his head in agreement. Tor looks bored, like he’d rather be anywhere than a private suite at the top of the Visconti Grand Hotel with his family.
“Do you know what the worst part about all of this is?” Amelia asks. I turn back round to face her. “It’s that this family has so many enemies, it’ll be near-impossible to tell who did it.”
Yeah, and the last place they’ll look is their own family tree.
I grit my teeth and nod, before going back to picking at the cushion.
I’m tired. My lip hurts and my brain aches from not enough sleep and too much overthinking. Last night, I stood at the window in shock, until a whole host of guards burst into the bedroom and insisted on taking us to the Visconti Grand via an armored van. We’ve been here ever since, holed up in the Viscontis’ version of a safe house—a suite with a hidden entrance and bullet-proof windows—while men in suits scurry about, piecing the puzzle together.
Alberto is in one of the bedrooms, sleeping off his hangover. My eyes keep darting nervously between the guards flanked outside his door and to Tor on the terrace. Perhaps Alberto would have been too drunk to remember the way Angelo spoke to him, but Tor wasn’t. Surely, he’d know that Angelo is the only logical culprit—the mansion security is iron-clad; nobody is getting in or out of the grounds without the guards noticing. It would have to have been an inside job.
Anxiety jitters inside of me, even though I keep telling myself I don’t care. Why should I? Angelo Visconti doesn’t care about me, so I shouldn’t care about him.
The sound of the terrace door sliding open makes me jump. I peek up over the back of the sofa, trying to keep my expression neutral.
Amelia leaps to her feet and comes to a stop beside Donatello. He wraps an arm around her and kisses the top of her head.
“Well?” she snaps. “Did the guards see anything?”
Donatello glances at me. Swallows. “There was only one guard working the gate, and the perpetrator shot him dead on the way out.”
Amelia stills. “And on the way in? Did the security cameras pick up anything on the way in?”
He shakes his head. “Uh, whoever did it ripped out the fuse box attached to the side of the house. It shut down the entire estate’s electricity supply, including the cameras. It also means we can’t recover any footage.”
“Christ,” she mutters, sinking down on the arm of the couch. “That means whoever it was knew the layout of the house.”
“It was Angelo.”
My heart comes to a skidding stop. Dante’s words slice through the suite like a steak knife, and everyone turns to face him. He’s glaring right at me, and I feel my pulse tick, tick, ticking in my throat.
Oh, swan. Here we go.
“Angelo?” Amelia cries. “Why on earth would Angelo do something like this?”
“He was the only other person at the house last night. He and father were being very secretive about a new business deal. I reckon, after I left, negotiations went sour and the old Vicious Visconti came out of the woodwork.” He pops his knuckles, gaze darkening on me. “Once an asshole, always an asshole. No matter how much tax you pay.”
“Shut up, Dante.” Tor turns and pins him with an annoyed glare. “We’ve been over this. It wasn’t Angelo, because we left the house and went into town together.”
The shells of my ears burn. Why is Tor covering for him?
“Any proof of that?”
Tor steps forward, jutting his jaw. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“I’m saying you’d cover for him to stay on his brother’s good side.” His glare morphs into a sneer. “You’re so far up Rafe’s ass you can see his fucking tonsils.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Aurora. She came with us.”
I blink. What?
Everyone’s eyes turn to me, and my face blushes under all the attention.
“Well?” Dante growls. “Did you?”
I’m frozen to the couch, my gaze shifting between Dante’s glower and Tor’s piercing stare. I have no reason to lie for Angelo anymore, but my answer slips through my mouth like a natural instinct.
“Yes.”
“See,” Tor snaps, without missing a beat. “It seems like you want everyone to believe it’s Angelo to stop everyone pointing the finger at you.”
Thick tension stretches out between them. It’s Donatello who punctures it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Last night, father told Dante he’s a shit underboss. Said he’d rather work with Angelo, and of course Dante, being the little bitch that he is, stormed out of the house. Less than an hour later, Father’s Rolls was on fire. You do the math,” Tor spits.
All eyes fall on Dante.
Donatello’s gaze darkens. “Is that true?”
“If you think for a second—”
Dante’s protest is cut short by a small cough by the front door. Everyone turns to look at the guard hovering in the entryway, hands clasped in front of him.
“My apologies for interrupting, but Raphael and Angelo are here.”
My blood turns to ice. What the hell is he doing here? After last night, I thought he’d be on the next flight back to London, or at least have the common sense to lie low for a little while. But he doesn’t. Instead, he strolls into the suite with his brother by his side, indifference carved onto his features.
He comes to a stop behind the sofa, casting a dark shadow over me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my skin crackles with electricity, like it always does when he’s near.
I grit my teeth and stare at the cushion on my lap, trying my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.
“Well, isn’t this the most delightful family gathering,” Rafe drawls, perching on the sofa armrest. “I’m a little offended that I didn’t get an invite.”
“I thought you were back in Vegas?” Tor says.
The diamonds in Rafe’s watch glitter in my peripheral vision as he stretches out his arms. “The wonders of modern air travel, cugino.”
“What are you doing here?” Dante growls. Behind me, I feel Angelo shift, the atmosphere shifting with him.
“Now, now, Dante. You might want to adjust your tone, especially since I know who carried out that little act of vandalism last night.”
My breathing shallows.
Amelia whips around to face Rafe. “You do?”
“Someone called the hotline to confess. I traced the call back to your pool cleaner. I don’t know what Big Al did to offend him, but if I had to sift his pubic hair out of the pool every other day, I’d probably blow up his Rolls too.”
Silence.
“Emilio did this?” Suspicion laces Dante’s voice.
“Apparently so.”
“I want to hear the call.”
“Nice try, cugino. Hell will freeze over before I give you access to Sinners Anonymous.”
My heart is beating wildly, and with every heavy pause in the conversation, I panic that everyone can hear it slamming against my chest.
“Donatello, Tor. I need to speak with both of you outside.”
I glance up just in time to catch Dante’s blistering glare, before the Cove Clan brothers slink back out onto the terrace.
“Amelia, be a doll and make us some coffee.”
Amelia glances up at Rafe uncomfortably, but she rises from the sofa and disappears into the kitchen without another word.
I feel Rafe’s gaze scorch my cheek. When I force myself to look up at him, he pins me with a dazzling smile, one that doesn’t match the dark storm in his eyes.
“You’re proving to be trouble, girl.”
His voice is equal parts calm and sinister and sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a threat, one delivered with a smile, and it makes me realize that underneath the charm and the heart-breaker good looks, Raphael Visconti is terrifying.
“Shut up, Rafe.” Angelo’s hands clamp down on my shoulders. They are warm and strong and immediately, my eyes flutter shut under his touch. Damn it. “Rory, we’re leaving.”
I pop a lid and twist around to look up at Angelo. I wish I hadn’t. The same fire from last night rages in his eyes; a cocktail of turbulent rage. For a moment, my heart flutters at his words. “We are?”
“It’s Saturday. I’m taking you to see your father.”
I blink. Then with a new-found annoyance, I wrestle out of his grip and rise to my feet. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit. “You could have killed me last night.” And you told me what I didn’t want to hear.
“I wanted to kill you last night,” he growls back, without missing a beat. “I want to fucking kill you today, too.” The way his eyes drop to my lips belies the venom of his words. “Get your coat. Don’t make me tell you twice.”
My gaze flicks to Rafe, who’s watching the exchange in amusement.
“I can’t just leave.” I gesture to the terrace, where Dante, Tor, and Donatello are in a heated conversation. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage for one weekend?”
“Then don’t make me do any more. We’re leaving. Now.”
We glare at each other. I’m torn between standing my ground or picking up my coat off the back of the sofa. I wish I could say it’s just because I want to see my father, but I know, deep down, it’s because I’m fearful of what Angelo will do. I can see it in his eyes—he’s crazed, dishing out revenge like it’s candy, and I can’t give Alberto any more reasons to be angry at me.
Jutting out my jaw, I snatch up my coat and spin around, coming face-to-face with Amelia. She hovers in the kitchen doorway, clutching four mugs of coffee in her hands.
“I’m going to see my father,” I say breathlessly, avoiding her suspicious stare. “Please relay that to Alberto when he wakes up.” I ignore Rafe’s smirk and stomp toward the front door, Angelo hot on my heels.
We ride the elevator in blistering silence, and by the time I slide into the passenger seat of his car, I can feel hot, angry tears prickling the backs of my eyelids. They won’t fall because I refuse to let them. I never let them. Angelo doesn’t get to have this hold on me—not if he’s not going to help. Not if he won’t stay and fight for me.
“I stopped you from having to fuck him.” The rage blisters off Angelo like a furnace. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel and he’s driving his Aston Martin like he stole it.
“What does it matter, I’ll have to eventually.”
He slams his fist against the dashboard, making me flinch. “Sure, I guess it doesn’t matter then. Wouldn’t be the first fucking time you whored yourself out, anyway.”
My blood runs cold, and for a moment, my heart forgets to beat. “What?”
“You heard me,” he growls, eyes trained on the road ahead. We cross into Devil’s Dip and he picks up speed, weaving in and out of traffic to the tune of angry car horns. “You think I don’t know you fucked half the guys at Devil’s Coast Academy? I didn’t believe it at first, but now seeing how quickly you went up those stairs last night, I don’t doubt it for a second.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I draw in a shaky breath. “What should I have done instead, Angelo? Left with you?”
“Yes.”
“For what? To bare my ass to you? Treat you to a show of me touching myself?” I thump my head against the window and grit my teeth. “And then what? Go back to Alberto and face an even bigger beating?”
The car skids to a sudden halt, the tires screeching against the slick road. I lurch forward, the seat belt cutting into my neck. When I whip around to ask Angelo what the hell he’s playing at, he’s pinning me with a dangerous glare.
“Say that again.”
The ice in his tone forms a lump in my throat. “What?”
His fists clench on his lap. “An even bigger beating. What does that mean?” His glare is molten, so hot I cower again the door to get away from him. “What does Alberto do to you, Rory?” He speaks slowly, like he doesn’t trust himself to say the words. “Tell me what he does to you.”
My face grows hot. A few tense seconds pass, before I lick my thumb and run it over the tender spot under my eye. The thick layers of concealer feel greasy against my thumb pad. Then, I carefully wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, smearing my bottom lip. The action tugs on my wound, making me wince.
His gaze travels over my features, grazing over my black eye, and then landing on my busted lip. His silence is deafening. Suddenly, he lunges for the door and jumps out, and through the windshield, I watch him with bated breath as he storms down the road and stops. He interlocks his fingers at the back of his head and tilts his face up to the gray sky. By the way his shoulders move up and down I can tell he’s breathing heavy.
Before I can think it through, I get out of the car and head toward him. As I approach, his voice slices through the wind, thick and gravely. “Get back in the car, Rory.”
“Angelo—”
“Get back in the fucking car.”
When I put a hand on his arm, he spins around and grabs my wrist. His eyes are burning with rage, and the intensity of his anger makes me want to spin on my heels and run. If I wasn’t so frightened, I’d be annoyed.
Angelo Visconti doesn’t have the right to be so angry.
His gaze falls to my mouth again, and suddenly, it softens. With his other hand, he runs a gentle thumb over my bottom lip, and I feel it in the bundle of nerve endings between my thighs.
“He did this to you,” he murmurs, more to himself than me. “Why didn’t you tell me, Rory?”
“Would it have made a difference?” I whisper. “Would it have made you stay?”
He clenches his jaw and turns his gaze upward. When it lands back on me, there’s resolve in his eyes. “You’re coming home with me.”
My heart stutters. “Home?”
“To London. You and your father.”
I shake my head, feeling breathless. “I can’t.”
“To wherever you want then. Anywhere but this fucking coast. New York? You seem like the kind of girl that likes New York.”
“We can’t leave the Coast, Angelo.”
A venomous hiss escapes his lips as he slides his hand around the nape of my neck and grips me there. “All right, so you like nature. Christ, Rory. There’s nature everywhere. I’ll buy you land. I’ll buy you a whole fucking island, if you want.”
“You don’t understand I can’t leave the Preserve—”
“What’s so special about Devil’s Preserve?” he growls, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s the fucking eagles.”
I close my eyes, blocking out Angelo’s demanding stare. I suck in a deep breath and open them again. “Come, I’ll show you.”
