Smugglers Club,” I rasp to Dan, unable to look him in the eye. “Hold the ice.”
He lets out a low whistle and slides a crystal lowball glass across the bar. The warm whiskey hits the back of my throat, trickles past my thumping heart, then joins the bitterness in the pit of my stomach. It does nothing to cool the fever scorching my body.
While the ghost of Alberto’s grip on my jaw aches, the memory of Angelo’s hand around my wrist burns.
“Another,” I demand. Dan raises a brow, but tops me up regardless.
I slam it, wipe my mouth, and stagger through the crowd, making a beeline for Max.
He’s sitting in a booth, alone, nursing a beer. If I didn’t strongly dislike him, I’d feel sorry for him, because he’s dedicated his life to a family that couldn’t give two flying flamingos about him.
“Tell me everything you know about Angelo Visconti.”
“What do you need to know?” Max purrs, his beer breath tickling my neck.
Let’s start with: why does he make me so nervous?
“What I said. Everything.”
He sidles up closer, and the heat from his thigh pushing against mine makes my skin crawl. “What’s it worth?”
“Your life, Max. He saw me alone in Devil’s Dip. You know, when you were meant to be escorting me at all times?”
It takes a few moments for the penny to drop. “Vicious did? Fuck,” he groans, running his hands through his hair. “Alberto’s going to kill me.”
I’ve learned that when somebody says that around here, they mean literally, not figuratively.
“Dante said he’s not even a made man anymore. I thought Visconti men were made men by default?”
Max glugs his beer, making a gross gasp as he sets it back on the table. “Alright, here’s the rundown on Angelo. His father, Alonso, was the capo of the Devil’s Dip outfit. He ran imports and exports out of the port. Super lucrative business—what he was raking in over in Dip makes Cove look like a shanty town.”
I frown, thinking of all the five-star hotels and glitzy casinos that line Devil’s Cove. Then an image of the Devil’s Dip port comes to mind. Nothing more than a creaky old dock, a few sorry-looking boats, and an abandoned shipping container turned into a bar. “Really? What did he trade?”
“Anything and to anyone. He had cocaine coming in from the Colombians, guns going out to the Russians. Nothing was off-limits.”
I shake my head. Not a chance. The thing about living in a small town is that you grow up knowing everyone and their mamas. I know lots of the port workers—Bill, my dad’s best friend, Old Riley who married Wren’s mom—and they’d never get involved with something illegal like that. No, the only thing coming in and out of Devil’s Dip port are crayfish and canned food.
When I tell Max this, he laughs and playfully bumps his shoulder against mine. “Now, hold on. I haven’t finished the rundown, have I?” He reaches up and brushes a stray strand of my hair off my shoulder. A move that makes my bones cringe. “Alonso was very, very clever. You know the church up on the cliff?” For a moment, I can taste the salty air, feel the wind blowing through my curls. Smell the cigarette smoke. I nod. “When the Visconti brothers came to the Devil’s Coast, Alonso immediately bought that church, got ordained, and established himself as the parish deacon.” He sits back and crosses his arms. His eyebrows are raised, like he’s waiting for me to connect the dots.
“And?”
He sighs. “And, why do you go to church?”
“Uh, to pray?”
“To confess. Alonso knew Devil’s Dip’s deepest and darkest secrets. With that ammo hanging over their heads, they’d do anything he wanted them to, illegal or otherwise.
There’s a strange ringing in my ears as I process what he’s saying. “Jesus,” I mutter. “That’s…”
“Genius.”
“Cruel, was the word I was going for.”
“That too,” he says with a sip and a shrug.
Suddenly, goosebumps spread across my arms like a nasty rash, and heat prickles my left cheek. It’s instinctive to turn, and that’s when I find myself staring into the eyes of Angelo Visconti. He’s leaning against the bar, holding a whiskey glass so loosely that it looks like he’s about to drop it. Dante is in his ear, talking animatedly while he remains still and silent. The contrast between them is like fire and ice.
Our eyes lock and his stare is cold enough to give me frostbite. What is with this guy? When somebody is caught staring, they usually avert their gaze—if not out of embarrassment, then at least to be polite. But he’s regarding me like he has every right to, like I’m a painting hanging on the wall, or a statue in the lobby.
Just not one he likes the look of.
Then his eyes slide to my right. To Max. The storm that clouds his expression makes me look away.
I clear my throat and mutter, “Let me guess: the reason he didn’t take over as capo was because he didn’t agree with his father’s seedy blackmail tactics.”
He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.
“No. It’s because he watched both his mother and father die in the same week.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “They were murdered?”
“Nope. Maria had a heart attack, and a few days later, Alonso had a sudden bleed on the brain. We’re big on family around here, you know? He took it hard. After the funeral, instead of being sworn in as capo, he got on a flight back to London and has lived clean ever since.”
“Clean?”
“Guess that’s what Dante meant about him not being a made man anymore. Before his parents’ deaths, he was running a very successful loan shark business in England, waiting it out until his father retired and he’d take over. But after? He didn’t come back. Instead, he chose to stay in England and turned the whole business legit. Rumor has it he doesn’t even carry a gun anymore.”
When I turn to look at Angelo again, it’s with a slightly brighter light. I watch as he cocks his head and slowly swirls the liquid around his glass with a lazy roll of his wrist. A flicker of sympathy ignites in my stomach, and guilt settles on my skin like dust.
I really am a horrible person. Losing my mom was hard enough, but the cancer crawled through her body as slow as syrup, at least giving us the time to say goodbye. I can’t imagine losing both my mom and father in the same week.
There’s a sharp stab in my chest. That’s not entirely true. When mom died, a big part of my father died with her.
“And his brothers?” I say suddenly, remembering Alberto’s quip to Angelo in the cigar room. You’re my favorite nephew, but don’t tell Raphael and Gabriel I said that. “Why didn’t they take over Devil’s Dip instead?”
“Rafe and Gabe?” he asks in a breezy manner that suggests they are the best of friends, which, I highly doubt. “Nah. It goes against tradition to pass on the position of capo through the bloodline. The only exception is death or incarceration. Besides, the Dip brothers…” he sticks his finger in his beer, scoops out some froth, and sucks on it. Gross. “They are fiercely loyal. Only a few years between them but you’d think they were triplets by the way they behave.”
“Do they live in London, too?”
“No, no. Rafe owns most of Vegas’s skyline. You’d have seen him about—he often comes to Cove to play poker with Tor and the Hollow brothers. But Gabe?” He laughs. “You won’t have seen him.”
The scoff that punctuates his sentence piques my interest. “Why? What does he do?”
“Dunno. I’m not brave enough to ask.”
Before I can continue my interrogation, Vittoria slides onto the bench opposite us and drops her head on the table. “God, I’d rather gauge my eyes out with a rusty spoon than be here.”
Max raises his lukewarm beer in a toast. “Wait ‘til your twenty-one. Being drunk makes these parties a little more bearable.”
“I am drunk,” Vittoria says, cutting me off. “Tor’s girlfriend isn’t as useless as she looks. She keeps slipping me vodka shots from her hip flask. At least, I think it’s vodka.”
“Oh no,” Max mutters, rising to his feet. “If your brothers find out I knew you were drunk…” He scurries away into the crowd, not before shooting me a pleading look. “You haven’t seen me, okay?”
I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to Vittoria. After a few moments, she emerges from under her curtain of black hair and looks up at me with bloodshot eyes.
“My dress is too tight. My feet hurt.” She sits up straight and grabs the pearl necklace around her neck. “And this fucking thing is itchy.” With one swift motion, she rips it off her neck and slings it onto the table. “And…” She suddenly pales, pursing her lips. Without another word, she slides out the booth and darts up the basement stairs.
My gaze lands on the necklace, and I mutter a bird-word under my breath. She yanked it off her neck like it’s made from macaroni and string. It disgusts me that even the youngest member of this family has no concept of their wealth or privilege. She’ll grow up to be a spoiled brat, just like the rest of them.
I sweep my gaze over the room.
Then, when I’m sure nobody is looking, I slip the necklace into my bra.
The party continues, a storm of music and laughter. Sometimes being around the Viscontis feels like it’s Christmas Day, and I’m peering through the window of their living room while shivering in a snowstorm. An outsider who’ll never be invited in to sit by the fire. It always makes me sad, but just for a moment.
Because I know I’d rather be bitterly cold and lose all my toes to frostbite than join them.
As I scan the room, Amelia catches my eye. She smiles and makes her way over. When she’s just a few feet away, Donatello shoots out his arm and grabs her wrist.
“Baby. The villa we just bought in Tuscany, you didn’t even like it, right?”
Amelia’s jaw juts. Her nostrils flair. Then she takes a deep breath and sweeps her gaze over me with a frozen smile. “Aurora, sweetheart, would you excuse us for a moment? I just have to remind my husband that if he continues making bets with his brothers, we’ll soon be living in a cardboard box under the pier.”
“I’ll go check on Vittoria,” I mutter, clambering to my feet.
As I leave them bickering in the booth, the familiar pang of longing knocks the wind out of me. They have the same thing my parents had—true love. I always promised my mom I’d marry for nothing less, and even as I hovered over the dotted line of Alberto’s contract, the ghost of her soft voice whispered a reminder in my ear. Breaking that promise to her is a sin that has weighed me down ever since, and no matter how many times I’ve confessed, it’s too heavy to shake.
Jesus, I’m drunk. The floor breathes as the amber lights glow low and hazy. Each step through the sea of suits and stilettos is unsteady and reckless; it’ll take only one misstep to buckle on these stupid heels, and I don’t need to give Alberto another excuse to punish me.
The stillness of the lobby feels like taking off my bra after a long day. I let out a lungful of air and slink back into the shadows of a connecting hallway, pressing my back into the cold mahogany paneling. The party hums beneath my feet, like the residents of hell are banging on the ceiling, trying to escape.
I bask in the tranquility for a while, before deciding that I should probably get around to checking on Vittoria. A large part of me doesn’t care that a Visconti—even the youngest, most innocent one—might be currently choking on their own vomit, but I guess there’s still a small fraction of me that isn’t a monster.
I smooth down my dress and take a deep breath. As I turn the corner, I collide with something large and stone-like. At first, I think I’ve turned too early, crashing into one of the gaudy statues that lurk in the alcoves. But then a hand shoots out and grabs my forearm, stopping me from tumbling backward.
Angelo Visconti.
We lock eyes. Then the shock snatches the air from my lungs, and I rip my arm from his grip like it burns.
He slips the hand he grabbed me with into his pocket; the other holding a cell to his ear. Obviously he stepped out of the party to take a private phone call. There’s a faint hum of chatter on the other side of the line, but he doesn’t seem to be listening. Not anymore.
Oh, boy.
Here’s when I mutter an apology. When I sidestep him and scurry back to the party, where the laughter and the music and a fresh glass of liquor will warm the chill on my skin.
But I don’t, can’t, do anything but stand and stare at him.
Jesus, was he this tall and broad on the cliff? Maybe this hallway is narrower than I remember, or maybe it’s the darkness. Monsters are always bigger and scarier in the dark.
I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head. Get a grip, Rory. Angelo Visconti isn’t a monster. Dante said he’s barely a made man, and Max said he doesn’t even carry a gun.
But when he hangs up without a word, slides his phone in his pocket and takes a step forward, I take a step back. Growing up in the Preserve has sharpened my instincts, and standing in a dark corridor with this man gives me the same sense of unease as hearing a leaf crunch on the forest floor, or a howl in the distance.
He might not be much of a made man, but it feels like I’m face to face with a predator.
The silence that served as a respite just a few minutes ago is now suffocating, crushing my chest like a brick. Eventually, his eyes release mine, moving down my neck and settling on my chest. His gaze burns even more than his touch. It’s so brazen, so shameless. Like my body belongs to him, instead of me.
“It’s rude to stare.” The retort flies from my mouth, haughty and slurred, before I can stop it. Oh, swan.
I know better than to speak to a Visconti like that, especially twice in one night. What’s worse, he’s the one Visconti I should be trying to butter up, or at the very least, avoid. There’s nothing stopping him from telling Alberto he saw me in Devil’s Dip, alone, teetering on the edge of the cliff. How many times has Alberto hissed in my ear, don’t you dare embarrass me. I’m sure everybody finding out your fiancee would supposedly rather throw herself into the sea than marry you is the ultimate humiliation. I have no doubts he’d follow through on his threats. Take away my father’s care team. Stop my visits.
So, I should apologize. I should bow my head, turn on my small-town charm and act like I don’t have two brain cells to rub together. That’s what he and the rest of his family think of me anyway, right?
But I’m hot, feverish. Stupefied under the intensity of his attention. As he drags his gaze back to mine, my skin grows hotter, like I’m standing in front of an open fire. It’s dangerous but oh-so-enticing.
He takes another step forward, and I, another step back. Now in the vast foyer, the stained glass in the entryway windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors over his face. Greens, blues, pinks, warming his cold features and softening his sharpness.
He runs a thumb over his bottom lip. Gives a slight shake of his head. Then he reaches out toward my chest, his knuckles grazing the silk fabric cutting across the curve of my breasts.
What the—
I glance down and my blood freezes. Before I can protest, his thumb and forefinger grip onto the lone pearl poking out of the neckline, and he pulls.
Pearl by pearl, Vittoria’s necklace unfurls from my bra and into his hand. Despite the panic starting to seep through my veins, I can’t ignore how each cold bead grazes past my nipple as he slowly pulls. I can’t ignore the flame flickering between my legs, or the way my breathing shallows under his touch.
When the clasp finally falls from my chest, he holds up the necklace by the end pearl, in the same way people hold a bag of dog poop from a dog that isn’t theirs. He’s also regarding me like I’m said dog—with a sneer that deepens the cleft of his chin, and frosty, narrow eyes.
The lump in my throat is too big to swallow, and I know it’s way too late for fake smiles and halfhearted apologies. I should sink to my knees and beg him not to tell Alberto, and if it was Tor, or even Dante, that’s exactly what I’d do.
But for some inexplicable reason, this man makes me want to be stubborn. I have the urge to go toe to toe with him, to prove I won’t be the one that backs away from the edge of the cliff before he does, no matter how many rocks crumble under my sneakers, or how strong the wind blows.
Annoyance flickers in his irises, like I’m a fly he can’t swat away.
“If you looked more enthusiastic when sitting on your fiance’s lap, then perhaps he’d buy you a pearl necklace of your own.”
The colors on his face shift as he closes the gap between us.
I stop breathing.
His silhouette looms over me like a storm cloud, and I have this strange, conflicting feeling swirling around my body. I don’t know whether I want to turn on my heel and run for shelter, or tilt my head back, close my eyes and embrace the rain.
It’s all the liquor in my system. It has to be. I’m going to wake up with a pounding head and a chest full of regret. And probably some more serious injuries when he tells Alberto what I—
His hand finds my wrist, stopping all of my racing thoughts in their tracks. Now, all I can focus on is the burning band of fire on my skin; like a venomous bracelet. He pulls my hand up to my side, and we both look down at it.
He turns my fist over. Instinctively, I uncurl my fingers to reveal my palm.
To my surprise, he lets out a small hiss, like something about my action bothers him. Then he pools the necklace into my palm, creating a small, careful coil of pearls, and closes my hands back into a fist. I can feel his gaze, a heavy burden, against my cheek. But I don’t lift my eyes up from his hand wrapped around mine. It’s so big. Thick fingers and a heavy, hot touch.
He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, his voice has a rasp to it.
“Stealing is a sin, Aurora.”
I wince at how he wraps his lips around the vowels in my name.
And then with a heavy brush of his shoulder against mine, he’s gone. He strides across the lobby, the stained glass creating rainbows against his suit jacket, and disappears into the shadows.
Just like on the cliff, he didn’t even glance back.
I stand there in the darkness, with a stolen pearl necklace and a pounding heart.
