dining room eventually mellows, and the fight between Alberto and Dante seems long forgotten.
With a snap of my fiance’s ring-clad fingers, dinner begins.
A lazy version of Ava Maria drifts out of the piano, serving as a backdrop to the easy chatter. Wine and whiskey flow, as much into my glass as anyone elses, but it does nothing to dull the unease brewing under my skin.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
At first, I watch his every move because I’m waiting for the moment he tells Alberto he recognizes me. The girl in the sweatpants balancing with one foot dangerously over the edge of a cliff. Alone. I’m waiting for Alberto to pin me with that blistering glare, jaw grinding, just like he did last Friday when I embarrassed him by pulling down his curtains. This time, the consequences will be a lot more severe than a slap across the face or a sharp tug on my ponytail.
But as the fourth glass of merlot warms the pit of my stomach, the fear gives way to curiosity.
He’s barely said a word. Barely moved. When the appetizer arrived, he slipped off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of his chair, revealing a cream-colored sweater that hugs his body like a second skin. Ever since, he’s sat there with a steel-like spine, fists clenched on either side of his untouched plate, while Alberto and Dante do all the talking.
He hasn’t looked at me once.
Maybe it’s the initial shock wearing off, or maybe it’s the wine working its way around my nervous system, but I start to allow myself to believe that I imagined his dark glare when Alberto introduced him. It was fleeting, I was probably just in his line of sight. What are the chances he recognizes me, anyway? He only looked at me once on the cliff, just as he was turning to leave, and I had my hood up the whole time.
Yes. This is okay. It’s all going to be okay.
“Do I make you nervous?”
It’s no more than a whisper and I almost don’t hear it. I tear my gaze away from the head of the table and look at Max.
“Huh?”
He licks his lips. “You’re jiggling your leg and you haven’t touched your food. Does sitting so close to me make you nervous?”
If I didn’t need him to visit my father twice a week, I’d cut his car brakes.
Instead of biting back, I turn my attention to my left, where Vittoria sits. She’s pushing a crab’s leg from one side of her plate to the other, her silky black hair covering her face.
“Vittoria?”
“I’m becoming a vegetarian,” she announces, giving the limb a disgusted shove. “Crabs scream when they get boiled. Did you know that?”
“Good thing they are pan-fried, then,” Leonardo says dryly from the other side of her, not looking up from his iPhone.
“Jerk,” she mutters under her breath, setting her fork down.
She and Leonardo are twins, and at just sixteen, they hate these dinner parties almost as much as I do.
I lightly touch her arm and lower my voice. “Uh, is that your cousin?”
She tosses a napkin over her butchered crab and glances up moodily. “Angelo? Yeah, haven’t seen him in ages.”
Angelo. At least his name’s not really Vicious. “And he’s part of the Hollow clan? I haven’t seen him before.”
Stepping across the threshold of this mansion was like falling into a scene from The Godfather. I learned the family tree pretty quickly, but I still only have a loose grasp on who owns what. Alberto and his sons are often referred to as the Cove clan, while his brother, Alfredo, runs the Hollow clan, in Devil’s Hollow, just twenty minutes down the road. They have their whiskey company there, as well as other businesses I know little about. But I’ve met Alfredo’s sons a few times, and this new guy certainly isn’t one of them.
“Nah, he’s from Dip.”
I blink. “Dip?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Angelo’s from the Devil’s Dip clan. You know, the town you’re from?”
My blood turns to ice. “There’s no clan in Devil’s Dip,” I almost whisper.
No. There can’t be. There’s no Visconti presence in Devil’s Dip; that’s literally the whole point of this agreement.
“Not anymore, there isn’t. He was meant to take over when Uncle Alonso died, but he never did.”
“Uncle Alonso? Alberto has another brother?”
“Had. Like I told you, he died.”
“So why didn’t Angelo take over?”
She sighs in that loud, bratty way spoiled teenagers do. “Why don’t you just ask him? He’s like, right there.”
“Shh,” I hiss.
I chase down this new information with a slug of wine, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. I glare at the head of the table over the top of the glass. Angelo Visconti. So, the mysterious jerk has a name. My eyes follow him obsessively as he finally moves for the first time since appetizers were served, only to lean back in his chair and rub his hands together in a way that makes his huge biceps flex.
He looks bored.
The servers clear the plates and top off my wine. The conversation flows, but it sounds distorted, like I’m listening to it underwater. The breeze creeps in from the crack in the French doors and gently tickles my neck, taunting me, teasing me with the idea of running away from this murderous dining room and never having to see a Visconti again.
Slowly, my disgust for this family turns toward one member in particular. My eyes scorch the side of Angelo’s cheek.
Suicide is a sin. But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself off the edge, doesn’t it?
My next gulp of wine sours on my tongue. Now that I’ve managed to convince myself he doesn’t recognize me, my fear about him telling Alberto I was alone in Devil’s Dip melts away into something darker: hatred.
He thought I was going to jump, and yet…he did nothing except tell me it’s a long way to fall. He left me there, toeing the edge.
He didn’t even glance back.
If the last two months have taught me anything, it’s that the Viscontis are cruel. But this one? Holy Crow, there’s not a single ounce of humility in that sculpted body.
Maybe that’s why Alberto referred to him as Vicious.
“Aurora? Uh, maybe you should slow down. You’re looking a little tipsy.”
“Shut up, Max.”
My pulse thrums in my ears to an unsettling rhythm. I’ve given up pretending not to stare, and now my eyes are boring into the side of his head. What an A-Hole.
Suddenly, I hear my name.
“What?”
I know that slipped from my lips loud and brash, because everyone has paused their conversations to stare at me.
There’s a scrape of a fork. Someone coughs.
“I was just telling Angelo you’re from Devil’s Dip,” Alberto says carefully, pinning me with a wary glare. A don’t-you-dare-embarrass-me glare. “Angelo grew up there too. I’m sure you two will have much to talk about.”
Angelo checks his watch, then returns his gaze to the wallpaper above Dante’s head.
“Not much to discuss,” he drawls. “That place is a shit hole.”
Tor lets out a loud laugh, and next to him, Dante smirks into his lowball glass.
“Why’d you go back then?”
Silence. It’s hot and heavy and my comeback hangs in the dining room like an ugly painting.
Oh, sparrow. What have I just done?
Not only did I back-talk in front of Alberto, but I just let it slip that I’d seen his nephew in Devil’s Dip. Which implies I’m not being escorted just to see my father and back like I’m supposed to be. My heart quickens, my throat goes dry, and I wish I could gobble up those words as quickly as I let them out. Especially when Alberto pops his knuckles and hisses something in Italian.
It suddenly dawns on me that something is off. I’m the only one looking at Alberto for his reaction. Everyone else? Their collective focus is on Angelo. It’s almost as if they are waiting with bated breath to see what he’s going to do next.
I force myself to look at Angelo too, and realize that now he’s staring right at me. His gaze is heavy and cold. Indifferent. Like he’s looking at a McDonald’s dollar menu rather than the girl who just challenged him.
The next few seconds stretch on for what feels like forever. Then he lifts his whiskey to his lips, takes a lazy sip, and turns to Dante.
“Rafe said you’re renovating the Grand. Sounds expensive.”
And just like that, the tension dissolves into conversation about the Viscontis’ latest business venture. Everyone’s forgotten my tiny act of rebellion, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the consequences of my smart, drunken mouth will rear their ugly head later on.
After the servers clear away dessert, Alberto pats his fat stomach, claps his hands, and announces, “Time to party!”
Great.
Chairs scrape back and everyone filters through the swinging doors and down to the basement. Instead of following suit, I break away and stagger toward the guest bathroom next to Alberto’s study, the one in which Tor’s date has presumably been snorting coke off the gilded sink.
I just need a moment to gather my thoughts. To sober up a little. The wine has gone straight to my head and I can barely keep upright on these stupid stilettos Alberto insists I wear. I just need a moment away from this family. To sit in a quiet room, then I’ll splash my face and—
“Ouch!”
There’s a sudden vise-like grip on my wrist. It spins me around and shoves me against the wall of the corridor. Despite the darkness and the drunken haze clouding my vision, I can smell the cocktail of cigars and liquor on Alberto’s hot breath. I twist my head away, gasping at the weight of his enormous body pinned against mine.
Is this what it’s going to feel like on our wedding night?
“Alberto!”
I’m cut off by his fat hand clamping my jaw. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again,” he hisses, stooping down so his wet lips graze my nose. “If you want to act like a brat, I’ll punish you like a brat.” His grip tightens, threatening to break my jawbone. “I’ll take away your father’s care team and I’ll stop your visits. Understood?” Despite the pain, I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief. He doesn’t realize I saw Angelo in Devil’s Dip; he’s only angry about the back-talk. I jerk my head in his hands, because I barely have any room to nod. “Good,” he purrs, seemingly happy with my sudden obedience. I think he’s going to release me but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes farther into me.
Is that… Holy crow. The bulge now pressing against my thigh suggests he’s more than happy. Bile rises in my throat, and I fight the urge to connect my knee with his erection.
“Or perhaps, I won’t wait until our wedding night to take what’s mine.”
My heart stills. Alberto’s threat is loaded like a gun, and he lets it marinate in the tiny gap between us. His breath scorches my cheek, growing more and more labored in the silence.
“Understood,” I croak.
Never one to miss a party, he pulls himself off me and stomps down the corridor. “Seen and not heard, Aurora,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Learn to keep that pretty little mouth shut.”
I stay there, frozen to the wall, until the sound of heavy footsteps slapping against the marble dissolves into nothingness. I scurry away to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Panting, I lean my weight against the sink and gaze up at my reflection.
Three years of doing bad things. Maybe weekly confession to an anonymous voicemail service isn’t enough? Maybe I have to repent for my sins, too. Maybe having to look in the mirror every day and not recognize the girl staring back at me is my punishment.
Who is this girl? I silently ask the mirror. Because I don’t recognize her with the inch-thick makeup and the poker-straight hair. Despite the fact that I signed my name in blood on the dotted line of Alberto’s contract, I’ll never be Aurora Visconti. I’ll always be Rory Carter from Devil’s Dip. The Rory who wears her hair curly and lives in Lululemon and sneakers. Who can start a fire with a soda can and can identify over three hundred birds by their tweets alone.
I allow myself a sigh. A long, desperate one. It takes everything out of my lungs and swirls around me like a hug. I flop down on the edge of the toilet seat and put my head in my hands. Holy sparrow, my jaw hurts.
When I struck a deal with Alberto Visconti, he promised me everything I begged for in exchange for my hand in marriage and the untouched space between my legs. Being sliced open with his ring and assaulted in dark corners weren’t anywhere in the contract.
I’m in too deep.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I scrub away the wine stains on my lips with a tissue, smooth down my dress, and brace myself for the basement.
Remember why you’re here, Rory.
Remember why you’re here.
