whispers, brushing glitter off her lap. She picks up a fake gift off the table runner and rattles it. “And why do the decorations have decorations?”
Amusement pulls my smirk taut. Somehow, Rory walked into her dining room, saw the festive explosion, and decided it still wasn’t grand enough for Christmas Day.
Now, a branch of a fir tree tickles my neck when I lean too far back in my chair. My shirt-cuff almost catches fire on one of the thousand candles every time I reach for my drink.
Opposite me, Benny lets out a loud sigh. Eyes the labradoodle licking Tayce’s face. “If I don’t get fed soon, I’m eating that fucking dog.”
Tayce wraps a protective arm around Rory’s Christmas present and glares back at him. “I’ll eat you before you eat Maggie.”
“Yeah?” Benny licks his lips. “Sounds like a pretty good Christmas gift to me.”
A lethargic laugh ripples around the table. Dinner was meant to be served two hours ago. The good mood soured when the sun set on the other side of the fake snow-coated windows and plates were still empty. Now, everyone’s hungry, restless, and drunker than they should be, including me.
Over the rim of my fourth vodka, I do a scan of the table. Usually, Christmas is a grand affair at the Cove mansion, but for obvious reasons, we’ve broken tradition this year. Surprisingly, two of the Cove clan actually turned up: the twins, Leonardo and Vittoria. They hammered on the front door an hour ago, Vivi in tears and Leo holding their suitcases. They wanted to be let in, and considering they had all their belongings, I don’t think they just meant for Christmas.
Filling the empty chairs are a few add-ons. Tayce sits next to Nico, and Penny’s neighbor, Matt, sits on the other side of her. Penny only agreed to spending Christmas with me if he was allowed to tag along. Every time I lock eyes with him, he freezes like I’ve shot him with a stun gun.
Suddenly, the swinging doors burst open. Everyone sits up a little straighter. Shoulders sag and sighs fill tumblers when they realize it’s only Angelo, and he’s empty-handed.
He leans against the head of the table and glares at the spinning Santa centerpiece. “No one eat the turkey,” he murmurs, cutting a glance behind him. “It’s as pink as Barbie’s playhouse. There’s eight bathrooms in this house, and twelve of us; you do the math.”
The collective groan is loud. Across the table, Max catches Penny’s eye. He holds up eight fingers and mouths, fucking hell at her.
My brother cuts off all protests with a thump on the table. “I’ll punch the living daylights out of anyone that mentions this to my wife. Eat the trimmings, put the turkey in napkins, subtly, and I’ll order us pizza—”
“And dinner is served!” An excited trill cuts Angelo off. Rory pushes through the doors, struggling with a large turkey.
There’s a half-hearted ripple of applause, which gets louder when Angelo clears his throat. He takes the bird from his wife and sets it on the table. Beside me, Penny shudders.
I put a hand on her thigh. “Don’t worry, Queenie, we’ll get burgers on the way home.”
She flashes me her signature grin. “No need.”
Before I can ask why, Rory places a nut roast in front of her. “Here you go Pen,” she sings, before sauntering off.
Penny winks at me. “I told her I was a vegetarian.”
The grounds to the rear of the house are covered in frost. In the darkness, I can’t tell if it’s real or bought from Party City.
Angelo passes me the cigar and drops his head back against the brickwork. The heat lamp above his head gives his despair a red glow.
“WebMD says I’ve got about three hours until food poisoning kicks in.” He glances at his watch. Runs fingers through his hair. “I’m on borrowed time.”
My laugh comes out in a puff of condensation. “You ate half the fucking bird.”
He cuts me a sideways glare. “She was sitting right next to me. It’s all right for you; I saw you scrape all of yours into Penny’s purse.”
“Yeah, now I’ve ruined it. Apparently, only a Birkin as a replacement will do.”
My brother frowns. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Mm. You better hope your wife doesn’t, either.”
Easy silence swirls us, a backdrop of laughter and Christmas classics vibrating against our backs.
“What’s the deal with Leo and Vivi?” I ask, passing him back the cigar. “I’m surprised they turned up. You know, considering you shot their father in the head and all.”
He smirks at the memory, then wipes it off with the back of his hand. “Think they hated Big Al more than we did. Dante too.”
“You letting them move in?”
He shrugs. “They’re family. I’ll interrogate them tomorrow, but they seem pretty genuine.”
“Bet Dante hasn’t even put up a tree, the fucking Scrooge.”
We both laugh. “Leo said the Cove mansion felt like North Korea, but it’s slowly become a ghost town.” Angelo turns to me, expression turning serious. “Dante’s the last man standing.”
I take this information in with a puff of tobacco. The burn at the back of my throat is as satisfying as the news. “Yeah?”
“Gabe will be pleased. He’s been climbing the fucking walls.”
I keep my mouth shut, my mind wandering to his sadistic cave. I think Gabe has been just fine.
The wind whistles over the shells of my ears. Behind us, Tayce calls someone a dickhead—probably Benny—and a loud laugh permeates the brickwork and squeezes my shoulders. Warms my fucking chest.
I’d know that laugh anywhere. I slide the cigar inside my bittersweet smile. It’s a hollow feeling, loving the sound of something and knowing that one day soon I’ll never hear it again.
I glance at my brother’s amused expression and nod to the cigar.
“Just doesn’t taste the same with vodka. It’s true what they say about Russians having no taste.”
He ignores me, takes the smoke from my hand, and takes the two steps into the yellow glow leaking from the living room window. He puffs, watching the scene beyond it.
“You’re good together.”
“What?”
He cuts me dry look that suggests I fucking know what. Reluctantly, my legs carry me over so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder, looking in the window.
Benny’s holding Rory’s dog up like Rafiki does Simba in The Lion King, and Tayce is jumping to rescue her.
I frown. “What’s that on Tayce’s arm? Thought she doesn’t have any tattoos.”
Angelo huffs out a laugh. “It’s a dick.”
I turn. “What?”
“A massive veiny dick. Your girl drew it. Lucky for Tayce, it’s temporary. I think. It’s fucking awful.”
Your girl. The words come out of my brother’s mouth like melted butter. Slide down my spine as easily, too. It sounds so natural, but so foreign at the same time. No girl has ever been mine for longer than a night.
Finally, I let my gaze go to her, and as usual, a hand squeezes around my heart. She’s sitting by the fire with Nico, balls-deep in a card game with him. She’s got that stern expression she gets when we play Mario Kart and she’s on the cusp of losing. She’s the only one wearing the ugly Christmas sweater handed to us as we crossed the threshold. It’s almost as big as her and just as loud.
I shake my head, melancholic humor filling me. Last night on the bow, I laid everything out in the cold gap between us. I don’t really know why. Part of me wanted her to make it easier on me by running away; the other part wanted her to fix it.
She did neither, and so we’re still here, balancing on the tightrope between the flames.
I almost wish I hadn’t demanded she come today, because every moment with her has been perfect. After dinner, we moved to the drawing room to play games. We teamed up, and fuck, I’d never thought I’d enjoy playing games with her as much as I do against her. Maybe it’s because we obliterated everyone. After two rounds of Charades and a whole lot of Pictionary, everyone else was mildly resentful of our triumph and got bored with playing.
If only her luck canceled out my bad luck outside of playing games, too.
The back door crashes open, tensing my muscles. Both me and Angelo reach for our guns, our fingers sliding off the grips when we see it’s only Cas who darkens the doorway.
“Seems like there’s been a Christmas miracle,” he says dryly. “Guess what fuckwit just turned up?”
I stare at Tor Visconti through a haze of cigar smoke.
He stares back.
“Can you get food poisoning from mashed potatoes?” I ask Angelo blankly. “Because I must be fucking hallucinating.”
Tor regards the vodka in my fist. Confusion sweeps through his gaze. “Might be the paint stripper you’re drinking. And what happened to your knuckles? You fall over or something?”
“Rafe—”
Ignoring Angelo’s warning, I set the drink down with one hand and swing for his jaw with the other. His head snaps back as a little oof escapes his lips. He rubs his cheek and looks up at me, a mixture of humor and admiration dancing in his eyes. “Rafe throwing a punch? Fuck, maybe I’m the one who’s hallucinating.”
Behind him, Benny gives me a thumbs up of approval.
“Rather Rafe than Gabe, I suppose.” Tor glances to the cigar room door, as if my brother’s going to burst in at any minute. “You gonna set him on me later?”
“Tell them what you just told me,” Cas says calmly. He sinks into an armchair and rests his forearms on his knees.
Tor takes his sweet-ass time. He reclines in his chair, plucks a cigar from the humidor and holds it up to the dim light. With a nod of approval, he slides it into his top pocket and pins me with a half-lidded stare.
“I’ve been on vacation.”
Beside me, Angelo’s temple vein ticks so loud I can almost hear it. He clears his throat. “You’ve what?” he asks quietly. Calm-before-the-storm quietly.
“Mm. Didn’t want to miss Christmas Day, though. Hey look—I brought gifts.” He grabs a bag from under the chair and sets it on the table. Pulls out three bobblehead figurines in floral shirts, wearing garlands around their necks. “This one’s Rafe, this one’s Angelo, and this is Nico.” He flicks mine so it starts swaying side-to-side, then flashes me a lop-sided grin. “They dance, see? Don’t worry; I’ve got them for all of you.”
I’ve never been in a room of Viscontis so silent. Disbelief consumes me. It feels like the fucking floor is breathing. My stare rakes over him, trying to make sense of it all. He’s got a month-in-the-Maldives tan and is wearing a bright white T-shirt to highlight it. His ink spills out from the collar and the cuffs, and I realize he’s not even wearing a fucking watch.
Nico breaks the silence. “So, just to be clear: when the port exploded, you left the wedding, got on a jet—”
“Believe it or not, I flew commercial,” Tor interrupts. “That was a fucking adventure in itself.”
“—to a different continent, and have spent the last month sipping on margaritas under a palm tree and getting your dick wet?”
Tor rubs at his smirk. “I’m more of a mojito man myself. And I wouldn’t say I got my dick wet. But there was this one girl…” He shakes his head, raking his teeth over his bottom lip. “Fuck, she was something else.”
More silence. This time, it’s the click of a safety catch releasing that interrupts it. At the corner of my eye, Angelo’s Glock winks in the light. “That’s it,” he growls. “Get up.”
My hand flies out and pushes down on the barrel, so he’s aiming at the dancing figurines instead of our cousin’s temple. Tor doesn’t flinch; he just slides his gaze up to mine expectantly. Yeah, seems like he missed the memo about me not being the one that fixes things anymore.
“You better start talking, cugino,” I say, as calmly as I can muster, “because I won’t intervene the next time he raises his gun.”
A few heavy beats pass, thick with tobacco and expectation. Slowly, the smirk falls off his lips, and his reddened jaw hardens.
“I had no idea the cunt was going to do it,” he growls. “You know what he said as I walked out the door to your wedding?” He glances up at Angelo. “Tell the Dip Clan I want peace. Fuck—he really had me fooled. I’d spent the month after you popped a cap in our father trying to reason with him, and I thought he’d finally come round.” His stare darkens on my brother. “I told you from the jump, cugino, I wasn’t going to choose between the two of you. But the moment the port went boom, I knew I didn’t have a choice anymore.” Falling back against the seat, he rubs absent-mindedly at his jaw. “And I knew my life was going to change forever.”
“So you sat on a sun lounger for four weeks,” Angelo grinds out.
Tor’s indifference doesn’t waiver. “Yeah, I did. I knew I had to choose a side, but I wasn’t going to hang around and watch you kill my brother. So, I got out of your way for a little while.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. Curls his fists on the armrests. “I’m assuming you’ve…taken care of it?”
Angelo cuts me a look; I give him a small shake of my head, signaling not to tell him Dante’s still alive. Fuck, Tor is—was—my best friend. My best business partner and confidant. Maybe it’s because I feel betrayed by his sudden absence, but I’m wary of telling him.
Jerking his chin to show he understands, my brother changes the subject. “How do we know we can trust you?”
Tor shrugs carelessly. “You can’t, and it doesn’t fucking matter.” He rises to his feet, standing tall, and looks Angelo in the eye. “But you’re looking at the new capo of Devil’s Cove. You can work with me, or you can work against me, but I promise you, not only am I better-looking than my older brother, I’m also smarter, wealthier, and better connected. You want a war, bring it on, baby.” He swipes a bottle of Smuggler’s Club off the drinks cart and slams two glasses on the table. Liquor sloshes over the rims as he fills them up with vigor. He slides one in Angelo’s direction. “You want to call a truce and help me build Cove back up? Then that’s good with me too.”
He raises his glass and waits.
Angelo glares at him for the longest time, then he swipes up the glass and silently downs it in one.
