flooded with low lighting, lighthearted chatter, and new guests deemed not important enough to attend the actual dinner. The music has switched from classical to jazz, seeping through the speakers behind the oak-clad bar.
Behind the green velvet booths and sofas, floor-to-ceiling doors lead out to the patio area, where Tor and Donatello are in deep conversation under a heat lamp.
I hate that I immediately look around for Angelo. When I scan the sea of faces and don’t spot him, or my disgusting fiance, for that matter, the panic zig-zags up my spine. What if Angelo’s pulled him into the cigar room, or the games room, and is telling him what he saw? Because surely, after my outburst, he’s made the connection now.
I glance in the direction of the cigar room and see Dante standing outside the closed door, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around his whiskey glass. He’s pacing.
Dante Visconti isn’t the type of man who paces.
Swallowing hard, I push my way toward the bar and slip in next to Amelia. The bartender turns around, locks eyes on me, and laughs. “Rory Carter,” he purrs, twisting a cloth around the inside of a beer glass. “I heard you were hanging out with the Viscontis these days. Didn’t believe it.”
I squint under the amber glow and realize it’s Dan. He works with my friend Wren at The Rusty Anchor, the port bar in Devil’s Dip.
Instinctively, I slip the hand with my engagement ring off the bar. “Dan, hey. What are you doing here?”
“Picking up a few extra hours doing private bar work.” He slings the cloth over his shoulder and narrows his eyes. “I didn’t have you down as one of these girls.”
My temples thump. One of these girls. I don’t even need to look around the bar to know what girls he’s talking about. There’s a running joke in Devil’s Dip that every girl’s life goal is to either get out or marry a Visconti. And if you can’t snag a Visconti, then at least one of the very rich men that can afford to frequent the Visconti-owned establishments in Devil’s Cove.
I was always in the first group of girls; my goal was to get out the second I turned eighteen. I guess life doesn’t always pan out the way you want it to.
“What can I get you?”
Anything that’ll make me numb. “Gin and tonic, please.”
“Make that two,” Amelia chimes in, coming up beside me. “These Friday nights are so boring, aren’t they? I can just about put up with the dinner, but these after-parties…” She stifles a yawn. “They just go on forever.”
“I know,” I groan, bending down to rub the fresh blister on my heel. “What I’d give to be in my fluffy pajamas watching Grey’s Anatomy right now.”
Her gaze rolls over me in disbelief. “You don’t strike me as the type of girl who owns fluffy pajamas. I bet you sleep in Chanel No.5 and go for your morning run in a Versace gown.”
My snort is ugly, and if Alberto had witnessed it, he’d have dragged his ring over more of my flesh. I want to tell her that everything she sees in front of her is made in Alberto’s image. That this darn thong is slicing my butt in half, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve caught my skin in too-tight zippers. But even though Amelia is my only tie to the normal world within the gates of this mansion, she’s still part of the family. So I smile and shake my head, my snort melting into the pretty little laugh I’ve managed to perfect over the last two months.
We take our drinks and find a sofa by the patio doors. As soon as we flop down, Donatello and Tor saunter through the doors, both with big grins on their faces.
“Ladies, we’re taking bets. Want in?” Tor asks.
Amelia looks up at her husband with a scowl. “I swear to God, Donnie. How many times have I told you to stop getting involved with these stupid bets? Your family are a bunch of scammers—you’ll never win.”
Donatello stoops to chuck her under the chin. “Relax, mio amore. We are betting on how long Dante will stand outside the cigar room before he breaks the door down.”
I glance over. Dante is still pacing, and now he’s muttering something under his breath.
Tor laughs. “He’s pissed he hasn’t been invited to the meeting.”
“What meeting?” Amelia asks.
“Father is in there with Angelo. Apparently he wanted a private chat.” Tor sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Dante looks up and glares at him, but when he beckons him over, he comes.
“What?” he snaps.
Tor clamps a hand on his shoulder. “You know how pathetic you look standing there, bro? Like you’re in high school and your girl is in seven minutes in heaven with another dude.”
There’s a ripple of laughter, and warmth fills my stomach knowing that, for once, it’s not at my expense.
“Father’s always been obsessed with him,” Dante growls, stealing another glance at the door. “What the fuck do they have to talk about? He’s barely a made man these days.” Gulping the remaining brown liquid in his glass, he slams it on the nearest table and growls, “Fuck it. I’m going in.”
We watch him storm toward the cigar room door. Tor checks his watch, smirks, then sticks his hand out. Donatello grunts and pulls a money clip from his breast pocket. He mouths sorry to Amelia, who looks like she wants to punch the both of them.
“He’s thirty-fucking-two,” Tor chuckles, counting the bills in his hand. “And he’s still bitter about it.”
“About what?” I find myself asking.
Tor glances down at me and smirks. “Angelo fucked his prom date.”
“Why?”
He looks at Donatello, and in unison they say, “Because he’s Vicious Visconti.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Vicious?”
“Yeah, he’s a nasty fucker,” Tor chuckles. “Well, he was before he went straight.” Nudging Donatello’s ribs, he adds, “Remember when he blew out his driver’s kneecap ‘cause he took the wrong turn?”
Donatello nods. “Mmm. And when he locked all those port workers in a shipping container and blew it up, all because there was one boat log they couldn’t account for.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Of all the made men to go straight, I never thought it’d be Vicious.”
Tor slaps Donatello on the back. “Speaking of dates, I should probably find Sarah.”
“Skyler,” Amelia corrects him with an eye roll. “Her name is Skyler.”
“Whatever. I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s probably got her hands on the family china.” And with that, Tor slices through the party-goers and disappears. Throwing an apologetic grin to Amelia, Donatello follows suit.
“Every time,” Amelia mutters, stabbing an ice cube with her straw.
But I’m not listening. Instead, I’m watching as Dante thumps his fist against the cigar room door. It flies open and reveals Alberto’s looming silhouette. They have a short, heated discussion before Dante turns around and pins me with a blistering stare.
I freeze, my drink halfway to my lips, and when he makes a beeline for me, my palms start sweating. This is not good.
“It’s you,” he growls, coming to a stop just inches away from where I’m sitting. “He wants to speak with you.”
My heart skips a beat. “Me?” I croak.
But Dante is already halfway to the bar, and Amelia is now tapping furiously on her cell. My stomach drops, and for the briefest of moments, I consider slipping out the patio doors and disappearing down the beach, but the impatient scowl smeared across Alberto’s face tells me my presence is non-negotiable.
I abandon my drink and make my way to the cigar room, my heels threatening to give way on the plush carpet. Alberto steps to the side, snakes his arm around my waist, and plants a cold, slithery kiss on the curve of my neck, as if he didn’t have his hand clamped around my jaw while he sprayed my face with saliva and venom less than ten minutes ago.
He pushes me into the room. When Greta, the head housekeeper, showed me around the Visconti manor for the first time, she told me women weren’t allowed in here. It’s for the men. But I haven’t been missing much—it’s just a smaller version of Alberto’s office. Mahogany cabinets and plush armchairs, all sitting under a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke.
It looks even smaller with Angelo Visconti spilling out of the armchair by the fire.
“Aurora, I didn’t have the pleasure of formally introducing you to Angelo over dinner.”
Behind me, the door clicks shut, plunging us into a deafening silence.
In the short time I’ve been engaged to the head of the Cosa Nostra, I’ve done this dance countless times. Different men, same suits. Kisses on the back of my hand, a frozen smile on my lips. But this time, it feels different.
It feels like I can’t breathe. Why? Because for some inexplicable reason, I’d rather throw myself off the cliff in Devil’s Dip than do this dance with Angelo Visconti. Vicious Visconti.
Taking a deep breath for courage, I force myself to look up from the carpet.
A weight pushes down on my chest as I meet his heavy gaze. Oh, holy crow, he’s handsome. Maybe it’s because he’s no longer standing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, or perhaps it’s the way he reclines in that armchair, an irritated sneer on his face, but I can’t believe I never realized he was a Visconti. Green eyes glitter against his tanned skin, and black hair that looks like silk gleams under the spotlights built into the low ceiling. That jaw and those cheekbones; they are as sharp as I remember them, and they still have the effect of snatching the air from my lungs.
He’s beautiful in the most untouchable of ways. Not that I’d want to touch him. And even if I did, judging by the disdain on his face and the reputation that precedes him, he’d snap my fingers off if I even tried.
“Angelo, meet my fiancee Aurora, and Aurora, meet Angelo. He’s my favorite nephew. Of course,” he adds with a chuckle, “don’t tell Raphael or Gabriel I told you that.”
I don’t know who they are and I don’t care to ask. Instead, I tear my gaze from Angelo’s, because the unease creeping up my arms is telling me something bad is going to happen if I don’t. But then my liquor-fueled stubbornness forces me to do the opposite. I swallow the knot in my throat and tilt my chin higher, reinforcing eye contact.
“Fiancee,” he drawls, settling back in his armchair. His eyes bore into mine and I can’t help but notice he’s the only man that Alberto has formally introduced me to that hasn’t immediately turned his attention to my chest or legs. I also can’t help but notice that for some unknown reason, this makes me despise him even more. “I’m losing count of how many wives you’ve had, Uncle Al.”
I blink. I’ve never heard anybody aside from Dante talk to Alberto like that. Heat prickles at my skin, but before I can regain some composure, Alberto wraps his arm around my waist and plops down in an armchair, bringing me crashing into his lap.
I gasp. Angelo looks mildly disgusted.
“This wife is special,” Alberto huffs, his arm clamping me to his lap like a safety belt. “She’s a virgin.”
Oh my goose. Did he really just say that?
My head swims with disbelief and heat scorches my cheeks. It’s hard to fight the urge to elbow him in the gut, but I know I’m too drunk and my heels are too high to run away from him if I do. Instead, I break the eye contact I was determined to keep and choose the safety of the photograph hanging on the wall behind Angelo.
After a few seconds, I realize I’m staring at an aerial photograph of the Devil’s Coast. It was named that because of the jagged cliff faces and steep drops; it looks like the Devil himself took a bite out of the land. At the top, Devil’s Cove sparkles like the Crown Jewels. The bright lights from the hotels and the casinos twinkle up and down the perimeter of the sandy semi-circle. Below it is Devil’s Hollow, the landscape so black that it’s almost navy. All of the excitement of Hollow is buried deep below ground, in majestic caves where the Viscontis age their whiskey in barrels and host illicit parties for the rich and depraved. A little way back from the coast, you can see the grand structure that is the Devil’s Coast Academy, which is practically Hogwarts for the super-elite.
And then there’s Devil’s Dip. Home. It sits on the small curve of land right at the bottom of the coast. My heart aches looking at the bird’s eye view of the small port and the cobbled, narrow streets, both set against the backdrop of the sprawling, forested Devil’s Preserve. It’s crazy that I’m less than forty minutes from home, yet I might as well be a million miles away.
A pinch on my hip brings me back to the room. I clamp my aching jaw together and say, “My apologies, I missed that. What did you say, darling?”
Darling. Perhaps my playing into Alberto’s sick fantasy will get me out of another punishment. I turn to him and flash my sweetest smile. It seems to work, because the fire in his eyes simmers and he grips my hand.
“Show him the ring.”
Swallowing hard, I meet Angelo’s gaze again, slowly inching my hand into the space between us. It’s trembling. Must be all the wine.
He regards my hand like the whole idea of having to look at my engagement ring is more boring than a long bus ride on a rainy day. Then he drinks a lazy sip of whiskey, taking his time to set it down on the side table. The shells of my ears feel hot, and the drawn-out silence is suffocating.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimes. Alberto’s chest wheezes against my back.
With a small, sudden huff, he leans forward and slips his hand around my wrist.
My breathing shallows. I didn’t expect him to touch me. I look down at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. They are so long that the tip of his thumb meets the knuckle of his index finger. My hand sits tiny in his palm, looking ridiculously childlike.
I don’t like it. It feels wrong. Dangerous.
“It looks heavy.”
The indifference in his voice sends static down my spine, and a strange feeling of exhilaration coasts down after it. The diamond is huge. It weighs down my ring finger like an anchor and Amelia once joked that the clarity is so high, it doesn’t just catch the light, but the darkness, too. Every man Alberto has forced me to show it off to has gushed over it, and yet…
Angelo couldn’t give two swans about the million-dollar rock on my finger. As much as I dislike him, the little act of rebellion against the almighty Alberto excites me.
Alberto clears his throat. “I’m not sure how long you’ll be in town for, but the engagement party is next week and we’d love to have you there. Up.” To my horror, Alberto slaps my ass twice, catapulting me to my feet like I’m a darn mule refusing to work. “Come, Angelo. There’s something I want to show you.”
He bristles past me and disappears through the door. The sound of the party briefly fills the room before the door swings shut and plunges us back into silence.
We’re alone and the heat is suffocating.
His gaze burns up at me. I force myself to stare back down at him.
His eyes flicker with something I can’t give a name to as he rubs his fingers over his lips.
“Aurora Visconti,” he murmurs from behind them.
My chest hitches. I’ve heard that name aloud before, even just hours ago at the dinner table, from Amelia. But the way it rolls off his tongue and into the silence between us sounds…inappropriate.
And yet, my ears crave to hear it again.
He stands, uncurling himself from the chair and stretching to his full height. Despite wearing these stupid heels, my eyes are level with the thick trunk of his throat. I’m transfixed by the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing under the shadow of his jaw.
“Heavy enough to weigh you down.”
My eyes lift to his. “Excuse me?”
He drops his gaze to my hand, then drags his teeth over his bottom lip. Heat floods between my thighs, unwanted yet unstoppable.
“Your ring. It looks heavy enough to weigh you down if you choose to fall.”
My heart collides with my rib cage, and my breathing stops. The only noise I can hear in the room is my blood pounding against my temples. I’m hyper-aware of his presence, feeling every heavy footstep as he moves around me to head toward the door.
But then he stops right by my side, just like he did on the cliff. The stubble of his jaw grazes against my cheek, and his now-familiar scent makes my head spin.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Aurora.”
The delirium that comes with the unknown transports me back to the cliff edge.
And for the first time, I genuinely wish I’d jumped off it.
