just as he’s sinking into a seat with a sleazy smirk on his face. It’s not my intention to talk to him, but I find my feet slow to a stop anyway.
I rest my knuckles on the table, lowering myself until my body casts a black shadow upon his cautious gaze.
Next to him, Phillip shifts three inches to the left.
“Uh, is everything okay, Mr. Visconti?”
Fear grips his voice, because although Clive exists in the legitimate side of my life, which is filled with boardroom meetings, red ribbons, and oversized checks, he’s well aware of what happens on the other side. The darker, seedier side, where hot, Italian blood runs deep and impulsive. Where made men wager broken fingers, and one can get their neck snapped for seemingly trivial matters, such as ordering shaken cocktails from busty bartenders.
“What are you drinking, Clive?” I ask calmly, my smile unwavering.
A drop of condensation slips off the glass and lands on the table with a loud plop. “Frozen margarita.”
My jaw ticks, and two trains of thought pull into the station.
The first is, no bartender with more than a day’s experience would dream of putting a margarita in a wine glass.
The second is, out of all the years I’ve known Clive, I’ve never seen him drink anything but vodka soda. I’ve certainly never seen him drink a cocktail—definitely not one that needs to be shaken by hand.
We stare at each other for a few beats, and I find myself biting back the surprising urge to connect my fist to his jaw. It’s a fleeting feeling, but my hand twitches in agreement. Jesus. I haven’t hit anyone with my bare hands since I bought my first casino almost ten years ago. I walked into a meeting with a potential investor, and he took one look at my busted knuckles and stood.
What he said over his shoulder before he left has stuck with me for life.
There’s only a small difference between a thug and a businessman, kid. One has blood on his hands, while the other has blood on someone else’s.
A month later, I hired Griffin. I’ve never felt the satisfaction of bones cracking under my fist since.
Above Clive’s balding head, a set of eyes rest heavily on me. I skim my gaze upward and find Gabe glaring over the top of his cards. He cocks a brow. It’s barely a twitch of a muscle, but coming from him, it’s enough to end a life.
I pause. Chew on the inside of my cheek and consider his silent offer. It’s a given all the big-wigs at Miller & Young have earned their place at the top of my hitlist today. Last Thursday, their stock price started sliding south and hasn’t recovered all week. It took me hauling the board of directors all the way to the Coast to find out why. The CFO is secretly being investigated for embezzlement, and not a single one of the idiots was brave enough to pick up the phone and tell me.
They’ll each meet their demise in due time, but in true Griffin fashion, they’ll go out with a whisper, not a bang. A silencer pressed to a temple in an empty parking lot. Faulty brakes on a freeway.
It’s not because I’m above the whole sadist thing. I really am not. I just keep that side of me well-groomed and tethered on a tight leash. I let it loose only for one week a month, when my brothers and I play our game. Once it’s over, I put a muzzle on it and go back to outsourcing my problems.
Go back to eliminating with efficiency, rather than killing with flare.
I give Gabe a reluctant shake of my head. Without a break in his expression, he carries on with his game and I turn my attention back to Clive, a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill stretching my lips.
“Enjoy.”
The sound of my ring rapping against the table makes him flinch.
Outside on the terrace, I stick to the shadows until I reach the farthest end of the empty seating area, where the sound of a good time barely reaches my ears.
The sky is dark, the ocean darker. Its waves are rugged, relentless, and every time they slap against the hull, a light mist rises up and sizzles against my skin.
I lean back against the railing, light a cigarette, and exhale its smoke into the orange glow of a security light. Each drag loosens another knot between my shoulders, and now that I’ve put distance between myself and the…issue, I can see just how trivial it is. Ridiculous, even. Across all of my establishments, I have a staff of over twelve thousand and have never seen any of them as anything but a number on an expenses form. And that’s all Penelope is—an expense. A number on an Excel spreadsheet, just like all the other girls. With another drag on my cigarette, I make a vow that, for the very short time the little red-head will work for me, she’ll cost me only a dollar amount, and not my fucking sanity.
Even if she tightens her ponytail like that.
“Oh, for goose’s sake, I’m not a child, Angelo!”
Rory’s soft, white wine-tinged voice floats through the night and steers my attention to the French doors on the other side of the terrace. A few moments later, she stomps through them, my brother looming over her like a dark, protective shadow.
“There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you watch, Magpie. You cried for three days straight when a pigeon flew into my car windshield. Remember that? You didn’t sleep a wink because you were traumatized by the sound of its bones breaking. You know how much louder human bones sound?”
“Benny’s not exactly an innocent little bird,” she snaps back. She attempts to stomp off toward the side deck, but Angelo grabs her wrist and spins her into his chest.
“But you’re an innocent little bird,” he mutters, bending down to kiss her forehead. “My little bird, and I don’t want you to be upset.”
“Okay, fine,” Rory sighs, leaning against his chest. They stand like that for a few moments until Rory snaps her head back and points toward the ocean. “Holy crow, did you see that?”
“See what?” Angelo growls, brushing his hand over the back of his slacks, where I know he keeps his gun.
“I’m pretty sure I just saw a humpback whale.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh, look.”
She points over the railing and out to the inky abyss. My brother untangles himself from her and squints to the horizon.
“I don’t see—fuck’s sake.”
He realized too late that Rory’s got her heels in her hand, sprinting down the side deck toward the bow. The strong wind carries her gleeful, parting retort.
“Humpback whales in December? Don’t be an idiot, baby.”
I laugh aloud, and from across the terrace, Angelo’s eyes find mine and darken with annoyance. I crack an imaginary whip, which only pisses him off even more. He mutters something bitter under his breath, before flipping me off and storming down the deck after his wife.
Still grinning, I turn around, flick my cigarette butt into the ocean and rest my forearms on the railing. Only a few beats of peace pass before the crash of another glass snaps my shoulders into a tight line and wipes the smirk off my face.
I palm my jaw. Four.
To my right, the staff door connecting the bar to the outside seating area bursts open. White light and irritation flood out of it.
“Just get out of my way for a little while, yeah?” Freddie hisses. My gaze slides sideways. He holds the door open and glares at Penelope as she slinks past him and out onto the terrace.
She peers around, regarding the empty tables and chairs with bewilderment, before whipping around to face him. “And do what, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Penny. Collect glasses and empty the ashtrays, perhaps? You know, things that real bartenders do?”
Penelope steps toward him, but he slams the door in her face. Slams it a little too hard for my liking, and a strange sheet of irritation slides under my skin, cold and rigid. I suppose it’s the gentleman in me. By nature, I dislike watching a man—especially one on my payroll—talk to a woman like that, even if she’s one I’m not a fan of.
My own hypocrisy is not lost on me, because hell, only a few hours ago, I told the same girl I should have whacked her over the head with a hammer. Just like whipping out my Glock at a wedding, it was very out of character for me. Self-control sits at my very core, tethering me like an anchor, and yet, it seems to defy gravity the moment she steps into my vision.
An uneasy possessiveness creeps over me and settles in a noose around my neck. It’s almost as if she’s mine to be pissed off at. Nobody else’s. Definitely not Freddie the fucking barman’s.
She pushes off the door and weaves through the tables, picking up beer glasses and tucking them into the crook of her arm as she goes. My torso twists like it’s tethered to her, forcing me to witness her hemline slip up her thighs and the fabric of her neckline gape away from her chest every time she bends over to pick up another glass.
Irritation flares in my chest with every dip. With every glimpse of tights-clad thigh and every flash of black bra. Black. Of course her bra is black. Bet it’s lace, too. Bet she never matches it to her panties, and, speaking of panties, I bet they are obscene. Dental floss things I could snap off with my teeth, or, at the very least, the type that barely covers her pussy.
Fuck, she’s annoying. I have half a mind to throw her overboard based on my assumption of her underwear preferences alone.
Stop it. She’s barely old enough to drink. I’m burning up and just about to light up another cigarette in an attempt to short-circuit the semi forming in my slacks when she suddenly stops collecting glasses. Balancing them precariously in her arms, she crosses the seating area to the railing and stares out to the black silhouette of the Coast.
Her eyes close and she tilts her head up to the moon. I can’t take my eyes off her. Thick lashes rest on pale, round cheeks. Rhythmic puffs of condensation escape plump, parted lips, before being carried away by the same wind that makes her long, red ponytail dance.
Something unwanted, unsavory, burns in my chest, but common sense snuffs it out like a hard blow extinguishing a candle.
She’s not the Queen of Hearts; she’s far too uncivilized for that. No, just a red-herring with a killer body. Dangerous, sure, but only to weak-willed idiots like my cousins and security detail, not to a man like me.
The decking groans under my feet as I step out of the shadows, and immediately, Penelope stills. Her eyes pop open, but they don’t come to me. Instead, she glares out to sea and hardens her jaw, as if she knows, just by the sound of my footsteps, that the silhouette looming beside her is me.
Petty amusement fills me as I stroll in her direction. I have every intention of ignoring her and heading back inside. Treating her like an expense on a spreadsheet and not like a woman whose panties have me intrigued. But as I pass, I make the mistake of stealing a glance at her arm, and notice her skin is coarse with goosebumps.
And then I hear her teeth chatter.
Fuck’s sake.
When her pathetic shivering doesn’t stop, I slide my suit jacket off and slip it over her shoulders.
Despite the dramatic trembling, she falls still and silent under my touch. Perhaps it’s because I’ve threatened to snuff the life out of her more than once, or perhaps it’s because my hands are curled into fists around the lapels of the jacket, and my knuckles are resting lightly on the soft curves of her breasts.
A firework fueled with both annoyance and lust explodes inside my rib cage as I feel the textured fabric underneath her thin dress against the back of my hand.
Lace. I knew it’d be fucking lace.
I’m hotter than a furnace and the warmth of her back brushing against my chest only stokes the fire. Did she take a step back, or did I take one forward?
I don’t know whose fault it is, but now I can feel her heartbeat thumping on the other side of her spine, and I don’t like the way its rhythm matches my own. There’s a voice in my head telling me to step back. Telling me I’m no better than my pervert cousins, because masquerading as chivalrous only to cop a feel is something Benny would do.
But I don’t. Instead, I watch over Penelope’s head as her parted lips paint the night’s sky with white, shallow breaths. One. Two. Three. Each ragged and raspy, crackling like static along the length of my dick.
I can only imagine what those hot breaths would feel like against my throat as I railed the insolence out of her.
The thought makes my grip tighten around the fabric of my jacket. My knuckles press harder against her tits, and suddenly, the white puffs against the night’s sky grind to a halt.
Silence, heavy and tangible, swirls us. Somewhere near the bow, Benny screams and Rory laughs. I don’t even have it in me to smirk, but the sound makes Penelope flinch against my chest, and her head whips to the right so fast, strands of her ponytail slap against my lips, giving me an unwelcome taste of her strawberry shampoo.
“What was that?” she whispers.
My jaw grinds shut. “Benny getting his fingers broken.”
“Oh.”
A beat passes, before she slowly turns back to face the ocean. As she does, I can’t help but lower my mouth to the base of her ponytail so her hair brushes against my lips again.
Christ, I’m more of a simp than Vicious.
I steal another huff, and this time, something other than strawberry and hairspray assaults my nostrils. Something familiar. Mine.
The realization has claws and they dig under my skin; she’s wearing my aftershave.
She must have sprayed it on herself in my bathroom, sometime between drawing dicks and kissing tissues. For some unknown reason, it makes my blood boil hotter than it should. Maybe it’s because she’s been swanning around all night, giving every man on my yacht googly eyes while wearing my scent on her skin.
Maybe it’s because, now, she smells like a one-night stand. Women always do weird stuff like that the morning after. Use my products or steal a hoodie, something to keep the night alive a little longer.
Why the fuck does she want to smell like me?
My fingers twitch with the urge to curl around her pony, yank her head back and smell it at the source—the soft curve of her neck. But suddenly the image of her tugging at her own hair from across the bar slides into my muddy thoughts, followed by the look of triumph that curved her cupid’s bow when I looked away.
She’s not wearing my aftershave because she wants to smell like me. No, she’s wearing it because she knows it’ll piss me off.
She’s playing another silent, dangerous game. Only this one, she’s not going to win.
Amusement in its darkest form fills me, and I slowly inch my fists down the opening of my jacket, and uncurl them so my palms are lying flat just under the swells of her breasts.
Fuck. I can’t pretend like this isn’t the ultimate exercise in self-control. I’ve already touched her far more than I should any employee, and I know the ghost of her warm, soft flesh under my palms is going to haunt me well into the early hours.
But when her lungs expand under my palms and her head drops back against my chest with a little thud, I know I have her. And now, it’s time to ignore the maddening pulse throbbing in my cock, and swing for a home run.
I focus on the murky silhouette of the Coast in front of us and slide my fingers upward, brushing over the band of her bra, feeling the weight of her heavy tits in the space between my thumbs and forefingers.
And then, as gently as my impulsive Visconti blood will allow, I squeeze.
It’s barely a twitch, but Penelope gasps, and a few seconds later, the sound of four beer glasses hitting the lower deck below rips through the air.
Eight.
She curses roughly, yanks herself from my grasp, and leans over the railing.
Grinning, I close the gap between us again, curling my fists over the railing on either side of her and trapping her in.
I stoop low enough to brush my lips over the soft shell of her ear and to see the flush of red staining her neck. I fight the urge to sink my teeth in, and instead, focus my energy on controlling my voice as I deliver her a final parting word.
“Even the way you shiver is annoying.”
And with that, I push off the railing and leave her there, wrapped in my jacket.
I don’t need it anyway. I’m so hot and worked up that as I stride back into the casino, I’m tempted to pop off my dice cufflinks and roll up my sleeves, but I never roll my sleeves around business partners.
Laurie bustles past with a clipboard, and my hand shoots out to grab her wrist. Her eyes come to mine, wide and wary. “This can’t be good,” she sighs.
“Change the uniform.”
She frowns and glances down at her outfit. “To what?”
To something that covers Penelope’s ass cheeks.
A vein throbs in my temple. “It’s not appropriate for winter. Get pants or something.”
She shrugs. “Uh, okay. With the boat logo and everything they’ll take me about four days to source, but they’ll be here for opening night.”
I leave her with a curt nod, before making a beeline for Gabe. He’s leaning against the end of the bar, taping up Benny’s broken hand. As I approach, his eyes meet mine, brimming with amusement.
“Good chat?”
Fucking Gabe. I swear, sometimes I think he disappeared for so long because he went and got eyes surgically attached to the back of his head. I’ve never known anyone else who can be in everyone’s business, yet not give a flying fuck about any of it at the same time. I ignore his question, instead reaching for his whiskey and finishing its contents in two large gulps.
“I’ve changed my mind, brother.”
He stares at his now empty glass, then shifts his gaze to Clive slurping on his margarita.
“I bet you have,” he murmurs. Then, with a quiet smirk, he goes back to taping Benny’s pinky to his ring finger.
