trying to squeeze me into is two sizes too small, but she’s not the type of woman to back down from a challenge. Women who wear tweed pencil skirts and half-moon spectacles, and scrape their hair back into the tightest bun possible, never are. She folds my flesh with one hand and yanks up the zipper with the other.
“Oh, flamingo,” I hiss, glowering at her in the full-length mirror. She looks up and pins me with a glare of her own.
“You need to stop with all the candy,” she snaps, bending down to tug on my hemline. It’s pointless; the dress still barely covers the curve of my ass. “You think I don’t see all those wrappers in the garbage? Stuffed inside your purses? Cut them out and your waistline will thank you.”
“Or you could stop buying me dresses meant for a twelve-year-old,” I snap back.
Of course, with its plunging neckline, it’d be very inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. It’s also incredibly inappropriate for lunch, but I’m not feeling very argumentative today; I never am on Sundays. It bridges the gap between Saturday and Wednesday, which are the days I get to see my father. Also, these Sunday lunches are much more civilized than Friday dinners. Everyone is quieter, meeker, especially if they’ve partied hard the night before.
Greta’s hand clamps my shoulder as she nods to the vanity. “Sit.”
My heart sinks. “Aw come on. Can’t I just have one lunch where I don’t have to—”
“Aurora, sit in the chair and keep your mouth shut.”
Nostrils flaring, I slowly sink in front of the mirror.
“I don’t know why you always insist on arguing,” she mutters, ripping open the dresser drawer and pulling out her torture tools: the straightener and the hairbrush. “Signore Alberto likes your hair straight. He doesn’t ask much of you but gives you so much in return. The very least you could do is wear your hair how he likes.” She punctuates her sentence by dragging the brush through my curls. A million strands of my hair scream for help. I suck in a lungful of air and clench my fingers over the hem of my dress. “You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
“You marry him, then.”
My retort is met by a swift thwack on my head with the back of the brush. I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter a bird-word under my breath. The bitterness swirls in the pit of my stomach, and my fingers ache with the need to curl into a fist and connect it with her stupid face. But Greta is Alberto’s head housekeeper and most brainwashed follower, so I know she reports everything back to him without fail. I’d rather a crack around my head from her than something more sinister from Alberto.
She’s worked for him so long that she speaks fondly of changing Dante’s diapers. It’s obvious that she’s been in love with him for just as long, too. My guess is she’s bitter that somewhere between all the wives, she never got a look in. Maybe she had the chance when she was younger, but now she’s way past her sell-by date in Alberto’s eyes, and she missed the window.
“Don’t move, I need to grab the anti-frizz serum.” She twirls around and stalks into the en-suite attached to the dressing room. Naturally, my eyes fall to her Cartier watch on the vanity, which she always takes off when tackling my mane. With a cursory glance to the bathroom door, I pluck a pin from a sewing cushion and scratch the pointed end deep into the watch face. I’ve considered stealing it several times because I’m sure it’s worth a hefty amount, but it was a gift from Alberto, so I’m sure she’d notice.
I lock eyes with myself in the mirror and afford myself a sigh. Bad things, petty bad things, are what keep me from going insane in my new, messed-up version of reality. Little acts of revenge keep me calm. Those, and candy.
Picking up my purse from the vanity, I rummage around for a sweet treat. There’s always something in here, whether it’s a stick of blueberry bubblegum or a pack of Nerds. My fingers brush over a half-melted Reece’s peanut butter cup. That’ll do. As I pull it out, a small, glossy card falls into my lap. Absentmindedly, I pick it up and flip it over.
Sinners Anonymous. The letters are embossed in gold, and underneath, the number is printed in silky black numerals. The card has taken a battering; there’s a crease in the middle where I once sat down with it in the back pocket of my jeans, and the edges curl in, like they are protecting my special little secret. I don’t know why I still carry the card with me after all this time, because I’d be able to recite the number in my sleep.
Whether or not I believe in fate, I don’t know, but I do know it was more than just a coincidence that I found this card on the darkest day of my life.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
A mouth full of blood, not all of it my own. Fresh finger-shaped bruises forming on my throat, and an ache between my thighs I didn’t ask for. I’d stumbled out of the Devil’s Coast Academy and into the parking lot. Got in my car and drove, until I could no longer see the school’s Gothic spires in my rear-view mirror. I made it as far as the church in Devil’s Dip before the reality of what they’d done to me—what I’d done to them—hit me like a tsunami. I couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t sure if I wanted to. If I deserved to. I staggered out of the car and into the rain, just to feel something other than the crushing sensation on my chest. As I leaned against the bus shelter, sobbing, I looked up, and that’s when I saw it. The small card pinned to the board in the phone booth opposite.
Sinners Anonymous.
I’d heard of it—everyone on Devil’s Coast had. A few years earlier, these cards had started turning up in tip jars in coffee shops and bars. Pinned to the walls of bathroom stalls in clubs, tucked in with the check at restaurants. When you called the number, it took you straight to an automated voicemail service, which prompted you to confess whatever sin or secret was weighing on your mind. It was so mysterious, and the excitement of it all rippled down the coast for a while, until the hype settled down like dust, and eventually, Sinners Anonymous just became entwined into the fabric of the area.
That first call, I made it on my knees, the phone tucked between my chin and shoulder as I clasped my hands together like a prayer. Now it’s become part of my life. Just like how religious people go to church to confess every Sunday, I call the Sinners Anonymous hotline twice a week from the same phone booth by the church. I confess everything I’ve done, from the slightly gray to the dark.
Greta bustles back into the dressing room and brings me back to present day. The next hour crawls by in a painful storm of tugging and muttering and the occasional burn mark on my neck. By the time Greta steps back and claps her hands, I’m the girl Alberto wants me to be again. Smokey eye makeup, blood-red lipstick, and a dress that clings to my curves like second skin.
Time for Sunday lunch.
Refusing to utter another word to Greta, I storm past her and click-clack into the hall. But just before I descend the marble staircase, a hushed voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Two voices, and something in the tone of the conversation makes me freeze, my foot hovering over the first step.
“It’s a standard contract. Just add the fucking clause and be done with it.”
Holding my breath, I peer over the railing and see a familiar silhouette in a corner of the lobby. Alberto. I can’t see the man he’s talking to, but as soon as he speaks, my blood runs cold.
“She’s already signed it. You know I can’t tamper with signed contracts, Alberto.”
That’s Mortiz, his lawyer. The one that breathed over me in Alberto’s office as I signed my life away.
“Oh, please. We both know she’s too stupid to have read it. Just draw up a new contract, add her signature to the bottom and we’ll be done with it.”
There’s a stagnant silence, followed by a nasal sigh. “Give me a few days to find another way. In the meantime, read through the new clause and let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to add.” There’s a shuffling sound and I brave leaning over the railing just enough to get a glimpse of Mortiz handing Alberto a brown folder. Then, he clears his throat. “You understand, don’t you, Alberto? If she realizes the contract is not the one she signed, she could sue. And you know the Superior Court isn’t your biggest fan right now— ”
Alberto cuts him off with a laugh so loud it echoes off the domed ceiling. “That girl doesn’t have two dimes to rub together. She’s a nobody, Mortiz. Besides, who’d believe her? Everyone knows her father is an old quack, so it’d be easy to convince everyone else she hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
My ears start to ring so loudly I can’t hear the rest of the conversation. I duck into an alcove, trying to stop myself from panting like a darn dog. What the hell is Alberto up to? Changing the terms of our contract?
Heat prickles under my skin and the lone Reese’s peanut butter cup in my stomach threatens to make an appearance. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. But he’s right. I’m a nobody, especially in this world. I don’t come from money or power. If he wants to screw me over, the three hundred dollars in my bank account will do nothing to stop him. He and his family own everything and everyone on this coast; nobody will help.
Over the thumping of my pulse, I hear Alberto’s booming footsteps head in the direction of his study, and I glance down just in time to see him leaving it again, empty-handed.
The decision is a split-second one, fueled by anger and determination. I do a quick sweep of the lobby, then make a clumsy sprint down the stairs and into his office. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of stale cigars and musty books. Heavy drapes on the bay windows keep out sunlight and keep in all the secrets, and although it’s so dark in here that I can barely see the desk, I don’t dare turn on the lamp. Instead, I shuffle blindly through files, bringing them up to my nose to read the first few lines. I rip open drawers. Even give the darn safe under the desk a frustrated kick. Nothing.
“Snooping is a sin, Aurora.”
The voice melts out of the shadows like butter on a warm day, gluing me to the spot. Oh, holy crow. Forcing myself to look up, my eyes land on a silhouette in the arm chair, one darker than the corner it’s occupying. Angelo. Christ, why is he still here?
Sucking in an unsteady breath, I steel my spine and try to keep the wobble out of my voice. “I’m not snooping, My fiance asked me to fetch him something,” I say, attempting a breezy tone. I continue to rustle through papers I care nothing about.
The floorboard groans as he rises to his feet. I hate how hyper-aware I am of his presence, how I can feel every heavy footstep he takes toward me in my chest, like the beating of a drum.
He leans his palms against the desk and looks up at me with hooded, lazy eyes. “Really?”
One simple word, loaded like a gun. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yes.”
I drop a hip in an attempt to look natural. It’s instinctive to twist a curl around my finger when I get nervous, but as I reach up to my hair, I’m met with nothing but poker-straight strands. Awkwardly, I let my hand go limp by my side. “Lurking in dark corners isn’t a sin, but it’s still weird as hell.”
His eyes flash with dark amusement. While he irritates me, I mildly amuse him, and it’s a feeling that makes the flame of annoyance flicker brighter in my stomach. Mildly entertaining. Like a rerun of a sitcom playing in the background as you make dinner, or a waving toddler in the car next to you on the freeway.
For some reason, I want to be anything but his mild entertainment. Anything but mild to him at all.
“You’re right. It’s not a sin. But you know what is?” He leans closer, closing in on the gap between us. My breathing shallows, but I don’t dare pull away. Don’t dare give him the satisfaction. “Cheating on your fiance. But cheating on Alberto Visconti with one of his lackeys? That’s a death wish.” His gaze drops to my lips, and I fight the urge to lick them. “You really do like living life on the edge, huh?”
His words contain too much information to process. Cheating with a lackey? He must mean Max, and that means…he saw us yesterday in Devil’s Dip. And by living life on the edge, he’s referring to the first time we met, on the cliff. My cheeks grow hotter by the second, and I feel like I’m burning and blistering under a dark sun, but I refuse to scurry back to the shade.
“For someone who hates Devil’s Dip so much, you’re sure there often,” I rasp.
He’s still and silent, gaze moving over my features like he’s waiting for more.
I hate that I give it to him.
“Alberto knows I spend Saturdays and Wednesdays in Devil’s Dip, and Max is my escort.” My voice is almost pleading, “I’m not cheating.”
“And you are not snooping.”
“Exactly, I’m not snooping.”
I hear footsteps in the lobby. They grow heavier and closer, until they are so close they rattle the golden ornaments on the desk between us. Angelo’s face is a network of hard lines, but even in the dim light, I can see his gaze dancing wildly.
“Well, let’s ask him.”
The doorknob turns and the light from the lobby floods the room. I drop the stack of papers in my hand, take a step back from the desk and turn to face the silhouette darkening the doorway.
I swear I hear Angelo chuckle.
Alberto pauses when he sees me. His eyes narrow, then flick to Angelo and back again. “What are you doing in here?”
Oh, flamingo. My brain and tongue can’t connect quick enough to come up with an answer. He raises a bushy eyebrow, his jaw ticking as he waits for my reply. But all I can think about is the bruising on my wrist, the cuts on my thigh. They burn with the ghost of his violence, which is getting worse by the day. There are only so many nightcaps I can spit in, only so many important legal documents I can steal and run under the bathroom tap.
Alberto takes a step forward. “Aurora—”
“I caught her on the way to lunch,” Angelo drawls, dragging his hands off the desk and unfurling his spine to his full height. He towers over his uncle and makes his office feel smaller than a matchbox. “Had a few questions about Dip.”
I steal a glance at him, but he’s looking down at his cell, expressionless. Like he’s already bored with the conversation. Bored with me.
My ears ring with his lie, and my mind races with all the reasons why he’d bother to lie for me at all. And then a small hit of adrenaline zaps down my spine. It rolled so easily off his tongue, like lying is second nature to him, and something about it…
I ignore the heat spreading between my thighs. Don’t be so ridiculous, Rory.
“Well, I hope you got what you needed,” Alberto says breezily. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a quick chat with you before lunch.” He looks at me pointedly. “Alone.”
I can’t get out of there quick enough. Before the door slams shut behind me, I feel the heat of Angelo’s gaze follow me out.
The brightness of the lobby feels like a hit of fresh air. I take a moment to steady my breathing and smooth down my dress, before heading toward the dining room on wobbly legs. Laughter and lighthearted chatter spill out from underneath the swinging doors, but another voice steers my attention to the right.
In the kitchen, Vittoria stands with her arms crossed, a lanky-looking boy of around the same age, opposite her. His suit is too big, his hair too floppy. He huffs it out of his eyes and says, “That necklace cost me my entire weekly allowance, Vivi. What do you mean you lost it?”
She rolls her eyes in a way that suggests this is the millionth time he’s asked. “I don’t know, Charlie, I was drunk. Besides, I’m like, sixteen. What sixteen-year-old do you know who wears pearls?”
Jesus. I need to start keeping a diary of all my sins, because I’ll end up forgetting what I need to confess to.
I slip into the dining room and the laughter gets louder. Today, the decor is less The Adam’s Family and more Architectural Digest. A white lace tablecloth runs the length of the dining table, adorned with checkered silk napkins and bell jars filled with carefully stacked pumpkins and squash. Outside the French doors, the sky is clear and the fall sun bright, making the Pacific ocean glitter.
There’s only one person at the table, and when I take my seat next to him, he gives my thigh a squeeze.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Max mutters.
“Jesus,” I mutter, swatting his hand away. “What have I told you? No touching.”
He leans his elbows on the table. “About that no touching rule…”
“Don’t start—”
“Hear me out.” He glances up toward the head of the table, and when he realizes it’s just us, he turns his attention back to me. “Angelo hasn’t said anything to Alberto about me leaving you to your own devices in Devil’s Dip, has he?”
I shake my head. I don’t bother telling him that he saw us yesterday, too.
“Good,” he purrs. “But that whole ordeal, it got me thinking. Leaving you to see your father on your own is a big risk, you know? If Alberto finds out, he’ll kill me.”
Twisting a napkin in my fists, I shoot him a scowl. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that big risks deserve big rewards.” He drags his eyes down to my chest, then a shit-eating smirk splits his face in two. “I need more from you, Aurora.”
It takes a few moments for his insinuation to click. But when it does, the rage spills out of my gut and through my arms and down to my hand, which curls into a fist and makes a beeline for his jaw. I catch the shock on his face before he grabs my hand.
“What the fuck?” he spits.
I try to snatch my hand back, but he refuses to let it go. “You’re all the same,” I hiss back, feeling my hand tremble against his palm. I yank it back again, but he curls his fingers tighter around my bones. “All you boys from that stupid school, you’re all the same.”
“Aurora, what the hell—”
“Let go of me,” I demand, not caring that my voice is growing louder, echoing through the empty dining room.
Suddenly, the doors swing open and Angelo strolls in. He pauses. He glances from me, to Max, then to our hands entwined between us. Max squeaks something inaudible and drops my hand like it’s burning him, but it’s too late. Panting with the weight of my outburst, I hold Angelo’s gaze as it grows as dark as an incoming storm.
It’s not what it looks like, I want to scream. I can’t have him tell Alberto what he just saw, or have him voice his suspicion that I’m sleeping with Max. Because hell, this man has enough over my head already.
Under the heavy silence, I study the table cloth and wish I could take my outburst back. It’s not just Max being a creep, it’s also Alberto being a damn snake about this contract, and it’s Angelo being…well, Angelo.
I’ll drown in the actions of this family.
Before he can say anything, the doors swing open again, and Alberto stomps in, two men strolling in after him.
“Drinks,” Alberto booms to no one in particular. But of course, only seconds after he sinks into his seat, a server appears holding a tray with a bottle of Smugglers Club and four glasses. Angelo sits in my usual seat and the two men sit next to him.
“Aurora, these are my two other nephews, Raphael and Gabriel,” Alberto says without looking up at me.
Through weary eyes, I turn to regard them. I’m in no mood for pleasantries. Max was right, and I recognize Raphael because he hangs around with Tor and the Hollow brothers. He has the same glittering, green eyes and silky, black hair as his brother, but he looks like he’s been put under immense pressure and came out the other side a shiny, diamond version of Angelo. Smooth, tanned skin, and when he flashes me a dazzling smile, dimples crease his cheeks, giving him a mischievous charm. He looks younger than Angelo—dresses younger too. His suit is sharp: a crisp slim-fit and a collar pin with two diamond dice on either side of it instead of a tie. When he lifts his drink to his lips, his matching cuff links glint at me.
“A pleasure, Aurora,” he drawls over the rim of his glass. He punctuates it with a wink that I bet makes most women drop their panties.
I force a polite smile and shift my attention to the other brother, Gabriel. Instantly, a chill runs down my spine. He has the same cold, unrelenting stare as Angelo, but there’s something darker behind it. More sinister. I don’t know…maybe it’s the thick beard, the angry scar carved into his face, or the tattoos crawling out from underneath his turtleneck sweater, but if I definitely wouldn’t want to bump into him in a dark alley.
He doesn’t say a word.
Slowly, the rest of the Viscontis pour in, plus a few extras, like the teenager in the too-big suit, who follows Vittoria into the dining room with the air of a recently kicked puppy, and to my surprise, the same girl Tor brought to dinner on Friday night.
And so Sunday lunch begins.
The pianist plays light jazz, the servers bring out honey-roasted hams and herb-crusted lamb, accompanied by glazed vegetables and potato Dauphinoise. Whiskey and apple cider cocktails flow, and I refuse them every time they pass, deciding it’s probably best to remain sober today, especially considering my mood. One swipe from the wrong Visconti, and I’m afraid I’ll lunge for the carving knife.
I’m drawn to the hum at the top of the table and through the curtain of my hair, I watch Raphael hold court. He’s telling a story, one so gripping that even Alberto isn’t interrupting with an anecdote. My eyes shift to Angelo, just in time to see him throw his head back and laugh.
My heart stills. Whoa. It’s deep, throaty, and genuine. The type of laugh that carves a mark in your memory. There’s a sudden dull ache under my rib cage, and briefly, I allow myself to wonder what it’d feel like to be the recipient of it.
Darn it, Rory. Cut it out.
Goose. Not only will this family drown me, they’ll turn me insane, too.
A sharp elbow in my ribs brings me back to reality. “Well?”
I shift my gaze to Max. “Well what?”
“You thought about what I said?”
My jaw hardens, that rage brewing in my gut again. I lower my head and shuffle my seat closer to whisper in his ear. The last thing I need is to draw Alberto’s attention.
“The only way I’ll touch you is when I put my hands around your throat and choke you in your sleep.”
He recoils, shocked. Stares at me for a few stunned seconds. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m just sick of you. All of you.”
“All of us?”
“Men. Everything is a damn exchange to you. News flash—when a woman wants something from you, she shouldn’t always have to pay with her body. Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned favor? You know, like when I begged Alberto not to log the Devil’s Preserve, he could have just agreed, instead of anchoring me to him with this damn ring on my finger. And when I asked you to give me some peace and quiet for a few hours in Devil’s Dip twice a week, you could have just agreed, instead of deciding that it’s an ask worthy of getting to grope my boobs in the back of your Lexus.”
I rip away from him and stare up at the gilded ceiling, taking deep, deliberate breaths. Is this it? Have I reached my limit?
As my attention falls back down to the table, I lock eyes with Angelo. He’s no longer laughing at his brother’s story, nor is he eating. Instead, he’s staring right at me, his hands clenched into fists on either side of his untouched plate. Once I acclimate to the chill of his gaze, I realize what he sees. Me and Max, shoulder to shoulder, heads huddled and having a private, heated conversation at the end of the table.
Panic claws at my throat, and I immediately put some distance between us.
“Aurora—”
“Not now, Max,” I mutter, picking at bits of ham.
“But—”
Ting, ting ting.
His plea is interrupted by the sound of a knife hitting crystal. A sound I’ve come to know all too well since having the misfortune to be engaged to Anecdote Alberto.
With a stifled sigh, I look up and prepare myself for a long speech. But Alberto is still sitting and looking to his left.
It’s Angelo who’s standing up, holding his whiskey glass in one hand and a knife in the other.
“May I have everyone’s attention, please.”
His voice is low yet commanding, and triggers immediate silence.
He basks in it for a few seconds, then shifts his attention to me. “Aurora, isn’t it?”
My eyes narrow. I know this jerk knows my name, because the way it rolls off his tongue is etched into my memory. But with a wary glance at Alberto, I nod.
“Aurora. Stand up.”
A soft laughter ripples around the room, the type tinged with uncertainty. What’s he playing at? With all eyes on me, I know I can’t cause a scene, so begrudgingly, I scrape back my chair and slowly rise to my feet.
“Perfect. Now, take three steps to the left.”
My cheeks grow hot, and everyone’s laughter gets louder, like he’s telling a joke and I’m the only idiot who doesn’t realize I’m the punchline. With a huff, I take one step back so I’m behind Vittoria’s seat, then take three deliberate steps to the left.
“Happy?”
But if Angelo replies, I don’t hear it.
There’s a glint in his right hand. Then the bang is too loud. The smell of gunpowder too strong, and the taste of blood splatter on my lips too tangy.
The bullet enters Max right between the eyes and exits out the back of his skull, taking half his brain with it. His head hits the table with a heavy thud, his blood turning the lace tablecloth crimson.
There are a few gasps. One scream from Tor’s date, Skyler. Vittoria mutters, ‘Oh, for fucks sake,” in the same tone you might use if you’d missed the bus. But it’s less than five seconds before silence settles around the table.
With my ears ringing, I look up at Angelo. As calm as a spring day, he sits down, sets the gun next to his napkin, and stuffs a forkful of ham in his mouth. He chews. Takes a sip of whiskey. Then he catches Alberto’s eye and waves his fork in his direction.
“The kid’s been selling your business plans to the Russians.” Then, lazily glancing around the rest of the table, he adds, “Eat up, your food will get cold.”
Raphael sniggers.
Tor lets out a low whistle.
The word vicious flashes behind my eyelids.
And I black out.
When I come around, I’m lying on the sofa in the family room. Harsh sunlight streams through the window, and on the other side, the branches of a willow tree scrape against the glass, like it’s trying to wake me up gently. A bird chirps. Without looking, I know it’s a Black-capped Chickadee. They are hardy little things that never migrate for winter. They never flee from their hometowns, even when things get cold and tough and uncertain. No, they stay with their families and do what it takes to survive.
I’ve always liked Black-capped Chickadees.
“If you want to be a part of this family you really can’t be so squeamish.”
I roll my head to the side and see Leonardo, Vittoria’s twin, spread across the armchair opposite. He’s tapping lazily on his phone, his floppy hair concealing one of his eyes.
“Huh?”
But then the memory floods back and I bolt upright, ignoring the pounding on the back of my head. Angelo shot Max. Looking down, there’s a red splatter against my dress. I lift a trembling hand to my lips, and sure enough, when I pull my fingertips back, they are covered in blood that isn’t mine.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, digging my fingers into the velvet fabric, trying to clamber to my feet. “Oh my god.”
The door opens and Amelia hurries in. “No, no. You stay right there, sweetie. You’ve had quite the nasty fall and I need to check your head.” She touches my arm. Sinks into the seat next to me. “Does it hurt?”
“He killed Max.”
It’s not a question, and Amelia doesn’t answer it. Instead, she gently tilts my head forward and brushes my hair away from the tender spot at the back of my head.
One second he was alive, eating herb-crusted lamb and drinking whiskey cider cocktails, and then the next…
Jesus. The last thing I remember before my world went dark is the image of his body slumped over the family’s fine china. Through the headache, a small, niggling voice in the back of my brain speaks to me. Did I do this?
But I bat it away. It’s a stupid, self-centered thought. Angelo Visconti wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire, just like he wouldn’t have grabbed me if I jumped off the cliff. And even if he truly believes I was cheating on his Uncle with Max, he doesn’t strike me as the type to shed blood over something that doesn’t concern him.
“Hold still,” Amelia murmurs. I wince under the touch of her cold fingers. Eventually, she pulls away and pats my lap. “No blood, just a big bump. Take it easy for the next few days, okay? Oh—and if you start feeling sleepy, let someone know.”
I take in her sorry smile and calm demeanor. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, concussion is no joke.”
I blink. “Amelia, Max just got shot. Dead. As in, he’s literally not alive anymore. And you’re…”
“You heard what Angelo said,” she says quietly, glancing to Leonardo, who’s now smirking under his hair. “He was a traitor.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No,” I murmur, “Max wouldn’t—”
“Well, he did,” she interrupts in a firmer tone. Then her eyes soften, like she regrets being so harsh. “I’m sorry, Aurora. I remember my first time like it was yesterday…” She huffs out air, slumps her shoulders. “But it gets easier, I promise. You have to remember the Visconti world is different from the one we’re used to.” With one last pat on my leg, she rises to her feet. “I’m here if you need to talk. In the meantime, try to rest.”
She crosses the carpet, ruffling Leo’s hair as she passes. “But how did he know that Max was a traitor? He doesn’t even live on the continent, let alone on the coast.”
The question slips from my lips before I realize I’m even thinking it.
She pauses, holding on to the door frame. “The same way he knows everything.” Then she slips out of the room, her heels click-clacking on marble in the distance.
I turn to Leo. “What does that mean?”
With a sigh, he tears his attention away from his phone and looks at me. “The Dip brothers have this hotline. Anyone can dial it and confess their secrets. Max probably called it. Snakes like him usually have a guilty conscience.”
No.
No, no, no.
“A hotline?” I croak.
“Yeah, you’ve probably seen the cards around.” Please god, no. “It’s called Sinners Anonymous.”
Not for the first time today, my world goes black.
