The low, slow rhythm seeps into my subconscious, tickling a dark corner of my brain. It’s not the sound of my alarm. Maybe it’s my ringtone? I have no idea what that sounds like; not only because I usually have my cell on vibrate, but because no one has the number to my burner.
It’s annoying, whatever it is.
I grunt and roll over to bury my head in the gap between the pillows, but something tugging on my hand stops me.
Only a few seconds pass before the pain starts. It sears from one temple to the other and snaps across my forehead like an elastic band.
What the—?
I pop an eyelid open and sweep the room. White ceilings, white bed sheets. Clinical and sterile. Even with blurry eyes and a pounding head, I know I’m not in my apartment. In fact, I don’t remember getting home at all.
I was at the port.
The memory opens the floodgates in my foggy brain, and everything rushes back to me.
The orange sky.
The deafening explosion.
The heat.
The beeping gets faster, and I have just enough sense to realize it’s because the clip on the end of my finger is monitoring my heart rate.
Light, quick footsteps approach, and then a woman appears in the doorway.
“You’re all right, you’re all right.” She strides into the room with the gait of a leisurely Sunday stroll. She stops at the end of the bed and studies my chart, giving me a chance to study her. White hair swept into a tight bun, middle-aged, and plump in a way that makes the buttons down the front of her uniform sit in a zig-zag. She’s the type of woman parents tell their children to seek out in the park if a creepy man approaches them.
She must be a nurse, which means I’m in the hospital.
“What happened?” Well, that’s what I try to say. It comes out in a garbled groan and ignites a trail of fire up my throat.
Her gray eyes snap up to me, amused. “Save it, sweetie. I’ll get you some water in a second. I’m Minnie, the charge nurse here at Devil’s Hollow Hospital. And you are…” She glances back at the clipboard and her expression lights up. “Ooh! A Jane Doe! How exciting.”
I blink. Is it?
She breezes over to the side table and pours a glass of water from a jug. “Easy does it,” she says, watching me drink the liquid as fast as I can in an attempt to quell the fire. “All that screaming has made your throat dry,” she tuts. “They could hear you in Canada.”
My eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of my head. Screaming? Why the hell would I be screaming?
“There was a little accident at the port, my dear. Your notes say you were struck by a stack of falling boxes, and you’ve taken a particularly nasty blow to the head.”
She tugs a pen light from her breast pocket and does a quick sweep of my eyes with it. Pulls out the IV, and puts a fresh bandage on the back of my hand. “Doesn’t look like a concussion, but we’ll be monitoring you for a little while, all right?”
But I’m not listening. Can’t. Because all I can feel is my own plea on my lips and all I can see is a hazy orange heat distorting the cold black sky.
I asked for a sign that I’d lost my luck and I received a full fireworks display.
I drop my head against the pillow, feeling the ice-cold hand of realization pressing down on my windpipe.
If I don’t have luck, what do I have?
“Okay, sweetie. I need to do my rounds, but I’ll come and check on you in a few. Rest up, okay?” With a soft pat on my shoulder, she bustles out into the brightly lit corridor, a hearty whistle floating after her.
Only one beat passes before a wave of guilt breaks over me. It snatches the air from my lungs and I slump down, resting my thumping head on my pillow.
Logically, I know my asking for a sign didn’t cause the explosion, but I can’t shake the feeling it was somehow my fault anyway. My brain forms an image of the port worker. One minute he was walking toward me in a halo of headlights, and the next, he was just gone.
Swindling and hustling are one thing; arson and explosions are another ball game entirely. Christ, these sins are stacking up like charms on a necklace, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear that burden around my neck before I keel over from its weight.
Sitting upright makes my head spin, so I grip the side bars of the bed and stare at the ice-blue sky framed by the window, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass. As the wispy clouds and the soaring birds come into focus, emotion prickles in my throat, threatening to supply my eyes with a fresh wave of tears.
“Did you know two thousand frowns equal one wrinkle?”
My spine goes rigid at the sound of a sweet voice drifting in from the door. I turn, wincing as tightness tugs at my neck, and lock eyes with the girl it belongs to.
Silky blond hair and a golden tan that doesn’t make sense in a blistering cold December. Her eyes are big and blue, filled with the type of innocence that only one girl on this coastline can truly claim.
Wren Harlow.
Grinding my teeth so my groan isn’t audible, I force a dead-eyed smile. Of all the people I’d want to walk through that door while I’m having a private meltdown, Wren would be pretty low on the list. It’s not because she’s not nice—quite the opposite, in fact. She’s too nice. So nice, she’s known on the Coast as the Good Samaritan. Not a single Friday or Saturday night passes in Cove where you wouldn’t find her trawling the strip and helping drunk people. She hands out Band-Aids and flip-flops to girls with aching feet. Hails cabs for the drunk and disorderly. She’s so sweet it hurts my teeth looking at her.
Her gaze trails from my head wound to my feet and back again. Maybe it’s the pain meds making me loopy, but I can’t help notice her nail polish is the exact shade of pink as her shirt dress.
I have a feeling she did that on purpose.
She blows a bubble. Pops it. “You thinking about something bad?”
Frowning, I bite back the urge to tell her it’s none of her business. Partly because I don’t need any more bad karma, and partly because Wren is the type of girl who’s probably never experienced even a dog barking at her, let alone a scruffy red-head going through an existential crisis.
“Maybe.”
“When I have bad thoughts, I try to distract myself.”
I rub the bridge of my nose, trying my hardest to keep my mouth shut. The last thing I need right now is an impromptu therapy session from a girl with a fast-pass to heaven.
“How? By cross-stitching your favorite Bible verses?” I mutter under my breath.
She sinks down on the foot of the bed, stretching her long, tight-clad legs across the floor tiles. “No, by going through the alphabet and thinking of a curse word for each letter.” Her blue gaze comes to mine as she blows another bubble. Pop. “For example, A is for asshole,” she says pointedly, a dark glint in her eye.
Despite the searing pain in my head and the sins weighing heavy on my chest, I can’t help but let out a gruff laugh.
“Touché.”
She grins, too, a beautiful smile that softens the planes of her face. She nods at the space above my eyebrow. “Looks nasty.”
“Feels it.”
“Want a candy bar?”
I blink. Before I can ask what she’s on about, she jumps up, ducks into the hallway, and returns with a cart. “I’ve got all the classics, plus potato chips and cans of soda.” She crouches down and squints at the bottom shelf. “I had some ham and cheese sandwiches too, but Billy in room eight took like four, even though they’ll be serving lunch in an hour.”
She returns to her full height and looks at me expectantly. When I don’t reply, she grabs two Hershey bars off the cart and tosses one into my lap. Holding the other between her teeth, she drags the armchair across the room and sets it beside my bed.
I stare down at the chocolate wedged between my thighs. “You work here?”
“Nope, just volunteering.”
Figures.
She flops down in the chair and swings her boots up to rest them on the end of the bed. “I work at The Rusty Anchor—been there for about a year now. What have you been up to, anyway? I haven’t seen you on the Coast in a while.”
I ignore her question because I’m still stuck on her job. “The port bar?”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze instinctively cuts to the sparkly pink bobble wrapped around her high ponytail and she laughs. “It’s not as bad as you think, really.”
Mm. The last time I stepped foot in The Rusty Anchor, I left with six splinters and salmonella from the chicken burger. I’d assume that if a girl like Wren stepped into The Rusty Anchor, she’d spontaneously combust from the sins that lived inside of it.
She tosses her gum in the trash, tears open her candy bar, and stares at my wound. “What were you doing at the port, anyway? I’m sure I saw you at the wedding last night. Or did I have too many lemonades?”
“No, I was there.” My fingers creep up to my pendant again. “But I went for a walk on my way home.”
“Jeez. That’s unlucky.” You’re telling me. “Well, it could have been much worse. Working at The Rusty Anchor means I know pretty much everyone who was injured.” Her throat bobs. “And those who didn’t make it.”
My own throat dries up faster than the Sahara after a storm. “How many died?”
“Three. So far, anyway.”
Jesus. “What the hell happened, a burst gas pipe or something?”
Biting off a chunk of chocolate, she chews thoughtfully for a moment. “Terrorist attack,” she mumbles, all candy and teeth.
“I—what?”
“No idea who did it, though. Everyone was being pretty hush-hush last night.”
Now, I’m starting to think these pain meds are making me loopy. “Why would somebody want to blow up that tiny port?”
“Because the Viscontis own it.” Visconti. The name shoots from Wren’s chocolate-filled mouth and hits my chest like a bullet. Of course the Viscontis own the fucking port. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Angelo announces he’s moving back to Devil’s Dip, and then the port blows up on his wedding day.”
My eyes slide to hers. “Angelo’s moving back?”
“Of course. Rory won’t leave the Coast.” She sighs through another mouthful of chocolate. “Poor Rory. Doesn’t look like she’ll be going on her honeymoon after all.”
Despite the cocktail of numbing agents taking the edge off my pain, the slow dread filling my stomach feels all too real. If Angelo’s moved back to the Coast, then what does that mean for his brothers?
“On his own?”
“What do you mean?”
We lock eyes for a beat too long, then a knowing smirk stretches her pink lips. “Oh, I see.”
“See what?”
She sinks back in her chair, that smirk widening to a grin. “If you’ve got your eye on Rafe, then you better get in line.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, making my skin prickle. “I’m not interested in Raphael; I was just making polite conver—”
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not one to judge.” She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “They don’t call him Prince Charming for nothing.”
My laugh is bitter. “I must have grown up watching different Disney films.”
“Aw, come off it. Rafe’s lovely.” Her hand touches her chest and the small smile that graces her lips suggests her mind has gone elsewhere. Somewhere Raphael Visconti isn’t a raging asshole, presumably. “He’s not my type, but I can fully appreciate the appeal. He’s just…such a gentleman. You know, the type of guy in black and white movies that lays his jacket over a puddle of mud so his date doesn’t ruin her shoes? Or, like, the kind of guy to send you a dozen roses, simply because it’s a Wednesday.”
I can’t help it. “You seriously believe that shit?”
Her tinkling laugh floats across the room. “Seems like you’ve had a different experience.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek to stop myself mentioning things like dicks in doors and guns in glasses.
When the silence lingers too long, Wren lets out another chuckle and swipes her boots off my bed. “Yikes. F is for ‘fuck him,’ am I right?”
Despite feeling like all the problems in the world are pinning me to this bed, I can’t help but laugh.
Her gaze comes to mine, all sparkly and innocent. “If you’re hanging around for a while, you should swing by The Rusty Anchor some time. You know, once we’ve cleared up the mess from the explosion, and once you don’t look like Frankenstein.” She prods the IV drip with a pink fingernail. “Rory and Tayce swing by every Tuesday night, and there’s always room for one more at the bar.”
Her offer is probably just in passing, a sweet gesture from a sweet girl. It shouldn’t make the backs of my eyes burn like it does. Maybe it’s because morphine makes me emotional, or maybe it’s because I feel guilty about palming her off as just the weird girl who does good deeds.
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod. “I’d like that. Thanks for the chocolate bar and, you know,” I murmur, my throat tightening, “being so nice.”
Her laugh floats through the room like a welcome breeze on a warm day. “Nice is just what I do. See ya!”
And with that, she click-clacks down the hall, taking her cart with her. Left alone, I infect the sterile room with a loud groan. It seems like I’ve stepped out of one fire I caused and into another I didn’t. How am I going to go straight when I’m surrounded by trouble?
I’d never expect this type of shit in Devil’s Dip. It is—was—the sleepy town on the Coast. The one in the shadows of the flashing lights, where residents can close their eyes at night and not have to worry about getting caught in the middle of Cosa Nostra chaos.
Besides, if my luck really is waning…
I swallow the lump in my throat. Give a small shake of my head in an attempt to rid myself of the thought.
Luck is believing you’re lucky. That’s what the woman told me in the alleyway when she gave me her necklace. This will help you, but you don’t need to rely on it.
My lids fluttering shut, I give in to the softness of the pillow under my head for a few moments. I’m lucky. I am. Still, I can’t help but consider selling Raphael’s watch, paying off whatever extortionate medical bill I’m slapped with, and then getting a bus over the border to Canada.
Eyes still closed, I reach out to the bedside table for my purse and realize it’s not there. Shit. The last time I remember having it—remember anything, actually—was at the port. Groaning, I weakly wrestle with the wheelchair folded up beside the bed and slide my heavy limbs into it. I’ll just wheel myself down the hall to the nurses’ station and ask.
As I push myself out to the hall, white walls and silver doors pass in a cool, drug-fueled haze. A chill caresses my back and I realize I’m wearing nothing but a flimsy hospital gown, the type that ties up at the back. No bra, and my body is too numb and sluggish to assess whether I even have panties on.
The moment I turn the corner, my gaze locks with another and my heart drops on instinct.
Cold and brown as a slushy pile of mud on a winter morning, the man’s eyes trail up from my muddy toes to the bandage on my head, before settling into a thin line of suspicion.
Silence screams, but the ghost of his gruff voice yells even louder in my brain.
Does a bear shit in the woods?
It’s the man who was guarding the top of the stairs at the bar. Heartbeat jittering, my attention darts to the cluster of sharp suits and sour faces that loiter in the hallway behind him. Shiny shoes reflect clinical lights. Beefy hands curl around Styrofoam cups.
And then a familiar cashmere voice seeps out from the unknown and wraps its soft hand around my lungs. My wheels come to a slow stop.
“Thank you, Sheriff. Our family truly appreciates your help during this difficult time.”
A shuffle of papers, then heavy footsteps grow louder. “Anytime, Mr. Visconti. Please send your brother my congratulations on the wedding.”
“Only if you tell your mother those gingerbread cookies she sent over have changed my life.”
There’s a gruff chuckle, then black shoes and a beige uniform emerge from the door on the right. The Sheriff glances over his shoulder and grins. “She’ll be happy to hear. Take care now, Mr. Visconti. And if you need anything, you know you can always reach me on my personal cell.”
He strolls down the hallway in the other direction, trying to force a very thick brown envelope into the pocket of his slacks.
Annoyance prickles at my chest, because of course the Viscontis have the police under their thumbs.
For a few seconds, I’m torn between scrambling back to my room or continuing with my mission to get my phone. Stubbornness makes me settle on the latter. That, and my burning need to call my hotline and mull over my thoughts of moving to Canada.
I stare at the ugly geometric print of my hospital gown and keep pushing my chair, but as I grow closer and closer to passing the door on the right, unease slides under my skin like tectonic plates.
I peer into the hospital room to my right, and let my gaze settle on the man himself.
My heart hitches in my chest.
Black suit. White Shirt. Gold collar pin. I don’t know why I bother checking his hallmark features off a mental list, because Raphael Visconti’s outline is unmistakable.
The room is darker than mine, save for the lone sunbeam slicing a diagonal line across his profile. The bed is tightly dressed, and stacks of notes are wrapped in bands and piled high on the bedside table. More bribes, no doubt.
He’s spilling out of an armchair in the corner, resting his elbows on his knees and subjecting the tiles underneath his Oxfords to an expressionless stare. He spins something between his fingers in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, and it takes four revolutions for me to realize it’s a gold poker chip.
Thawp. Thawp. Thawp. The chip, diamond cufflinks, and his citrine ring wink at me.
Until they don’t.
When Raphael’s hands still and his shoulders tighten, the dust particles floating inside the sunbeam fall stagnant, as if they’re holding their breaths on my behalf. Shadows shift to accommodate the planes of his face as he lifts his head and meets my gaze.
My pulse strums violently; my aching muscles brace for impact. For three loud heartbeats, I’m trapped in his glare.
Then, he does something I don’t expect.
He laughs.
It’s soft. Dark. As gentle as a kiss on a collarbone and no good could ever come from such a sound.
“Are you obsessed with me, Penelope?”
His tone is cushioned with amusement but there’s something around its edges that tugs at my nerves.
“Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m in the hospital,” I reply sarcastically.
His gaze sparks with confusion, before turning a few shades darker. It carves a lazy path down my neck. My breathing stills as it crackles over the thin fabric of the hospital gown, and when it settles like a heavy weight in my lap, the warmth in my stomach simmers half a degree hotter. It’s irritation—nothing more. Because, although I’m used to men staring at my body while wearing a lot less than this, there’s something about the way he regards me—clinically, objectively—that makes my jaw stiffen.
“You were there.” I catch the flare of his nostrils before they disappear behind his knuckles. When he speaks again, it seems to be just to himself. “Of course you were there.”
“What, you think I bombed the port, or something?”
His eyes meet mine again. A pensiveness mars the ever-present amusement behind them. “Or something.”
With a cocktail of frustration and annoyance flaming inside me, I huff out a shaky breath and turn my attention to harsh fluorescent lights lining the hallway ceiling. Obviously he knows I had nothing to do with the explosion—he wouldn’t be sitting next to a stack of bribe money if I did—but I hate how the suspicion in his tone, even if fake, mirrors my own.
It’s pathetic, but the idea that I’ve lost my luck is scarier to me than anything else in this world. Scarier than threats by Atlantic City casino owners, and scarier than the fear of my biggest sin catching up with me.
“Lucky charm?”
A voice flecked with ice-cold scorn slices the silence. My eyes skim down from the ceiling to find Raphael looking at my necklace with tight disgust. I didn’t realize I was running the four-leaf clover up and down the chain.
“No,” I lie. Then I straighten my spine and lie a little more. “I don’t need a lucky charm. I’m lucky enough.”
My voice is hoarse and sounds pathetic, thanks to the desperation woven within it. It’s obvious I’m only trying to convince myself.
“So you said.” He runs a slow tongue over his top lip as he nods to the bandage on my forehead. “You don’t look so lucky to me.”
I swallow the wedge in my throat. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
His gaze slides to mine, dark and hot. “For now.”
Silence eats up the oxygen between us. I can’t stop staring at him. His threat was subtle, elegant, delivered on a velvet cushion upon a silver platter. I have no doubt he’d follow through with that thinly-veiled threat if provoked. So why the fuck does everyone on this Coast think he’s a gentleman? That he’s somehow different from the rest of his family, from his brothers?
Most people have an IQ big enough to spot a lion in sheep’s clothing, surely?
My jaw tightens as I realize the truth. It’s because he doesn’t act like this around other people.
Suddenly, it clicks.
“This is about your watch,” I announce, a quiet glee humming in my aching bones. “That’s why you hate me so much. Your fragile male ego can’t handle a woman getting one over on you.”
I don’t get the reaction I’m expecting. Just another laugh. “Nice, but still, no.”
I watch the chip glint with every revolution, taunting me. When the last of my self-restraint dissolves, I jerk my chin toward the bunch of suit-clad idiots loitering in the hallway. “Do I get to choose?”
He cocks a brow, still spinning his chip.
“Which of your lackeys get to kill me, I mean? Because it’ll be one of them, right? I know a gentleman like you would never risk getting blood on his pretty little suit.”
He gives me nothing but a polite smile, and the darkness in his eyes suggests his mind is elsewhere. Medical machines beep through white walls and somewhere down the hall, a coffee machine bursts and sputters.
Eventually, he leans forward into the path of the sunbeam and the quiet calmness in his green eyes glitters under the light. “Rumor has it you’re looking for a job in Devil’s Dip.”
My gaze narrows. What a left-field response. There’s only two people who could have told him that: Rory or Nico. I discount Matt immediately, because I doubt he could hold a conversation with Raphael Visconti long enough to tell him this without jizzing in his pants.
“Yeah, but not with you or your family.”
Dark amusement pulls at his lips. “Impossible.”
My eyes itch as I force myself not to roll them. As much as his smugness grates down my spine, I know he’s right. Even if the Viscontis don’t own the business directly, they sure as hell will have their sticky mafia fingers in the pie one way or another.
“You offering me a job, or something?”
“Or something.”
What? The change of tune is enough to give me whiplash. I squint at him, trying to figure out what he’s playing at. Maybe it’s because my brain is damaged from the blow, but I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to get sex trafficked?”
Raphael lets out a short sigh. “I’m offended. All of my businesses are perfectly legitimate; thank you.”
I open my mouth and close it again, trapping my insult behind my lips. I’m pretty hard up right now, so I’m not going to ruin my chance of finding employment if—and it’s a big if—this isn’t a joke.
“What’s the catch?”
Now, something in Raphael’s gaze flickers to life. “I thought you’d never ask.” He run two fingers over his bottom lip, but it does little to conceal his soft smirk. “Play a game with me.”
Despite my aching bones and jaded heart, the simple command stokes the embers in the pit of my stomach. A game?
Before I can ask about rules and wagers, he stands and closes the gap between us in two long strides.
My heartbeat skids to a halt. He’s so close I’m entirely engulfed in his cold shadow. So close the soft fabric of his slacks nearly brushes against my bare knees, reminding me of how thin this stupid hospital gown is, and that I have almost nothing underneath it.
Instinctively, I grip the wheels of my chair, but when I jerk them backward, I don’t move. What? I look south and find the toe of a shiny Oxford shoe pressing against the base of the tire.
I look up just in time to see Raphael slip his hand in his pocket and produce a deck of cards. He holds them just above my eye-line in a large, tanned fist with a thawp of his thumb snapping against the base of the deck, and I catch a flash of color up his sleeve.
Is that—
“Choose a card.”
The demand knocks all suspicion of hidden ink out of my brain. “What?”
He fans the deck. “Choose a card.”
“Well, what card?” I huff out. “What game are we playing?”
“You won’t like it if I have to ask again.”
His voice is butter-like, but by now, I know better than to be fooled by it. My front teeth capture my bottom lip, and I glare at the cards like they’ve done something to piss me off.
Think, Penny.
Right, well. There’s a one-in-fifty-two chance that I choose the card he wants me to choose. And if I choose that card, I have no idea if it’s a good or a bad thing. That’s if there even is a card he has in mind.
Fuck it.
Without allowing for another thought, I tap on a card three in from the right end of the deck. Raphael stiffens, then, as if in slow motion, he slides it out. With a snap of his wrist, he straightens the remainder of the pack and slips it into his pocket.
I look up to his face and our gazes clash for five long, unbearable seconds. Eventually, he tears his eyes from mine and regards the card. He remains expressionless, disinterested.
A tick of his jaw. A flare of his nostrils.
Then he does something that takes me by surprise even more than his laugh did. He bends over, grips my throat, and snatches all the air from my lungs like it’s his to take.
I part my lips to gasp, and when I do, something stiff slides between them.
The tangy taste of ink on my tongue. Sharp, cardboard edges on my lips.
But I’m too distracted by the heat on my earlobe and the rough jaw against my cheek. “Monday, six pm on the fisherman’s docks,” he whispers in my ear. His thumb grazes over the thumping pulse in my neck, sending an unwelcome shiver between my thighs. “Bring your resume and don’t be late.”
A cold breeze skitters over my chest as he returns to his full height. He side-steps my chair and strides down the hallway without so much as a backward glance. I watch in disbelief, my heart slamming against my rib cage, as his convoy of black suits follow after him.
When heavy footsteps cease and a door slams, I let out a choked groan. With trembling hands, I tug the playing card from my mouth and stare at it.
A few seconds pass before I allow myself a small, shaky laugh. Triumph. It hums in my blood, swirling with a cocktail of adrenaline and relief.
The Ace of Spades.
The luckiest damn card in the deck.
I’m back, baby.
