the Christmas tree; stockings swing above the roaring fireplace. The scent from all the cinnamon and clove candles hangs above the table in a festive haze.
My brother’s dining room has been transformed into a fucking greeting card.
“All right, I’ve got a bet for you,” Nico murmurs, pulling out the chair next to me.
“I’m all ears.”
“Ten grand says Angelo dresses up as Santa on Christmas Day.”
Smirking into my palm, I look to the head of the table and consider this. Angelo’s leaning on his knuckles, muttering in venomous Italian at Gabe, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than a Visconti family meeting.
My brother is more likely to burn a Santa suit than wear it, and I’m just about to tell Nico so when Rory bustles through the door with a tray of cookies. Angelo’s eyes follow her, his face softening. As she drops the tray to the table, he leans over and kisses her on the forehead.
“They look beautiful, magpie,” he says. “You’re getting good at this.”
I flick a glance to the cookies. They’re so burnt they look like they’ve been salvaged from a house fire, but it’s then I realize; he’d do anything for her. If Rory asked him to wear a Santa suit, he’d do it. I used to think he’d turned into a simp, but fuck, I’m starting to understand that feeling now.
Swallowing the unease in my throat, I turn back to Nico with a plan. “Twenty says he’ll wear an elf outfit.”
He snorts into his whiskey. “Everyone’s saying you’ve lost the plot, and I’m starting to think they’re right. Is it true you’re a vodka man these days?”
I ignore his question and we shake on it. Then Angelo thumps on the table and commands everyone’s attention.
“In the spirit of Christmas, I’m going to give everyone a free pass,” he says quietly. “Get your shit jokes about the Christmas decor out now, or forever hold your peace.”
Silence cloaks the room, then Benny clears his throat. “Looks like Santa came down the chimney and was sick.”
Everyone sniggers.
“I can see your house from Hollow. Bet you can see it from space, too.” Nico smirks.
Cas leans back, swirling his whiskey. “You guys are being too harsh. I like it. It reminds me of Santa’s Workshop.” He pauses. “At the Devil’s Dip outlet mall.”
Even Angelo laughs at that one, shaking his head.
“All right, all right, I’ve got one more.” Benny picks up a plastic snowflake off the table runner. “You’re brave having all this flammable shit lying around when your wife starts a fire every time she turns on the oven.”
The smile falls off my brother’s face. Cas shifts in his seat. Gabe flashes me a look of lazy amusement.
“Ah fuck,” Benny hisses, sensing the mood shift. “I’ve got no more fingers to break.”
With a flick of his wrist, Angelo slides the tray of cookies across the table. “You wanna make jokes about my wife’s cooking, you’re gonna eat every single one.”
Benny stares at them in disbelief. “Okay, I’d rather break my fingers than my teeth.”
Angelo ignores him and sinks down into his chair. “Right, enough of the shit. We need to talk about Cove. Since Tor has disappeared off the face of the fucking planet, Cove will be left wide open when we get Dante out of the picture.” He smooths a hand down the front of his turtleneck and turns his attention to me. “My brothers and I have decided we’ll give him until the New Year to make an appearance before we implement a plan and take Cove over.”
Bitter humor fills me. Decided makes it sound like we had a civilized discussion, when really, we barked at each other in rapid-fire Italian in his office for twenty minutes. He wanted to take it over immediately, while I wanted to give my best friend the benefit of the doubt and wait a few weeks.
He threw a snow globe at my head, I hurled it back with a better aim, and we settled on January 1.
My cell buzzes on the table, and when I glance at the screen and see it’s a message from Penny, the conversation around the table fades to background noise.
I snatch it up, open the message, and immediately wish I hadn’t. She sent a picture of herself in front of a mirror, stark-fucking-naked. Letting out a slow hiss, I lean back in the chair and zoom in on every perfect part of her.
Christ, she can’t be real. I almost wish she wasn’t, now that I’ve shattered yet another rule and fucked her face-on. Usually, I only do doggy because I hate looking into a woman’s eyes and seeing my last name flash in lights behind them as they come. It’s off-putting. But with Penny, that was never going to be the case. No, I knew if I looked into her eyes as she came undone, I wouldn’t be able to look away. Wouldn’t be able to forget them, either. I know when she’s done with me and I’m left in the ashes of her fire, I’ll be looking at another woman’s headboard and seeing those fucking eyes on it.
Another text comes through.
Penny: Oops, I sent that to the wrong number. Sorry.
Even though I know she’s joking, the thought of another man seeing that body makes a jolt of violence zap through me.
I’d kill him without a second thought, and definitely not with my gun.
My mood darkens the more I ponder it. Then it flashes midnight-black when I remember her words in the hot tub last night. I’m saving blowjobs for marriage. If she was trying to piss me off while I was balls-deep inside her, it worked.
I’m deranged. Despite knowing this is temporary, has to be temporary, I know I’d give this girl the world on a silver platter, if she just said please like she does now when she wants to come.
The ironic thing is that she doesn’t want the world. She doesn’t even want me to be soft with her. I’ve killed for her, broken my rules for her. Fuck, ruined my hands for her. Yet while I’m going crazy thinking of ways I can brand her for longer than that temporary tattoo lasts, she’s talking about the future with the same kind of indifference as one talking about the weather. Plus, she’s flying through the For Dummies books I bought her, looking for something, anything, to do aside from stay on my yacht and fuck me.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I zoom in on her pussy again, and all my anger runs into a liquid heat and slides south. I adjust my slacks and tap out a response.
Me: You really want me to fuck you hard tonight, huh?
Her response is quick and irritating: a fucking yawn emoji.
Me: Those lips are mine, Penny.
I toss my cell on the table in finality. I’ve decided to stop asking her who her pussy belongs to and just fucking tell her until she believes it.
My cell buzzes and I immediately snatch it back up.
Penny: Which pair?
I pause.
Me: Not the ones on your face.
Me: They’re too expensive.
Penny: You can pay me in installments over a six-month period with an APR of 5.8%. How about that, sugar daddy?
I laugh aloud. When I left her a few hours ago, she was in the library reading Investments for Dummies, and clearly, she’s soaked something up.
My skin prickles with sudden awareness: The room has fallen silent and all eyes are on me. Wiping away my smirk, I glance up at Angelo simmering at the head of the table.
“Griffin and his knock-knock jokes,” I say dryly, putting my cell in my jacket pocket. “They get me every time.”
Angelo’s jaw ticks. “Were you even listening to anything I just said?”
No. “Of course.”
“And what do you think we should do about it?”
I pause. “Rocket warhead.”
Cas laughs into his whiskey, and even Gabe’s lips tilt.
“Cazzo, if you weren’t sexting, you’d know we were talking about the Visconti Grand,” Angelo says tensely. “I thought you of all people would be interested in what becomes of it, considering the casino alone takes over eight-hundred-million dollars a year.”
“Mm. It wouldn’t if I got my hands on it.”
With my current luck, there’d be debt collectors banging on the door after a month. I smirk at the irony of it. I’m the great Raphael Visconti, the king of casinos. Everything I touch used to turn to gold. Now, it just rusts under my fingertips.
Bored with my brother’s glare and itchy to get back within reaching distance of Penny’s ass, I rise to my feet and rap my ring against the table.
“This meeting could have been an email. Someone send me the CliffsNotes.”
As I pass Angelo, his gaze drops to my hand. “Make that plan, brother,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
His words squeeze my throat, but I stroll into the hall like they didn’t.
I’m reckless, not stupid. The reason I’m not taking the fate of Cove seriously is because I’m still clinging onto the hope that Tor will come back. That he just went on a crazy three-week bender after the wedding and lost track of time, or something.
Fuck. It sounds ridiculous, even when I only say it in my head.
“Rafe!”
Jingling my car keys in my hand, I turn to Rory running down the stairs, clutching shopping bags. “Here, give these to Penny.”
I regard them with caution. “I hope these are clothes and not your leftover Christmas decorations.”
“Is it too much?” She sighs. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
Over her shoulder, a mechanical Santa waves at me from the foot of the stairs. It’s twice the size of her and three times as scary. “I think it’s very…fun.”
Her face lights up. “I think so too! Christmas Day is going to be a blast.”
I shake my head, smirking. She’s never been to a Visconti Christmas before and it shows. I wonder if she’ll still think it’s a blast when Cas puts his gun to Benny’s head because he cheated at Monopoly, or when Nico’s getting sick in the garden because he drank too much eggnog.
“You know what will make Christmas Day even better? Your husband dressed up as an elf.”
She scoffs. “What? He’d never…” Her protest trails off as I pull out my wallet and hand her all the cash inside. She stuffs it into her back pocket, grinning. “You know what? Maybe he would. Anyway, here.” She thrusts the bags into my chest. “Tell Penny I picked her out some pieces for the staff party tomorrow, because she couldn’t come shopping with me. Tell her the red Chanel looks cute with the Y.S.L heels, but the heels also pair gorgeously with the Bulgari two-piece.”
Amusement pulls at my lips. “You might as well be talking in Chinese, sis, but I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”
It’s only early evening, but darkness is already shading the sky. A low mist lingers between the Christmas trees on the circular drive, lit red and green from the glow of all the lights. I almost slip on the way to my car, thanks to the fucking fake snow coating the porch steps.
Cursing Rory and her festive enthusiasm, I slide into the passenger seat. Immediately, something I can’t put my finger on gives me pause. It squeezes my nape and sharpens my senses. This survival instinct is why Viscontis live longer than most made men, and I know I should trust it. Key hovering near the ignition, I look through the windshield and lock eyes with Griffin on the other side of it. He and three of my men are in an armored sedan opposite, ready to trail me back to the docks.
I put the key in, but I don’t twist it.
I swallow. Sweep the idea out of my head. No, if someone had fucked with my car they’d be dead already. Griff and my men have been out here the whole time.
Still, as I turn the key, my shoulders tense in anticipation. When my car doesn’t blow up, I let out a dry laugh and peel out of the grounds, wondering when the fuck did I become so paranoid. The O’Hares are six feet under, and Dante couldn’t organize a car bomb even if there was one of Penny’s For Dummies books on it.
The roads are slippery and silent and familiar. I could take these curves with my eyes closed. Zoning out on the yellow glow of my lights on the tarmac, I become more aware of the inside of the car, where Penny’s image lingers like a long-term memory.
Her presence fills the space like she fills my head. Her citrusy scent has permeated my Nappa leather seats; three of her For Dummies books are piled up on top of her blanket and pillow on my backseat. Fuck, her fluffy slippers are in the passenger footwell, and her hairbands are littering my cup holder.
As I pick up one of her hairbands and bring it to my lips, my smirk falls as a searing realization bowls through my chest.
The girl is fused to me—every fucking part of me. I don’t know how I’m going to cut her out when the time comes. How can I make a plan for the future when I can’t see past the length of my dick, especially when Penny’s on the end of it?
Muscles tightening, I reach for my cell for release. I have this habit of playing her hotline ramblings through the speakers when I’m in the car alone. I’d never let the thought slide into my head fully-formed, but I have a sad feeling it’s because her voice filling the car makes it feel like she’s in the passenger seat, talking shit to me until she falls asleep.
I connect to the Bluetooth and click on the most recent log. Her calls have diminished significantly in the last week, from a half-dozen a day to one or less. I don’t know if it’s because the cell signal on the boat isn’t that great, or because I’m around most of the time.
Glancing at the timestamp on my cell screen, I realize the call is from less than an hour ago. I press play, and settle in.
It’s pathetic. The moment her voice floats out of the speakers and touches my ears, I’m smiling into my knuckles. She starts off summarizing her morning—I ate eggs, lost a few games of Mario Kart, then went into the library to read. She then moves on to bitching about Weight Training for Dummies. I don’t know why I bothered picking this one up, she says dryly, the thump of a book hitting a hard surface echoing down the line. My arms get shaky brushing my hair. How am I going to pick up a dumbbell?
Amusement fills me, then wilts around the edges. Maybe it’s the narcissist in me, but I loathe that she’s never mentioned me to the hotline. She ate the eggs I made her, lost a few games to me. I’d understand if she didn’t talk about anyone else, either, but she does. Matt, Rory, Wren, Tayce—they all have starring fucking roles in her calls.
The irritation is making me feel all irrational and hot, so I stab the pause button and fester in the silence. I crack the window, hoping the icy wind will bring my senses back to me.
Because even when she pisses me off I still want to please her, I flick my indicator on, swing onto Main Street, and stop outside the diner. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms Griffin does too.
I put the car in park. Kill the engine. And then there’s that hand on the nape of my neck again, only this time it squeezes harder.
Every made man expects death, so why at every funeral do the living mutter that they never saw it coming? I guess no one likes to believe it’ll come for one of their own at the most mundane of times, like on a weekday afternoon outside a fast-food joint that sells two-for-one burgers.
I wouldn’t see it coming either, had instinct not just turned my head to the right, to the car with the tinted window open just enough for me to see the gun pointing at my temple.
I’ve no time to do anything but laugh and wonder what the weather is like in hell today. The roar is deafening; the pop is familiar. But then it’s not my window that smashes, not my head that gets blown off.
The tinted glass shatters, revealing the lifeless body in the driver’s seat. Beyond it, a motorcycle helmet with a reflective visor is framed by the passenger-side window. It disappears from view and then four pops ring out behind me.
Confusion slows the adrenaline in my veins. The muffled rap-tap-tap of a gloved hand knocking on my passenger window pulls my attention. I roll down the glass and the helmet-clad head dips into my car.
The visor flips up, revealing green eyes and an angry scar.
“Now that I’ve saved your life, do I still need to get you a Christmas present?”
