and Grill. Whatever. I have more important things to do than spy on my uncle’s whore.
The sign slapped above the door is missing most of its vowels, and I’d bet my Bugatti the inside is just as neglected. Ever since I was a kid, it’s always been the type of joint that makes you want to wipe your feet on the way out.
That’s the thing about Devil’s Dip. The places, the people. The fucking weather. Nothing about this shit-hole town ever changes. Stepping out of the storm and into the shipping container, I’m immediately proven right. The same splinter-laden bar made from washed-up wood; same old-timers propping it up. Even the bullet hole in the roof is still there from where my father shot his pistol into the air to restore law and order among disgruntled port workers.
And the bloodstain on the rug from when one of the stupid bastards didn’t take his threat seriously.
I stare at the rainwater sloshing into the bucket in disgust. Dante must have slipped something into my whiskey last night, because I can’t see any other logical reason why I agreed to meet him here.
Or why I would have agreed to meet him at all.
The armchair by the fireplace grunts as I sink into it. Twisting my head toward the bar, I signal to the girl behind it to come over. She startles, points to her chest and mouths, me?
Yeah, I guess table service isn’t the done thing in bars made from abandoned shipping containers.
By the time I’ve dusted the rain from my coat and raked a hand through my wet hair, she’s hovering over me, wringing her hands. “Y-yes?”
“Smugglers Club on the rocks.”
There’s a hiss from the other side of the room. Looking up, I lock eyes with an old man hunched over a table made from a crate. I know his type. Too old to still be slinging cargo on the docks, but he comes here every day to drown his sorrows with cheap beer, watching the port run fine without him through the rain-streaked window. Around here, men like him don’t have anything else to do.
The girl flashes me an apologetic smile. She’s blond, all sunny smiles and nervous energy. “Sorry about that. Uh, the Smugglers Club factory is in the town over, and the people around here aren’t too fond of the family who owns it.”
I ignore her in favor of holding the man’s gaze. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. Crack my knuckles. It’d be so easy to take the two strides over to him, wrap my hand around his throat and make sure he’s unable to ever fucking hiss again.
I break my blistering glare and turn back to sunny smile girl. “He’ll have one too. And make it a double.”
Guess I’m not that loyal to the Visconti name.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, then scurries away. She disappears into a back room, the sound of rummaging and clinking even louder than the rain hammering on the tin roof. I wonder what her story is. Girls with the biggest smiles harvest the darkest secrets. And besides, you must be repenting for something if you’re working in this joint.
“You.”
My eyes flick lazily to my left. Another old man, regarding me with fascination rather than a scowl.
“Is it really you? One of the Angels of Devil’s Dip? I haven’t seen you in years, kid.”
Yeah, and I haven’t heard that nickname in years. I huff out a laugh, one that tastes like bitter nostalgia, and turn my attention back to the pathetic excuse for a fire.
The Angels of Devil’s Dip. That’s what the locals used to call me and my brothers growing up, because we were the deacon’s sons. That and the fact we were pale, blond, and angelic-looking. Back then, we didn’t look like we had an ounce of Sicilian blood running through our veins, but as we grew upward and outward, our hair got darker and our skin more tanned, despite living in a town that saw about thirty minutes of sunshine a year.
“It’s an honor to see you back in town, kid,” the man says, tugging the beanie hat off his head and clutching it to his chest. “Your father was a great man.”
Kid. I could tell him in not a fucking kid anymore. I’m a thirty-six-year old man, founder and CEO of a multi-billion-dollar investment firm.
I could also tell him my father was not a great man.
But I don’t. I can’t be fucked. Getting into scraps with the locals was always beneath me and it isn’t the reason for my visit.
The bar girl brings over a dusty bottle dug out from the depths of the storage room, sloshes the brown liquid into a glass and sets it down on the three-legged table in front of me.
She glances at my Rolex. “If you’re looking for Devil’s Cove, you got off the interstate two junctions too early.”
“Wren,” the beanie-wearing man hisses, “that’s Alonso Visconti’s son.”
I don’t tear my gaze away from the fire. I don’t need to, because I can hear the cogs whirring in her brain. She mutters a curse word, followed by a mumbled apology, then scurries back to the safety of the bar.
I turn back to the man who hissed. There’s now a large glass of Visconti-produced whiskey next to his half-drunk beer. With a nasty grin spread across my face, I lift my glass to him, then take a large gulp.
He isn’t scowling anymore.
Both he and the doe-eyed bastard who’s up my father’s ass. They represent the entire population of Devil’s Dip. You either loved or hated my father, and in the rare event you were impartial, you still sure as hell knew who he was.
He and his two brothers were the first generation of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra to cross the Atlantic. New York was overcrowded and Boston was dominated by the Irish, so they traveled up and west until they found the isolated Devil’s Coast. It had nothing but three shitty towns running along the length of it. They drew straws to decide who got what turf, and my father got Devil’s Dip, seemingly the worst of a bad bunch. The waters were choppier, the cliffs were rockier, and the people were more…simple than they were further up the coast. But the port? It was perfect for black market cargo.
Nobody docks in Devil’s Dip unless they have to. The waves are relentless, and the cliff curves around to hug the dock, making it invisible to incoming ships that have no business being there. It’s small, nondescript, and draws no attention from local authorities. Plus, it’s got easy trade routes along the West Coast, as well as Canada and even Russia.
The smallest towns have the biggest secrets, Angelo. That’s what my father would always say when I was growing up. When I’d look at the bright lights of Devil’s Cove or see my cousins in Devil’s Hollow sealing seven-figure deals in business meetings with investors from New York, and ask him why he’s still here.
And the bigger the secrets, the more power we have.
Over the rim of my glass, I study the two men. One shiny-eyed with nostalgia, the other growling into the bottom of his beer. No doubt one benefited from my father’s reign, while the other lived in fear of it.
In other words, one had a bigger secret than the other.
Behind me, the door flies open and Dante’s voice carries in with the blistering chill. Both snake down the back of my lapel in the most uncomfortable of ways.
“You’re early, Vicious.”
I roll my eyes at the nickname, slam my drink, and wave in the direction of the bar for another. I’m going to need it. But then, another voice takes the edge off my mood.
“I’ve found it.”
“Found what?” Dante grunts.
“The most depressing place on earth. I bet even the cockroaches have fucked off.”
My lips curve at the sound of Tor’s cocky voice. I turn to see him approach the bar and slam his fist against it. “Bastardo,” he mutters, bringing his hand up to examine it. “I got a fucking splinter.”
The bar girl appears from the back room, clutching the Smugglers Club bottle, the frozen smile on her face not doing a good job of hiding the panic in her eyes. She might not have known me, but she sure as hell will know Tor and Dante.
“Oh look, it’s the Good Samaritan.”
“I have a name, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, just give us that.” Tor grunts, lunging over and grabbing the bottle from her.
“Uh, okay. Um, anything else?”
“Yeah, a tetanus shot.”
I shake my head, mildly amused.
“Can’t bring him anywhere.”
I hadn’t noticed Dante sink into the armchair opposite. He leans back, regarding me. As always, his tight smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Just like his father, he represents everything I hate about being tied to the Visconti name. The Cosa Nostra runs through his veins like a nasty virus, and he dresses like he’s just wandered off the set of a Marlon Brando film.
Tor saunters over and slams the bottle on the table between us. “Good to see you, cugino. You usually only grace the Coast for Christmas and funerals, so I was surprised to see you turn up to dinner last night. You here for your parents’ memorial service? ‘Cause that’s over two weeks away.”
“No,” Dante says quietly. “He wants to come home.”
Behind the rim of my glass, I bite back a smirk. So that’s why he was so insistent last night on meeting me today. When everyone was asking me why I was in town, my answer of “just visiting” wasn’t convincing enough for him.
He’s wrong. I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than move back to Devil’s Dip and take my rightful place as capo, but the way his beady gaze shifts around my features, the way he white-knuckles his glass, it makes me realize he’s nervous. So, I’ll let him sweat it out a little longer.
Tor whistles. “Is it finally the return of Vicious Visconti?”
My jaw works. Just like Angels of Devil’s Dip, Vicious Visconti is a nickname from a different lifetime. For the last nine years, there’s been nothing vicious about me. But I can’t deny it—hearing Tor call me that sends a zap of adrenaline down my spine.
It felt good to be vicious.
“I’m not moving back. Like I said last night, I’m just visiting.”
Lie. You’d have to be lobotomized to visit Devil’s Dip without an agenda. Tor’s right—I fly back for Christmas and funerals and very little in between. I stay just long enough to shake hands with my uncles and fist-bump my cousins. To kiss aunts on the cheek and to let them pinch mine as they tell me how big I’ve grown. Being in this town for too long makes me feel like I’m losing brain cells. Plus, there’s only so many times I can hear the question: When are you coming back?
Everyone always wants to know when I’m fucking coming back.
I don’t like Dante even nearly enough to tell him that I’m here because of a goddamn fortune cookie.
Relief flickers in his eyes, and I have the immediate urge to distinguish it.
“But when I do decide to take over Devil’s Dip again, you’ll be the first to know,” I add. “Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”
He damn near chokes on his whiskey. Smoothing down his shirt—Italian, no doubt—he sets down his glass and glowers up at me. “Warm? I’ve completely transformed it. I’ve overhauled the infrastructure, bought a whole fleet of private-use vessels. Hired round-the-clock security to patrol the town. Hell, I have the port officials wrapped around my little finger and I’ve secured new trade routes to Mexico and the Middle East.” His nostrils flare. “I’ve done more than keep it warm,” he growls.
His outburst lingers in the air like a bad smell. Basking in the heat of his glower, I slowly roll my wrist, swirling the brown liquid around my glass. I let him sweat. Then, when the tension is deliciously thick, I meet his glare with one of my own.
“So, when I decide to return, you’ll show me how it’s done.”
“Return? It must be nice, having the luxury to come and go as you please while I hold down your territory for you.”
And there it is—one of the many reasons why Dante despises me. The sneers and the loaded comments, they’ve been a wedge between us for as long as I can remember, and being a whole continent apart for almost a decade hasn’t changed a thing. It started when we were just kids; he always thought my brothers and I were childish because of the special game we’d play. And then that disdain turned into jealousy when our game meant we killed a man long before he was even allowed to pick up a gun.
Oh, and then I fucked his prom date. Can’t remember why, though.
Now, the moment I step foot on the Coast, I feel his hostility. He hates that I went against his beloved tradition, and he hates that it’s the same tradition stopping him from taking over Devil’s Dip entirely and having full, unprecedented access to the port.
I raise my glass and wink. “That’s what family is for, right?”
The silence blisters hotter than the fire. His jaw ticks and his throat bobs as he swallows the bitter retort he was about to spit out.
We glare at each other, and I can feel that familiar darkness swirling in the pit of my stomach. The adrenaline buzzing around the edges of my brain. I lick my lips, ignoring the rattling sound of Vicious Visconti trying to escape his cage. Since going straight, I’ve tried to chase the high with fast cars and whores that don’t have the word “no” in their vocabulary, but nothing comes close to the feeling of being a cruel fucker.
I swapped this life for a penthouse office and boardrooms and fucking spreadsheets. But it hasn’t been easy. At least I get to indulge in my dark side once a month. That’s probably the only reason I’m not stuffing my fist through his face.
Tor clears his throat and rises to his feet. “I’m going for a smoke. Come on, perhaps standing in the pissing rain with me will cool you two dogs down.”
Without a word, Dante and I follow Tor through the bar and to the patio at the back. The porch is nothing but four slats of timber wood tied together with fisherman’s rope, and the only things shielding us from the storm are a couple of crates that form a makeshift roof. Tor casts his eyes upwards, mutters something about OSHA under his breath, and lights his cigarette.
Wedged a few yards up the side of the cliff, the patio of the Rusty Anchor offers an uninterrupted view of the port. Despite my disdain for it, I can’t deny that it’s glossier than when I was a kid. The harbor is twice the size, the gangways and the ramps have been fully restored. Hell, even the harbormaster’s office has been renovated—it used to be nothing but a creaky old hut that’d groan in the wind, and now, it’s made from bricks and even has windows.
Tor offers his cigarette pack to me but I shake my head.
“What are you guys running through here now?”
“Still what you agreed to. Ammo goes out. Coke and party pills come in. Along with the usual restaurant and hotel supplies for Cove, of course.” He blows out smoke into the rain and grins at me sideways. “Don’t worry, if we decide to start trafficking Russian whores, we’ll make sure to run it by you first.”
“Sounds lucrative.”
“Sounds like you want a cut,” Dante growls. I glance over to see him leaning against the corrugated iron walls of the shipping container, hands stuffed into his pockets. “What were you talking to our father about last night?”
I don’t bite. Instead, I turn my back to the stormy sea and look left, taking in the glittery lights of Devil’s Cove in the distance. In front of it, Devil’s Hollow looms like a dark shadow, and our old school, the Devil’s Coast Academy sits on top of it like a poisonous cherry on top of a cake. I crane my neck directly upward, eyes landing on my father’s church. Then focus on the headland in front of it, where, Wednesday morning, I came across my uncle’s latest whore standing too close to the edge. I’d barely gotten a glimpse of her, just a shock of blond hair peeking out from under her hoodie and a brief glance at her face as I’d turned to leave. Usually, it wouldn’t be enough to recognize her from across the dining table like I did last night. But then when she glared at me from the other side of the room, I knew those eyes instantly. They are the color of warm whiskey.
I stuff my hands into my coat pockets, bracing my back against the howling wind. Fair play to the old bastard—she’s a smoke show for sure. That fucking red dress she’d poured herself into; Jesus, any man with a pulse would get a hard-on at that visual.
“Speaking of your father, I see he has another gold-digging whore already,” I drawl, lazily dragging my gaze back down the rocks to Tor. “They get younger every year.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, younger and hotter. Fuck knows where he picked her up.”
“Meaning?”
“Usually Big Al’s girls are club rats. You know, lingering around the VIP area in my clubs trying to find a meal ticket. But Aurora? I’d never seen her before.” He flicks the butt of his cigarette into the rain and tucks his chin into his jacket. “Trust me, I’d have spotted that hot piece of ass a mile away,” he mutters.
I chew on this nugget of information for a moment. Interesting. Sure, she has all the same components as the others that came before her—blond hair, big tits, and legs as long as a Monday—but she’s definitely different. A smarter mouth. A smirk prickles my lips as I remember pulling Vivi’s pearl necklace out of her ample cleavage. And a dirty little thief.
I glance back up at the cliff edge and an uninvited thought seeps into my brain. Why did she want to jump? But I shake it off as quickly as it arrives. I truly don’t give a flying fuck about my uncle’s latest leech. And besides, I’d kill myself too if my only way out of Devil’s Dip was to hand my virginity over to a seventy-year-old sleazeball.
Tor’s cell buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, looks at the screen and groans. “Work,” he grumbles, before dipping back inside. Now, it’s just me and Dante, and I realize he’s been awfully quiet over the last few minutes.
We lock eyes and his glare darkens. “Why are you really here, Angelo?”
Turning my attention back to the sea, I drag a knuckle through my beard and steel my jaw.
“Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Without looking back, I shove past him, head into the bar and stroll toward the door. As I pass, Tor grabs my arm, pulls his cell away from his ear and mouths, where are you going?
I pull out a stack of cards from my breast pocket and toss them in the tip bowl. “Meeting the Hollow clan for lunch.”
“Tell Benny he owes me forty-grand from last week’s poker game, yeah?”
I nod, then keep walking.
“You coming round for Sunday lunch tomorrow?” he calls after me.
A groan rumbles in my chest. The Cove clan loves a fucking get-together. I’d rather stick my dick in a car door, but instead of telling him that, I lift my hand up in a half-wave and crash out into the parking lot.
Slipping into the car, I let out a hiss of breath. The rain falls in sheets against the windshield, and the wind threatens to rip off the side mirrors. Man, this weather. I start the car and slice through the storm, snaking along the road cut into the cliff face, which I’ll take until I’m at the highest point of Devil’s Dip. To get to Devil’s Hollow, you have to come up to the top of the cliffs and cut across them, before taking the narrow, winding lane that leads down to the town below. Locals call it Grim Reaper road, because the slightest oversteer will have the man himself looming over your shoulder.
This should be a fun drive.
The engine groans up the incline, and the radio crackles as it struggles to find a signal. I strum my fingers against the steering wheel and try to remember the last time I saw the Hollow Viscontis—I don’t see them nearly as much as my brother Rafe does. Seems like he’s partying with them every other week.
Ah, yes, it was a few months ago. Castiel’s engagement party. He’s marrying a sour-faced Russian who hates him as much as he hates her. She’s the heir to the Nostrova Vodka company, so, another business arrangement. No surprises there—the only people in this family dumb enough to marry for love are Donatello and Amelia.
And my mother.
On the top of the cliff, a familiar building looms in the distance, getting closer with every swish of the wipers. A groan escapes my lips. Of course. I’d forgotten I have to pass my father’s church on the way to Hollow, and I can’t be fucked to deal with all the memories it drags up right now. When I arrived on the coast on Wednesday, I decided to do what I always do: head straight to the church even before dumping off my bags at the Visconti Grand hotel. Get all the anger and the bitter nostalgia out of my system before I dive into the family gatherings and the air kisses and the small talk. But then a certain somebody was already in my usual spot, and she proved to be quite the distraction.
As I round the graveyard, I notice a car parked at the entrance. Strange. The only people buried here within the last century are Viscontis, and the only reason a local would visit a Visconti grave is to piss on it. Maybe it’s the territorial instinct in me, left over from when I actually gave a shit about this place, but I slow down, then come to a complete stop under the willow tree. Upping the speed of the wipers, I squint through the windshield and the low-hanging branches, trying to figure out who’s in the car. The headlights are on high-beam, casting a yellow glow over lop-sided headstones that are sinking into the mud, and a small trail of smoke escapes the gap in the driver’s side window. A man’s hand pokes out, flicking cigarette ash onto the gravel.
Gripping the steering wheel, I frown and lean closer, trying to get a better look at who’s in the car, and realize their head is turned, as if they are looking to the right. I follow their gaze across the road. The bus stop is empty, but the phone booth next to it is not.
My frown deepens. Jesus, who the fuck uses a phone booth these days? The flickering bulb built into the roof of it illuminates a silhouette. A female with long blond hair and a willowy figure.
Letting out a huff of air, I slump back into the seat and mutter under my breath. You’ve gotta be shitting me. It’s Alberto’s girl, Aurora. Sure, her hair is different—wild curls instead of poker-straight strands—and she’s in sweats and sneakers instead of that sexy red dress, but it’s definitely her. I turn down the crackling radio, as if it’ll magically help me hear what she’s saying, and watch her for a moment. She twirls the phone cord around her fingers and talks animatedly into the mouthpiece. Whoever is on the other side of the line clearly doesn’t have much to say, as she’s doing all the talking.
What the fuck are you doing here, girl? And who are you talking to?
Shaking my head, my fingers graze the key in the ignition. I don’t give a flying fuck who she’s talking to. It’s clearly someone she doesn’t want my uncle to know about, otherwise she’d use her cell. Whatever. Alberto’s sugar baby is none of my business, and I couldn’t care less what she gets up to behind his back.
I’m just about to start the engine when she abruptly hangs up, turns to the car, and knocks on the glass door of the phone booth. The car lights switch off, and the figure gets out the driver’s side, holding an umbrella. He hustles across the road, opens the door, and holds the umbrella above her head with one hand, then snakes the other around her waist. As he guides her across the road, I get a good look at him.
It’s that kid, the lackey. Max, or whatever his name is; he must be her escort. My knuckles whiten over the steering wheel and annoyance prickles my skin. He’s holding her close, really fucking close, and by the way he’s gazing at her under the streetlights, I can tell it’s not just because he’s trying to keep her dry.
None of my business. This is not why I’m here.
But I can’t shake the irritation that itches under my collar like a rash. It must be another instinctual thing, just like being territorial over my father’s church. I might not be the biggest fan of Alberto or his sleazy love life, but he’s still family.
I’ll wait. Just for a minute.
They reach the car, and to my surprise, Aurora doesn’t get in. Instead, they have a short conversation, Max hands her the umbrella—fingers brushing against hers—then he gets in the car and drives off.
A low whistle slips through my lips. Leaving the Don’s fiancee on the side of the road alone? In a shit hole like Devil’s Dip? That kid’s asking for a bullet in his head.
If I were a better man, I’d kick this car into gear and take her home.
Too bad I’m not.
Instead, I watch as she stands there, eyes following the car until the lights disappear into the fog, before she turns her attention to the graveyard.
I freeze, and an icy thought trickles into my brain, slower than syrup.
The cliff edge. Is she going to finish what I interrupted?
There’s a lump in my throat and I’m not sure how it got there. Or how my hand moved from the steering wheel to the door handle. I’ve seen people kill themselves dozens of times. Hell, I forced some of them to write their suicide notes.
My fingers drop off the handle and into my lap. Not my problem—I have enough of those. I’m not getting out the car.
She takes a step forward, toward the path that cuts through the graveyard and to the cliff headland.
Fuck it, I’m getting out the car.
Just as I yank on the handle, she comes to an abrupt stop, then turns. Walks down the road.
“Fucking hell, girl. Make up your mind,” I grumble to myself. Before I can talk myself out of it, I start the vehicle, flick my lights off, and crawl down the street behind her.
I’m not a patient man, never have been. And as the owner of the largest supercar collection in Europe, I’m not used to driving at this speed. Nor am I used to following young women down empty roads without their knowledge. Not really my bag.
After what feels like forever, she turns off, and I realize she’s heading into the Preserve. First the phone booth, then the forest. What the fuck is this girl up to?
I don’t mean to wait. I tell myself just a couple more minutes, but an hour ticks by, and I still haven’t moved.
And then I see her. She steps out from behind the trees, then Max’s car crawls back down the street to greet her. He gets out, plants a kiss on her neck, and guides her back to the car.
As they drive off, I realize I’m grinding my jaw. There’s something bitter on my tongue, a taste I don’t recognize. Steeling my spine, I start my car and spin my wheel into full lock to head in the direction I just came, all stealthiness out the window.
So, she’s a gold-digger and a thief.
She represents everything I hate about this life. To my uncle, she’s nothing but a piece of pretty pussy and something to brag about over a poker game. To her, my uncle is a walking, talking Amex, with a spend limit worth spreading her legs for.
