low in the sky, scorching through the bedroom window and burning my retinas through my eyelids. It wakes me up. I throw the duvet over my head and stretch out all my limbs.
It’s amazing how soundly I slept with a loaded gun under my pillow. Or, perhaps my good night’s sleep was because it was the first time in months that I haven’t had Alberto’s fat, sweaty body pinning me in.
When I arrived back at the mansion last night, Angelo’s gun buried under the candy wrappers in my purse, Alberto was waiting for me in the hallway. Every muscle in my back tensed, but to my surprise, he wasn’t angry. He was sheepish. The great mafia don, flushed with embarrassment, twisting his hands.
“You’re a temptress, Aurora,” he said. “It’d be best if you slept in the guest wing until the wedding day to help me avoid temptation, especially with all the shit I’m dealing with right now.”
By “shit,” he meant his poor Rolls Royce having its windows blown out. I’d bit my broken lip to suppress my relief. Thank god, because I didn’t know if I’d be able to go another night staring at his gilded ceiling without putting a bullet in his head.
The chimes of the grandfather clock float under the doorway, and when I count eleven of them, I shoot upright in surprise. I’ve slept until eleven a.m.? Christ, I can’t remember the last time I slept in, and it definitely wasn’t in this house.
I jump up and head straight for the shower, a nervous energy bubbling in my gut. I have less than an hour until Sunday lunch; less than an hour until I get to see Angelo. I can’t wait to hear what plan he came up with to get me out of here. It feels like the end is so close, I can taste it.
Late last night, I picked up a bunch of clothes from my dressing room so I didn’t have to get changed in there with Greta today. I haven’t seen her since she walked in on Alberto pinning me to the ground and did nothing except find me a shade of lipstick to match the damage he’d done.
I don’t know what my revenge will be yet, but I do know that it won’t be petty.
I let my hair dry naturally and pick up a velvet, green shift dress slung over the back of an armchair. Winter is coming, and I feel like it goes well with the frost on the windows and the fog hovering low over the grounds.
As I descend the stairs, I hear my name being called from the family room. Ice threads through my veins when I realize it’s Amelia. There’s no way she didn’t hear mine and Angelo’s argument from the kitchen of the suite yesterday. She’s nice, but she’s still a Visconti. I can’t trust her to keep her mouth shut.
Heartbeat jumping, I poke my head around the door. I’m too surprised to force a fake smile, because she’s sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, a mountain of catalogs and mood boards fanned around her. The moment she looks up and greets me with a dazzling smile, I know I’m in the clear.
“Hi! Come in, I want to show you something.”
I stroll over and sink to my knees beside her. She double-taps one of the mood boards with her long red fingernail. “What do you think?”
“It depends, what am I looking at?”
Her laugh tinkles. “This is what we’re thinking for Le Salon Prive on Saturday.”
My blank stare is met by a fleeting scowl. “The wedding reception, Aurora. It’ll be at our French restaurant on the beach, remember? It’s a beautiful space but I’ve been working with the wedding planner to make it just right.” Her eyes dart to me. “You know, since you seem to miss every appointment we have with her.” She points to the top corner. “White lilies and sweet peas for a pop of color?” Before I can answer, she lunges over and picks up another board. Rows of models with beautiful, flowing hair beam up at me. “Oh, and I’ve collected some hair and make-up ideas for us to think about. I love the gold eyeshadow, don’t you? And what about the flower crown?”
The heat of the fire brushes up against my back. Amelia stares at me, wide-eyed and happy. But there’s a flicker of desperation in her eyes, and suddenly, I realize I was wrong about her. She’s not the innocent outsider that believes I’m marrying Alberto for true love. No, she’s willfully ignorant. She knows exactly what’s going on, and yet, she’d rather sit still and let me drown than get up and rock the boat.
My makeup isn’t even that thick today; the ghost of my black eye is visible, and there’s no way she can’t see the wound on my naked lip. But she hasn’t asked about the cuts and bruises, because she already knows how I got them.
She’s no better than Greta.
She cocks her head. Raises a brow. My fingers twitch with the desire to do bad things. But instead, I choke down my bitterness and rise to my feet.
“Aurora?”
“Another time.”
Without looking back, I stride out of the living room. I don’t care. I don’t care whether I’ve offended her, or whether she’ll relay my lack of enthusiasm to Alberto.
I don’t care and it’s freeing.
I won’t be here for much longer, anyway.
I breeze into the dining room feeling lighter. Today, the room is as winter-inspired as my dress. Frosted champagne flutes, sparkling silverware, and a runner with an embossed glitter trim grace the long table. The mood is surprisingly jovial; laughter carries through the room to a backdrop of plucky piano music, and servers weave between full seats to top off glasses. It’s a stark contrast to the sinister hollowness of Friday night.
Immediately, I scan the dining room for Angelo, but he’s not here yet. Well, that’s fine, because neither is Tor or Amelia—she’s too busy planning my non-existent wedding in the family room. Alberto’s in his usual spot at the head of the table, holding a glass of whiskey and boring Donatello with an anecdote. Everyone seems to have forgotten about the explosion. I try to become one with the wallpaper and creep around to the far end of the dining room without Alberto spotting me, but I can’t escape Dante’s glare. It scorches the side of my cheek, following me like a laser as I take a seat next to Vittoria.
She looks up at me lazily. “What happened to your lip?”
“Your father beat the ever-living crap out of me. Thanks for noticing.”
It slips off my tongue with ease. The truth tastes good. Her eyebrows shoot up and I raise a champagne flute to toast to her, before sinking it back in one. As the bubbles hit the back of my throat, I feel a familiar rush of adrenaline coast down my spine.
“Jesus, my father is the worst,” she mutters to herself, before plucking out her cell and tapping out a text at breakneck speed. She’s right, he is the worst, even to her. Being a side character in the Visconti family saga means I’m often left in dark corners of rooms, forgotten about. I’ve overheard several conversations that don’t concern me, including that Alberto has struck a deal with his daughter, too. She was allowed to forgo attending the Devil’s Dip Academy in favor of a public school, but only on the condition she…entertains potential future suitors of his choice. As his only daughter, it’s important that she marries well, and he’s starting the search young.
I sink a second glass of champagne. The buzz in my blood is pleasant, and it takes the sharp edge off the memories I have in this dining hall. It’d almost be a shame, almost, to never see the inside of it again.
Tor breezes in, a face like thunder, and for once, no giggling girl on his arm. Amelia follows in not long after, throwing me a wary glare before slipping into the seat next to her husband, who’s grateful for the interruption. But I’m not looking at Amelia or Tor or even my obnoxious fiance at the top of the table. I’m looking at the empty seat right next to him.
My ears begin to burn, but I swallow the freshly formed panic. Calm down, Rory. He’s coming. Of course he’s coming. It’s still early and—
Ding, ding, ding. Silver against crystal makes the pianist stop playing. My gaze shifts to Alberto, who’s now on his feet, a champagne flute in one hand, a steak knife in the other. “What a wonderful turn out!” He booms, a plastic smile stretching his withered lips. “It brings me great joy when I can get most of the family in the room together. Now, let’s eat!”
The pianist strikes a few cheery chords. I glance back toward Angelo’s seat, as if, by some miracle, I’ve managed to miss his imposing frame the first time I looked.
“Wait.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. Halfway between sitting and standing, Alberto’s eyes dart up to me. I swallow. “Uh, shouldn’t we wait until all the guests are here?”
Silence. The kind that’s so thick you can taste it. Someone coughs. Next to me, Vittoria sighs.
“He’s not coming.”
I look left. Tor. He’s glaring at the wallpaper above Amelia’s head. His nose stud glints as he tilts his chin up to drain the last of his whiskey.
My heart fissures but my face doesn’t show it. “Who’s not coming?” I say, as nonchalantly as the ache under my ribs will allow me to.
His gaze shifts to me. “Angelo. He’s left town.”
My ears ring. The fissures turn into fractures, threatening to crack my heart into pieces. I drop my gaze back to the empty plate in front of me before anyone can see how winded his words have made me. A syrupy chuckle comes from Alberto’s direction. “That kid always comes and goes as he pleases. I’m sure he’ll make another appearance around Christmas.”
An icy hand claws at my throat, threatening to cut off my air supply. I’m itchy to find out how Tor knows, and if it’s true.
He wouldn’t leave me here. He promised. It can’t be true.
Can it?
Wednesday. I’m being prodded and poked, like a cow, in the family room, and beyond the bay window, the sky is darker than my mood. The fire crackles. The wind roars. And my soul screams for Angelo’s car to roll onto the circle drive on the other side of the glass.
Sunday evening I was numb but in denial. Monday, I was itchy. By Tuesday, I’d curled up in the bathroom, my back against the door, my finger hovering over the ‘call’ button on my burner cell. It took me forty-five minutes to work up the courage to press it, because the only thing worse than not knowing is finding out the truth.
Well, the truth came in the form of an automated voice on the other end of the line: The number you have reached has been disconnected.
Now it’s Wednesday, and I’m angry. Bitter, burning rage floods through my veins, making my skin spark like a live wire. Making me grit my darn teeth every time the dressmaker pokes me with her needle, or when Greta pokes her head in to sneer at the sight of me in a wedding dress. It’s the final fitting, and I want nothing more than to rip all the silk and lace off my body and throw it in the fire.
The door opens, and Tor appears. He casts an indifferent eye over my dress and leans against the frame. “You ready?”
I stare at him blankly. If there weren’t five other people in this room fussing over me, I’d tell him to go to hell.
“As I’ll ever be,” I bite out through gritted teeth.
He frowns. “Not for the wedding, idiot. To see your father.”
My heart hitches. “What? Now?”
He yawns. Checks his watch. “It’s Wednesday. Won’t be able to see him on Saturday, will you?”
Without another word, I step off the box and stagger across the room, kicking over the dressmaker’s haberdashery box as I pass. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m ready, I’m ready.”
I have enough wits to stay in the room long enough to be helped out of the dress. Then I bound up the stairs and throw on a hoodie, leggings, and sneakers. I hesitate for a moment, before reaching under my pillow and slipping the gun into my purse. I have a half-baked plan forming in my head, and my heart is beating in my throat at the mere thought of it. By the time I run out onto the drive, I’m out of breath.
Tor looks up at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust. Without a word, he opens the passenger door and rounds the car to slip into the driver’s seat.
“Did Angelo ask you to take me?”
The engine purrs under my thighs. A beat passes.
“No.”
I sink into the leather seat and let out an exasperated sigh. The tiny space in my heart reserved for hope is getting smaller and smaller by the second. It had inflated, just a fraction, when Tor appeared in the family room. Last time Angelo was away, he’d asked Tor to take me to my father’s instead, and I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d done it again.
He eyes me sideways as the gates open. “I was just being nice.”
I clench my jaw shut and glare out of the windshield. Of course, I’m happy I get to see my father, and I feel guilty that I’m so disappointed. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by Tor’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
We slow to meet a red and he glances over at me again. “Ain’t you got any candy for me today?”
I shake my head.
“Aw, come on. You always have something in that purse.” He reaches over to the tote on my lap, and immediately, I snatch it out of his grasp. He scowls, then his gaze thins. “What’s the matter, getting cold feet already?”
I don’t reply.
“He’s gone, Aurora. Forget about him.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me so himself.”
Unease trickles under the surface of my skin. No. I don’t want to believe it. He wouldn’t leave the Coast without telling me. But then again, his cell phone has been disconnected…
I need to see for myself.
“Take me to Angelo’s house in Devil’s Dip.”
“Hell no,” he snaps. The car speeds up and annoyance rolls off him in waves. “I already covered for him being gooey-eyed over you. I’m not getting involved in more of this mess. This is going to start a war.”
“I’m asking you nicely.”
“You can ask in all the ways you want, girl. Not going to happen. This isn’t a normal family, Aurora. When a family member betrays you, it’s not a case of crossing them off your Christmas card list, it’s life or death. Loyalty is everything.” His jaw flexes and he rakes a hand through his hair. “You have to choose a side and stick to it.”
It doesn’t feel like my hand that reaches into my purse and pulls out the gun. Doesn’t feel like my thumb that flips off the safety catch, or my fingers that press the barrel against his temple. Doesn’t sound like my voice either, when I choke out, “I said, take me to Devil’s Dip.” Desperation. It’s crawling around my body like a nasty virus, making me do the unthinkable. A handful of days ago, I’d never even held a gun before, and now I’m using it as a threat. Maybe I am a bad girl.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening. But it’s clear from the dizzying speed with which the car mounts the pavement and he grabs the gun from my hand and presses it against my own head that it’s not the first time he’s been on the wrong end of a weapon.
His growl is guttural. His fist slams against the dash. I squeeze my eyes shut, the weight of my stupid actions settling around me like dust. “Are you fucking crazy?” he hisses. The barrel knocks against my temple. “I should fucking kill you for that. Where did you even get this thing?”
My bottom lip trembles. It doesn’t go unnoticed, because Tor’s barks melt into a mutter. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this by pulling that girly shit on me.”
A few heavy moments pass, before he lets out a deep grunt and tosses the gun in the central console. “You’re crazy,” he mutters, before kicking the car into drive with a small shake of his head.
I breathe out all the stale air in my lungs. It takes me at least five minutes to work up the courage to interrupt the silence. “You already chose a side.”
“What?”
“On Friday night. You knew it was Angelo and you covered for him. That means you chose a side.”
His jaw works. Fingers start strumming on the steering wheel again, like he didn’t have a gun against his head just a few minutes ago. “Everyone has moments of madness. I chose to sweep it under the carpet before this all blew up to something bigger.”
“But Alberto’s your father.”
Darkness crosses his features. “Yeah, well. Big Al dragged me up. Angelo raised me. He’s only a few years older than me, but he always had his shit together.” He pauses. “Dante taught me how to shoot a pistol. How to beat up a man within an inch of his life but keep him lucid enough to talk. Made men shit. But Angelo? He taught me just man shit. How to tie a tie. How to sweet-talk girls.” He smirks. “Drilled it into me not to fuck chicks without wrapping it up first.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. Even now, in the middle of his disappearance and the ever-growing rage I have toward him, the thought of Angelo being a know-it-all on picking up women irks me. My fists wind into my sleeves, and I focus on the rain that’s just started to fall on the windshield. “Has he really gone?” I whisper.
He swallows, avoiding my gaze. Nods.
“I need to see for myself.”
With a heavy sigh, he slows the car. Rolls his head on his shoulders and then shakes it. “Fine,” he mutters. “But if you hold a damn gun to my head ever again, I’ll snap every single one of your fingers.”
“Deal.”
We drive in blistering silence; the only sounds are my heart thumping against my rib cage and the rain growing increasingly heavier on the windshield. I twist my ring around and around my finger, until the skin underneath it feels raw.
He promised.
I trust him.
He’ll be there.
My breathing shallows as the house comes into view at the top of the hill. The sky is a smudge of gray behind it, and in front of it, building supplies lie littered on the forecourt. Tarpaulin sheets flap violently in the wind, and work trucks are parked haphazardly, their doors still open.
I strain against the seat belt and squint through the windshield to get a better look. Trucks aside, there are no cars. No Aston Martin, no Bugatti. Logic tells me Angelo wouldn’t park his super cars outside in the pouring rain anyways, but the hope in my chest is shrinking.
As Tor kills the engine, I notice the garage door is open, and inside, I can make out the silhouette of a male working underneath the hood of a car. My pulse flutters, but it’s fleeting. As he steps to the side and cranes his neck at us, I realize it’s his brother, Gabe. Despite the freezing weather, he’s shirtless. He pulls out an earphone and glares in our direction.
“He’s not here, Aurora. Just go ahead with the wedding and we can forget any of this happened.” Tor’s voice is the softest I’ve ever heard it, and for some reason, it makes me even more angry. There’s something I need to see, something that’ll make me know for sure. Without another word, I leap out of the car, running through the icy rain around the side of the house. Droplets slither down my neck, and my curls turn slimy and stick to my forehead.
When I reach the hangar, my knees threaten to buckle underneath me.
It’s empty.
His plane has gone.
He’s gone.
My heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. My vision blurs behind the tears I’ve been holding back for so long, but now, I let them fall. Hot and fat, they roll down my cheeks in a mix of frustration and heartache, and I know, I just know, that now I’ve started, I won’t be able to stop.
I’m as mad myself as I am at him. I can’t stay, Rory. He’d warned me, more than once, that he’d leave. That he had no plans on being my knight-and-shining armor. But when someone is desperate and hopeful, they’ll cling onto the things they want to hear. Like him promising he’ll get me out of this. Like him asking me to trust him.
I guess he was right. Viscontis are cheaters and liars and I’d be foolish to believe anything they say.
Heavy footsteps come up behind me.
“He’s isn’t here.” Gabe’s gruff words physically hurt me.
“Well, where is he then?”
“No idea, probably London. He didn’t say he was leaving.”
I spin around, angry. “Your own brother didn’t say goodbye?”
He huffs. “We’re not exactly that type of family.”
There’s a hollow, dull ache under my breastbone, but there’s something warmer in the pit of my stomach. It feels like an old friend, one that’s dark, bitter, dangerous. The spark morphs into a flame, then spreads through my veins like wildfire.
I steel my jaw. Carve half-moons into my palms with my fingernails. Turning on my heel, I move to stomp back out into the rain, but Gabe sidesteps to stop me.
A tinge of fear colors my expression; he’s as big and as imposing as his brothers, but doesn’t have the same charm to take the edge off. And then there’s that angry scar that carves a path down his face…
I swallow and wait, expectantly.
Water droplets roll down his muscular chest. He palms them away from his torso with a large paw.
“Our hotline is for sins committed, not sins you’re thinking about committing.”
His voice is dry, indifferent, but his words immediately make my cheeks flame.
“I-I don’t understand?”
“You do.” He takes a step forward, and instinctively, I take one back. My eyes dart over his shoulder for any sign of Tor, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I suck in a shaky breath. “You’ve been listening to my…?”
He taps the AirPod in his ear. “I listen to every single sin that comes through.”
Oh, swan. We stare at each other, the insinuation hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He knows. Gabriel Visconti knows my deepest, darkest sin, and I’m all alone with him in an empty hangar.
I should beg him not to tell anyone, but I can’t seem to make myself care. I don’t have the energy. Instead, I drag the back of my hand over my wet cheeks and shrug.
“Okay.”
This time, he lets me pass without stopping me, but then his hand shoots out, grabs my wrist, and spins me around.
His eyes are dark and dangerous, smoldering like a sea-green sun. “If Angelo doesn’t come back, I expect another call.”
My temples thump. What? How sick and twisted can this man be?
Behind me, Tor blasts his horn. Gabe looks over my shoulder, irritation crossing his features.
“And this time, I hope your sin won’t be hypothetical.”
With a lingering glare, he brushes past me and storms back into the rain. I watch him until he disappears around the side of the house. Holy crow. Nausea rolls in my stomach, and for a brief moment, I wonder if that short exchange was a fever dream.
Tor blasts his horn again, longer this time. With another glance back to the empty hangar, I swallow the lump in my throat, and run out into the rain.
