on the Devil’s Coast. It’s etched into every craggy cliff and it pollutes every gloomy shadow.
Don’t fuck with the Viscontis.
It’s common sense, really. Not pissing off the mafia—specifically, the Cosa Nostra—is a law as old as time.
The Viscontis dominate the coastline. In fact, I’d bet my left kidney I could twist my head around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees like a fucking owl, and everything my eyes touched would be Visconti-owned. Every bar, hotel, casino, and restaurant in Cove, Hollow, and Dip, plus all the sorry souls within them.
I of all people should be able to spot a Visconti. It’s not like I stumbled off a Greyhound bus and into parts unknown. I grew up, quite literally, under their roof at the Visconti Grand Hotel and Casino. I learned to crawl among their Brioni loafers underneath the poker tables; started my period in one of their gilded toilet cubicles. Had my first taste of liquor in one of their bars. Hell, one of them even taught me everything I know about advantage gambling and swindling.
Gripping the edge of the bar, I cast a wayward glance to the shadowy figure in the corner. The screen of his cell lights a path along his jawline as he holds it to his ear, and as he turns in a lazy circle, his eyes flash green under a soft spotlight.
Against all odds, I’ve made it to twenty-one and I credit that achievement to both luck and always listening to my instincts, even if they only whisper. Right now, my instincts aren’t whispering; they are screaming at the top of their lungs.
Run.
Dan has moved on to collecting glasses from the tables. I snatch up the bills on the bar and leave one to pay for my drink. Unfortunately, I’ll have to be a lousy tipper tonight, but as a fellow Devil’s Coast resident, I’m sure Dan will understand. Sliding away from the bar, I slip on my coat and head toward the table I kicked my suitcase under.
Slow and steady. Cool and calm. Despite the awful sense of dread pressing down on my shoulders, my movements are relaxed and natural; anything else will draw unwanted attention.
I’m just a girl leaving a bar after choking on an overpriced drink. No big deal.
At the bottom step, I’ve bent down to pick up my suitcase when a voice slices through the air like a hot knife in a block of butter.
“Off so soon?”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I say, as breezily as I can muster. “Got a train to catch.”
“There are no trains on the Devil’s Coast.”
Double shit. “In the morning, I mean. From a different town. Gotta be up early to get there, so I should probably…”
Three slow footsteps, each one closer than the last. The weight behind them makes my excuse trail off into nothingness.
Balling my hands into fists, I glance up the stairs to the small sliver of light at the top of them. If I sacrifice my belongings, will I be able to get out the door before he catches me?
Blood thumps in my ears. Another two footsteps reverberate off the low ceiling, then heat brushes against the nape of my neck. Only a stuttered heartbeat later does the scent of warm whiskey and cool mint drift under my nose.
Christ, he’s close. Goosebumps prickle down the lengths of my arms, and my knees threaten to buckle underneath me.
His thick, tranquil voice floats over the planes of my shoulders.
“Let’s play your game.”
It’s a command masquerading as a suggestion, delivered with the sharp zap of a cattle prod.
It should scare me, but it just pisses me off. I’ve never taken too kindly to being told what to do, especially by a man, even if said man is a Visconti.
Raphael Visconti. Jesus. Despite my annoyance, I can’t believe I had the gall to call Raphael Visconti a mark, even in my own head. He’s the middle one of the Devil’s Dip brothers, and unlike the Cove and the Hollow families, they haven’t had a presence on the Coast for years, not since their parents died when I was around eleven years old. My memories of him in particular are hazy, probably because he’s a lot older than me. He exists in flashes of sharp tailoring and charming smiles. I never got more than a brief glimpse of him before he disappeared behind a sea of suits or a locked door.
Everything I know about Raphael Visconti isn’t from my childhood memories, but from hearsay around blackjack tables in Atlantic City. His name was always uttered in a breathless whisper, often with a rumor attached to it. Invite-only poker games and parties that rivaled Jay Gatsby’s: that kind of thing. It’s hard to know what was true and what wasn’t.
There are only two things I know to be fact.
The first is that Raphael owns the majority of the big-name casinos in Vegas.
The second is that I’d be stupid to swindle a man who owns the majority of the big-name casinos in Vegas.
I need to get out of this mess, and fast. With a false confidence, I spin around with a get-out clause on my tongue. He’s standing closer than I’d thought and it takes me off-guard. I stumble backward, heels hitting the bottom step, but before I land on my ass, a strong hand reaches out and wraps itself around my forearm.
My defiance flickers like a candle in the wind. He’s tall. Really tall, and now that I know who he is, he’s also really fucking big. My eye line barely reaches the third button on his shirt.
Being in his shadow makes me uncomfortable, so I mount the bottom step and fold my arms in an attempt to level the playing field.
He smirks.
“You sure are persistent for a man that isn’t interested.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Oh, I’m interested.”
Sudden heat flares against my stomach lining, and I let out a little involuntary puff of air. Something about the intensity of his gaze and the silkiness of his tone feels…inappropriate. I don’t doubt he has women skipping to his bedroom with a lot less effort.
I fake a yawn. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
Although his stillness is magnetic, I manage to tear myself away long enough to reach down, grab my belongings, and turn toward the entryway at the top of the stairs.
One step. Then another. My boot is hovering over the third when darkness shrouds me. I pause to squint up into the dim light and see a security guard, the one with the punchable face and rhetorical questions. He’s looming at the top of the stairs, blocking the exit.
Fuck.
As if he’ll give me answers, I glance back at Raphael. He’s standing in the same spot, with the same tight smile tugging at his lips, hands resting easy in the pockets of his slacks.
My attention shifts over his shoulder, and that’s when my confusion settles into something denser. The other men in the bar are now on their feet, all glaring at me. One steps into the path of a spotlight and turns his head.
I catch sight of his earpiece, and realization slaps me across the face.
Wearing suits mid-week. Sitting alone. Things I usually see as green checks, are in this case, massive red flags. It wasn’t a coincidence that they were all sitting separately, because they’re all bodyguards. They are working. And all for…
My eyes drop back to the Visconti. His dimples deepen. Cashmere charm and a razor-sharp smile.
“I’m afraid I have to insist.”
Ice-cold dread trickles into my bloodstream. Fuck. Less than ten minutes ago, I thought this dude was a little fish that wouldn’t nibble on my bait, and how wrong I was.
He’s a great white shark about to swallow me whole.
My pulse strums in my throat, and my hands grow clammy. Two fuck-ups in one week. That’s awful odds for a girl as lucky as me.
With defeat heavy in my stomach, I drop my bags on the step and smooth down the satin of my stolen dress. Outwardly, I’m calm, but internally, all of my organs are rattling with a new plan. My original game isn’t going to cut it anymore—I need something less seedy. Something less likely to get me tossed off the Cove Pier in a body bag.
Guess I’m heading into Act Three.
“Well, since you insist,” I snap in a tone that doesn’t mirror the panic creeping up my throat. Raphael’s amusement blisters my cheek as I make my way back to the bar and take a seat.
Dan catches my eye and gives a small, sorrowful shake of his head, conveying what I’ve already figured out: I’m well and truly fucked.
Raphael’s large hands grip the stool next to me, then he pulls it away from the bar like it weighs nothing. He hitches up his slacks and perches on the edge of it. With a small, expressionless nod to Dan, he rests his forearms on his knees, steeples his fingers, and bathes me in his attention.
“Tell me more about this game.”
My eyes slide unwillingly to him. His own gleam with quiet enjoyment, and, suddenly, I remember the time I picked up Marine Biology for Dummies at the library. There was this whole section about Great Whites, and how they can detect heartbeats in the water. He can hear mine thumping in fear and he relishes it.
Despite finding myself in the bottom of a pit without a ladder, my pride flares up like a nasty rash. I steel my jaw and rise to my feet. Without breaking eye contact, I slip off my coat again, and this time, I actually see his gaze warm the length of my body. It rolls from the skinny straps on my shoulders to the dip of my hip, down the length of my exposed right leg, and comes to a stop at my Doc Marten boot. Every inch he absorbs lays another brick of confidence in my core. And a fluttering feeling in my stomach, but I’m trying to ignore that.
He’s just a man, for Christ’s sake. Sure, a man with an infamous last name and surrounded by bodyguards who might chop me up and stuff me into my own suitcase, but, nevertheless, a man. And under the surface, they are all the fucking same.
I lean against the bar and run my necklace up and down its chain. Game. Right. I’m going for my least seedy tactic and hoping for the best.
“It’s less of a game, and more of a…quiz.”
Dan lays two drinks on the table. One’s a whiskey, the other is bright yellow and in a cocktail glass. I glare at the glazed cherry and pink curly straw. “Changed your drink?”
“Changed yours. Lemon drop martinis are less of a choking hazard.”
“Delightful,” I retort dryly. I couldn’t care less about the drink. Besides, I have a rightful suspicion that if I take so much as a sip, there’s a good chance I’ll wake up chained to a radiator somewhere dark and damp.
“A quiz. Tell me more.”
“Five questions. If you answer any of them wrong, I get your watch.”
He cocks a brow. Smirks in a way I’ve already grown to hate. “And if I get them right?”
“You won’t.”
A gruff little laugh escapes his lips, and as he rubs his large hands together, his diamond dice cufflinks taunt me. How did I not realize who he was before? “You’re a confident little thing.”
Little thing. A shiver of displeasure ripples down my spine. Little thing falls into the same category as sweetheart and darling. Patronizing expressions used by men to knock women down a few pegs.
It makes me want to hit his pockets as hard as I can.
“Let’s begin.” He is, of course, confident.
“You don’t want to hear the catch?”
“There’s a catch?”
“There’s always a catch,” I say smoothly, ignoring the way his voice darkens a shade. “None of my five questions are trick questions. In fact, the answer to each is very simple. However, the catch is that you must answer each question wrong. If you answer correctly, you lose, and I get that lovely timepiece on your wrist.” I slide my hand out into the gap between us. “It’d look nice on me; don’t you think?”
He regards my arm with mild disinterest, then glances up at me. Impatience flickers like flames in his irises. “Fine.”
“Have you played this game before?”
His drink is halfway to his lips when he stills. “It wouldn’t be smart of you to take me for a fool, darling.”
A shiver rolls through me. “We haven’t started yet. You can answer truthfully.”
He thinks for a moment. His sip turns into a gulp, then he sets his glass on the bar. “Then no, I haven’t.”
A heady rush coasts over my skin, a blend of excitement and danger.
“Question one. Where are we right now?”
He hesitates. “The moon.”
“Question two. What color is my hair?”
His gaze skims up to my messy top-knot. His throat bobs and he mutters something that barely leaves his lips. What? But before I can put weight to it, he bites out an answer. “Blue.”
“And the color of your hair?”
“Blond.”
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” I mutter, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
“I’m good at most things.”
The husky insinuation in his tone makes my pulse stop for a second. Something warm grazes my knee, and when I look down, I realize it’s his own. Was he sitting this close a minute ago?
Ignoring the heat rising in my face, I continue. “Okay, how many questions have I asked you?”
He strums a thick finger against the bar at a rate three times slower than my heartbeat. He cuts a knuckle along the length of his cheekbone before saying with finality, “Twelve.”
I exhale so hard the stray hairs framing my face flutter. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath, scanning the room.
Raphael regards me with quiet glee. He picks up his tumbler, swirls the liquid around with a slow roll of his wrist. “Feeling the heat?”
“Yeah, because you’re a fucking cheat,” I snap back.
The swirling stops. “I’m sorry?”
By the chill threading through his words, I know replying with apology accepted wouldn’t be the smartest decision. “You heard. You’re a cheat.”
He sets the glass down. “Say it again,” he says softly, yet his gaze is anything but soft.
I fight the urge to apologize, even if it’s just to relieve the tension building up under my rib cage, but this only works if I double down. “I said, you’re a cheat. A liar, too.”
His jaw muscle spasms. “A liar.”
“Uh-huh. You told me you haven’t played this game before, but you have, haven’t you?”
“I already told you I haven’t.”
A beat passes. It turns into two. We stare at each other as thick and sticky realization trickles into the small gap between us.
That was my fifth question.
I wonder if he can hear the pulse thumping against my temples, or the ragged edge to my breathing. If he does, the hard planes of his face don’t show it.
I love winning. The feeling of getting one over on a mark is as addictive as any drug. But tonight, my high is snatched away by the feeling of the walls closing in. When I look up, I realize with mounting horror that it’s not the walls but Raphael’s security team forming a slow, moving circle around us.
Oh, shit.
But then Raphael raises his hand. It’s such a subtle move, I wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for the glint of his citrine ring, but it brings his entire team to an immediate stop.
“You tricked me,” he says simply.
“I didn’t. I asked you before we started if you’d played the game before, and you said—”
“No,” he finishes thoughtfully.
His silence screams. My triumph whispers.
I regard his inscrutable expression with caution as he drains his drink and rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. He rests his forearm on the bar.
For the shortest of seconds, I think maybe, just maybe, I might have gotten away with it. But then—
“Dan, pass me the hammer.”
He says it so impassively. Like he’s merely asked for the time, not because he has anywhere to be, but simply for the sake of making conversation.
My blood flash-freezes. “What? Why?”
He ignores me. Dan offers me a look halfway between an apology and an I-told-you-so, then bends behind the bar and comes back with a small hammer, the type that smashes up ice.
Or kneecaps.
I don’t wait to find out.
Fueled by self-preservation and adrenaline, I combine the two tasks of pulling on my coat and walking backward toward the stairs. The room is a haze of amber, heat, and fear; everything blurry apart from the hammer and the large hand curled around its handle.
My heels hit the bottom step, but this time, no strong hand shoots out from the darkness to stop me from falling. When I land on my backside, the impact reverberates up my spine, sheer terror chasing after it.
Your sins will catch up with you eventually, Little P. They always do.
Raphael’s cousin’s parting words to me ring in my ears as black warmth ghosts over my chest. It’s a shadow, from which a steel claw, glossy watch face, and a citrine ring glint.
“Please,” I whisper into the darkness. The last time I said please with such desperation was when I was ten, in the alleyway behind the Visconti Grand Casino. It didn’t stop the hands coming down on me then, and it doesn’t now.
A rough palm with a soft touch comes down on my thigh. The silky fabric of my dress falls away at the deep split, and instantly, my stomach drops to my boots.
Has anyone ever touched what’s under that pretty little dress of yours?
Fear runs into fury, blazing hot and dangerous.
No.
But it all happens so fast. I grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut, and grip the four-leaf clover around my neck as the hammer comes down to the left of me.
Crack.
No pain. No broken bones. I pop a lid and look down at my side slit, and white-hot embarrassment immediately floods my bloodstream.
A black security tag. It lies in smashed, plastic shards next to my quivering thigh. I didn’t realize this dress had one, but of course it did. That’s why the fucking alarm went off as I left the store.
It takes me three long seconds to remember to breathe. I draw in a lungful of air, and when I slide my eyes up to meet Raphael’s, I let it out in an angry exhale.
Humor sparkles behind his gaze, like he’s just heard a joke and he’s looking right at the punchline. “You got lucky.”
“Yeah?” I snap back.
“Mm. Sometimes they put ink in those things.”
I glare at him. He’s a cool drink of water to my burning inferno. A calm, green sea to my shaking storm.
I fucking hate him.
Before I have the semblance to bite back, he sticks out a hand and hauls me to my feet. My legs are trembling from leftover adrenaline. Without breaking eye contact, he hands the hammer to the nearest guard and unbuckles his watch in one, swift motion.
He leans forward, just close enough to reach into the pocket of my coat, and slips the Breitling inside of it. It falls like a dead weight to the bottom.
“Look after it.” Something beautifully melancholic passes through his gaze, and despite my wanting to grab that hammer from his guard and crack him over the head with it, his expression echoes in the hollow chambers of my chest.
It’s gone in the bat of a dark eyelash, replaced by that ever-present amusement.
A sassy remark is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Despite having scored one of the highest paydays of my life, I hate feeling like a man has got one over on me. It must be a knee-jerk reaction to level the playing field.
“Want to play again?” I ask with all the nonchalance I can muster. “I kind of like the look of that ring on your finger.”
He smiles tightly. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”
I’d laugh at his reference to my earlier crude remark, if I weren’t halfway to a heart attack. Yeah, I think I’ve pushed my luck to the limit tonight. A heavy beat passes, then he jerks his chin to the stairs behind me. “Go.”
A soft, simple command, and one I’m more than happy to submit to. I snatch up my belongings and jog up the stairs, trying to ignore the gaze burning the nape of my neck.
It feels like a lifetime ago that I stood in this entryway, hiding from a pissed-off store clerk. It’s crazy that I’d thought it’d be the most drama I’d encounter tonight.
The sour-faced guard watches me until I reach the door, then his gruff voice coasts over my shoulders. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Suddenly, the four-leaf clover around my neck weighs more than the six-figure timepiece in my pocket.
I huff out a bitter laugh.
“Trust me, it’s you who has no idea.”
