Sinners Anonymous : Chapter 9

IT’S TUESDAY NIGHT AND I’m practically crawling the walls of the Visconti mansion. Every secret and sin committed within them, including my own, weakens their foundations, bringing them one step closer to tumbling down on top of me.

I’m worried sick. Haven’t eaten since Sunday lunch. I can still taste Max’s blood on the corner of my lips, still see his lifeless figure slumped over the dinnerware. But it turns out I’m even more selfish than I thought, because Max’s death is the thing I’m worried least about.

Angelo owns Sinners Anonymous. I’ve spent the last two days trying to remember every word I’ve ever spoken down that line, every bad thought and feeling and action that I’ve confessed to it. Not only do I despise the fact that he now has that hold over me, I’m scared out of my mind that he’ll tell Alberto what I’ve confessed.

Because there’s one confession in particular that will be enough to get me killed in a heartbeat.

And then what’ll happen to my father?

Calm moments are fleeting, but when they roll over me, I somehow manage to convince myself that maybe it’ll all be okay. It’s Sinners Anonymous. An anonymous voicemail service that should, in theory, have no way of tracking who called. And it’s not like I ever used my own cell phone, and even after Alberto took it away from me, I’ve never called from the small burner phone he insists I carry.

But I’ve learned quickly that it’s not out of character for a Visconti to go back on his word. Alberto is already trying to change the terms of our contract—yet another stress weighing me down.

I’ve spent the last two days moping on the bottom steps in the entryway, one eye on the front door in case Angelo darkens the doorway with my confessions in his pockets, and the other eye on Alberto’s office door, trying to listen to his conversations. In this time I’ve heard several hushed exchanges between Dante and him, something about if Angelo comes back, it’s going to ruin all of Dante’s plans.

Seems like I’m not the only one rattled by his sudden appearance.

It’s late Tuesday afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to set on the other side of the stained-glass windows in the lobby. I’m curled up on the bottom step, leaning against the wrought iron railings, holding a book that serves as nothing more than a prop. Alberto’s on the phone in his study, barking rapid Italian to someone he deems less important than him. Tor strolls out of the family room, briefcase in one hand and a wool coat slung over his arm.

He comes to a stop in front of me.

“Fucking hell, girl. I’ve had enough of you moping about like a kicked puppy. It was only Max, for Christ’s sake.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Get up.”

“W-what?”

Ignoring me, he turns on his heel and strolls into his father’s study without knocking. They have a quick exchange in Italian, then he turns back to me and jerks his head. “Up. You’re coming with me.”

I blink. “To where?”

“Work.”

“In Devil’s Cove?”

“No, on Mars.” He breezes toward the front door, calling over his shoulder. “Last chance.”

My heart thumps double-time in my chest, a plan slotting into place. “Just grabbing my purse,” I yell, before taking the stairs two at a time up to my dressing room.

When I burst out into the circular front drive, I’m relieved to see Tor hasn’t left without me. The engine of his Bentley is running, and he’s leaning against the driver’s door, smoking a cigarette. His gaze drops to my purse. “You really need all that?”

I freeze. Curl my arms protectively around my large tote. “Uh, yeah. I’ve got my makeup and my wallet…”

I trail off, my lie lingering in a puff of condensation in the chilly air, but Tor just takes a final drag on his cigarette, rolls his eyes, then flicks the butt onto the grass. “Women,” he mutters under his breath. “Come on, get in.”

I clutch my bag tightly as we snake out of the Visconti grounds and onto the coastal road that runs parallel to the beach. I’ve lived on the Devil’s Coast my entire life, and yet every time I drive through Devil’s Cove, I’m always surprised by how glamorous it is. A complete contrast to Devil’s Dip and Hollow. Out of the window on my side, it’s the picture of tranquility; the navy sky melts into the black sea, and a strip of white sand in the foreground remains untouched. Tourists don’t exactly come to Devil’s Cove to sunbathe on a freezing cold beach and take a dip in the choppy ocean. No, the lure of Cove can be seen from Tor’s window—the row of shimmering hotels and casinos and Michelin-starred restaurants. A promenade connects them, paved with marble that gets dangerously slippery in the rain, and hardy-variety palm trees that struggle to survive the harsh winters.

Tor slows the car and cranes his neck to look up at the sky. “Cheeky bastard,” he laughs. I follow his focus, up to a lone plane cutting through the sky. “Vicious is up to something.”

My heart stills at the sound of Angelo’s nickname. “Huh?”

He jerks his chin up. “That’s his jet.” He cocks his brow at me, amusement dancing on his lips. “Would you have your jet flown in all the way from London if you were just visiting?”

My head swims with the idea that Angelo’s presence on the Coast could be permanent. I can’t imagine it, having to see his scowling face at every Friday night dinner and every Sunday lunch. Feeling his heavy gaze follow me around the basement bar. Holding my secrets over my head like a rain cloud. I rest my burning face against the cold window and close my eyes. A worse realization suddenly suffocates me. What happens to Devil’s Dip if Alberto hands the reins back to Angelo? Would this stupid agreement have been all for nothing?

“If you’re gonna be sick, let me know so I can pull over. These seats are nappa leather,” Tor drawls, not taking his eyes off the road. Then, he lets out a low chuckle and adds, “A fucking Bombardier Global Express. Why he needs a jet that big, I’ll never know.”

“It’s a Gulfstream,” I find myself whispering.

Tor drags his gaze to me and scowls. “What?”

“That jet. It’s a Gulfstream, not a Bombardier. The nose and the wings are a different shape.”

Silence swirls the car for a few moments, then he lets out a low whistle. “And there I was thinking you were just bird-crazy. Are you obsessed with anything that flies, kid?”

I swallow the lump in my throat and drag myself upright. “I had a place at the Northwestern Aviation Academy.”

“What? Pilot school?”

“Uh-huh.”

He finds this so hilarious that he thumps the steering wheel with his fist. “You’re shitting me. And you chose to marry my old man instead of going?”

“No, I applied three years ago, when I was eighteen.”

“But then what? You decided to hold out for a sugar daddy?”

I steel my jaw, feeling my nostrils flare at his jab. When I signed that stupid contract, Alberto warned me that only Dante knew the reason why I agreed to marry him, and not to bring it up to anyone else. He said it’s because it’s purely business, but after knowing him for a few months, I now realize it’s a power thing. He wants people to believe he could genuinely win over a young woman like me, despite being old and gross.

He’s fooling nobody. Instead, everyone just thinks I’m a gold digger.

“Not quite,” I growl back.

“What happened, then?”

What happened? The smell of old books and chalk assaults my nose. The ghost of strong hands pinning me to the blackboard. The sound of screams oozing out of the classroom echo in my ears.

I shake my head and mutter, “I wanted to stay in Devil’s Dip.”

“Ha. Devil’s Dip is the dead-end of dreams, kid.” When I don’t respond, he glances over at me. “Aw come on, your life could be worse. My dad kept his last wife locked up in the beach house. She was technically my stepmom and I met her twice, once at Christmas, and once when she kicked through the glass window and made a run for it. Well, three times, if you count her open casket.” He slows the car, then swings into an alley. “Here we are.”

I glance up at the window and notice we’re next to a half-built building, propped up by scaffolding and covered with tarps. I thin my eyes in Tor’s direction. “Did Alberto ask you to kill me?” I’m only half-joking.

He leans over and opens my door. “Not yet.”

Inside, the building is dark and damp; the smell of sawdust and cement swirls the air. Tor leads the way, guiding me over broken floorboards and under low-hanging beams. With every step he takes, he gets more and more agitated. “Lazy bastardi,” he snarls. “This joint was meant to be knocked up a week ago.”

We burst into a room that looks like it belongs in a different building entirely. A games room, filled with five velvet poker tables and a fully stocked bar in the corner. The cluster of men gathered around one of the tables jump to their feet, dropping their cards and knocking over low-ball glasses.

A few beats of silence. Then one of them dares to speak. “Boss—”

But Tor doesn’t let him finish. In a flash, he crosses the room, whips his gun from his waistband, and strikes the man’s face with the butt of it. “What do I pay you for, huh?” He snarls, gripping him by the base of his neck. I look away, squirming at the sight of the man’s blood dripping down his temple. “‘Cause I know it ain’t to sit around like a bunch of jack-asses and—”

“Calmati, cugino.” A back door opens, and a suited figure strolls through it, immediately chilling the air in the room. “He’s lost enough money in the last hour; he doesn’t need to lose his life too.”

Tor pauses. Drops the man like a sack of bricks. “Rafe! You’re still here?”

He nods to the door behind me. “Benny and I are planning a poker tournament in the Hollow caves next week.”

“Bastardi—without me?”

“When do we do anything without you?”

Tor’s amused; mutters something lighthearted under his breath. Rafe turns his gaze to me, and I shift uncomfortably under his megawatt smile. “You brought company.”

“Yeah.” Tor waves in my direction. “Thought she might want to see something other than the inside of Big Al’s bedroom.”

Rafe doesn’t laugh at his crappy joke. Instead, he stares at me with sea-green eyes too similar to Angelo’s. But it’s not just his likeness to his brother that makes me uncomfortable. Behind the charm and the smile, there’s something scarily stoic about him. He oozes power out of every perfect pore, filling the room with his presence. Tonight, he wears a navy suit, pinstripe shirt, and a rose-gold collar pin, complete with a small chain. He has that same untouchable air as his brother. I can’t ever imagine him doing anything normal, like standing in line at Starbucks, or driving his car through a car wash.

He shifts his attention back to Tor and they start talking business. I stand there for a few moments, awkwardly clutching my bag, waiting for a break in the conversation.

Eventually, it comes. “Um, Tor? Did you need my help with anything?”

He flashes me an irritated look. “Yeah, if you know how to plaster walls, that’d be great.” When greeted with my blank stare, he rolls his eyes and adds, “I’m kidding. Disappear for a bit—but be ready when I want to leave.”

Before he can change his mind, I scurry back through the rubble hallways and crash out into the main Devil’s Cove strip. I breathe in the salty sea air in an attempt to steady my heartbeat, and turn right, breaking into a half-walk, half-run down the promenade. Tourists spill out of fine-dining restaurants and bars, and I catch the tail end of carefree laughs and anecdotes in foreign languages as I pass, my bag clutched to my chest and my chin tucked into the collar of my jacket. After a few minutes, I reach my destination.

When I step inside Devil’s Ink, the doorbell dings, announcing my arrival.

Apart from the name above the door, there’s no clue that this place is a tattoo shop.

It’s small and clinical-looking, like the waiting room of a high-end dentist. Recessed white lights bounce off shiny floors, and everything gleams like it’s sterile. In the middle, Tayce straddles a chair, hunched over a man’s bulging bicep with a tattoo gun in her hand.

“It’s appointment only,” she snaps, not looking up.

Her client turns to scowl at me. “Don’t distract her. I’ve waited three years for this.”

“Keep still, Blade.”

I let out a huff of air. “Okay, but I really can’t come back later.”

The whirring of the tattoo gun stops. Tayce jerks her head up and her eyes grow wide the moment they land on me. “Oh my god, Rory!” she breathes, leaping out of her chair and running over to give me a hug.

I squeeze my eyes shut in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of my friend. God, if I ever cried, this would be the time my tears would fall. She grabs my arms and takes a step back, studying my face. “Are you okay? You’re okay, right?”

My eyes dart over her shoulder to her client. Every inch of his body is inked, from the dragon slithering up the side of his jaw, right down to the rosary beads tattooed around his ankle. Tayce is the best tattoo artist on the continent. Some would argue the world. Her waiting list is as long as the Bible and people clamber over each other to get on it.

Including the members of the world’s most powerful mafia families.

Ones that have names like “Blade.”

Sensing my unease, Tayce twists her neck to face her client.

“Blade, you’ll need to come back tomorrow.”

“You’re shitting me, right? I’ve been on the waiting list forever—”

“So forever and one day won’t kill you. Out.”

He growls. Clenches his fits. But Tayce doesn’t falter. “Something to say?”

He swallows his retort and shakes his head. Then he rises to his feet and, with a lingering scowl in my direction, reluctantly trails out of the shop, half a Grim Reaper etched into his bicep.

Tayce follows him to the door and locks it behind her. “Oh my god, Rory. I’m so happy to see you. You never called.” She takes a step forward, fury replacing the relief in her eyes. “Why the fuck didn’t you call?”

With a heavy sigh, I sink down on the tattoo bed, curling my body around the bag. It’s been two and a half months since I crashed through the doors of Devil’s Ink and told my best friend I’m getting married to Alberto Visconti.

Her first instinct was to slap my face. The next was to wrap her arms around me and beg me to reconsider. She knows the family well—there’s not a tattoo on any inch of Visconti skin that wasn’t inked by her gun—and that’s exactly why I couldn’t tell her why I was signing my life away. I knew I’d only drag her and her business into the darkness with me.

But Tayce didn’t pry, because she knows the value of a secret. We met three years ago, when I’d just turned down my place at aviation school and taken a job at the diner in Dip. She’d turned up on a rainy Thursday afternoon, everything she owned in a small duffel bag at her Doc Martens. With her jet-black hair stuck to her forehead and her heavy eye makeup dribbling down her cheeks, she looked like a girl that’d just left a life behind.

I poured her a cup on the house and asked her name. She’d paused for too long before she said it was Tayce, and when I asked if she was visiting, her gaze had shifted uncomfortably toward the door.

I’ll never forget what she said to me then.

“Please don’t ask me any questions, because I’m sick of telling lies.”

And so I didn’t. Fast forward three years and she has her own tattoo shop, despite not having a single drop of ink on her own porcelain skin. The tattooless tattoo artist, the press call her.

“I couldn’t call because Alberto took my phone and I don’t trust the burner he gave me,” I say simply. I work my jaw, trying to ignore the aching in my chest. Oh, goose, how I’d love to tell Tayce everything. But what good would it do?

“Jesus, Rory, you’re shaking.”

With a glance at the clock above the cash register, I shove my bag into her chest. “Listen, I don’t have much time. I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything. You know that.” She peers inside the bag and narrows her eyes. “What the hell is this?”

It’s the collection of things I’ve stolen from the Viscontis over the last few months. Vittoria’s necklace, an Audemars Piguet watch I managed to slip off Alberto’s wrist while he was sleeping. Lots of silverware. Anything of value I could get my hands on without raising suspicion.

“Tayce, if anything happens to me, I need you to sell all of this. Use the money to move my father somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t on the Coast.” I meet her gaze and swallow the sob creeping up my throat. “To a care home.”

She lets out a hiss of breath. Studies me with sadness in her eyes. “Can I ask why?”

The smile on my lips feels bittersweet. “No,” I say softly. “Because I’m sick of telling lies.”

Her mouth opens and then closes just as quickly. Me repeating her own plea from three years ago is enough to buy her cooperation.

“You have my word.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, feeling like at least some of the weight has been lifted off my chest. When I rise to my feet, Tayce takes a desperate step toward me.

“You can’t stay? Just for a little while? I’ve got a bottle of vodka out back. We could put on Whitney’s greatest hits and dance around the shop like we used to.” She all but whispers. “Remember when we’d do that? I fucking hate Whitney,” she adds with a bitter laugh.

Emotion prickles at the corners of my eyes. I will not cry. I will not cry.

“I can’t, but I’ll try my best to come and see you soon.”

I turn to go, but Tayce grabs my arm. “Wait. What about the club opening on Halloween?

“What?”

“Tor was here a few weeks ago for a touch-up. He invited me to his new club opening next weekend. He’s going to be your step-son soon.” We both recoil at the thought. “So you’ll be there, right? I’ll see you then?”

My mind bounces a few blocks down the street, to the half-built club, still propped up by metal bracing. It’ll be a miracle if it’s open by next weekend, but I don’t tell Tayce that. Instead, I nod and flash her a tight smile. “I’ll do my best to come, but I don’t know…”

I let the rest of my sentence dangle between us, unspoken. I don’t know if Alberto will let me. She nods, understanding, and pulls me in for a hug. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Rory. And if it does, I’ll look after your father, okay?”

“Thank you,” I whisper into her neck. I bought her the perfume she’s wearing for Christmas, and it smells like happier times. As I pull away, she only grips me tighter.

“And if anything does happen to you,” she says, dropping her voice to a menacing whisper in my ear. “I’ll burn down every one of their hotels, restaurants, and bars to the ground. Everything.”

A chill ripples down my spine. There’s so much I know about Tayce, yet so much I don’t. One thing I do know, though, is that she’s deadly serious.

Before I break down on her shiny, sterile floor, I dart back out into the bright lights of Devil’s Cove and hurry back to the half-built club. As I round the corner into the alley, Tor steps out from behind a tarp and almost crashes into me.

“There you are.” He dusts down his sharp suit. “I thought perhaps you’d had the good sense to run away.”

“I don’t think your father would be too happy about that.”

“Nonsense. He’d just replace you with a hotter model.” He glances down at my empty hands. “Where’s your bag?”

Oh, swan. My mind races with a million lies, none of them convincing enough to try out on the smartest brother in the Cove clan. “I—”

A yellow light creeps over the walls of the construction site and lands on Tor’s face. He scowls, lifting his hand up to shield his eyes. “Somebody has a death wish,” he growls.

I turn to follow the light and see a car crawling toward us. Their high-beams are on, lighting up the alleyway.

The engine cuts off, plunging us back into darkness and silence. Then a lone, imposing figure gets out and Tor’s scowl melts into his signature grin. “Two out of three Dip brothers in one night? I must be dreaming.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Angelo. It’s instinctive to want to run away, and I gaze out of the alley, across the promenade, and to the dark ocean, wondering how far I’d get down the beach before I got caught.

But I don’t move. Instead, I settle for staring down at my feet.

“Rafe’s here?”

“Well, it ain’t gonna be Gabe. I’m guessing after Sunday lunch he crawled back to his cave.”

“I like you Tor, but you know I have no problem dislocating your jaw.”

The calmness in Angelo’s voice forms an icicle along the length of my spine. I steal a glance up at him. He’s standing under a streetlight. The yellow glow shines off his dark hair and casts a dark shadow under his high cheekbones. Makes his green eyes glitter like emeralds. Tonight, he’s wearing a black wool jacket, with a gray turtleneck sweater poking out from underneath the collar. He looks warm, strong.

Scary.

We lock eyes and I immediately turn my attention back to the gravel road.

“See,” Tor drawls, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “That’s not the attitude of a man who pays his taxes.” He flicks a lighter and lights the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Nice shot on Sunday by the way. You’ve still got it.”

“Like riding a bike,” Angelo shoots back, looking bored. “You never forget.”

A mix of annoyance and disgust swirls in my stomach like a bad bout of food poisoning. But I keep my face neutral. This man has my life in his hands and now is not the time to draw attention to myself, or piss him off any more than I already have.

Tor blows out a billow of smoke, then holds out the carton to Angelo.

“I don’t smoke.”

My eyes shoot upward, locking on his. What? He was smoking up on the cliff; that’s how I knew he was there in the first place.

We stare at each other. His expression is disinterested as always, but behind his eyes something dark glitters. A challenge. Like he’s silently goading me to dispute his lie. I tilt my chin up and he cocks an eyebrow, as if to say, go on. I dare you.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but strangely, not in fear. It feels…exhilarating. The same adrenaline rush I got in Alberto’s office, when Angelo covered for me. A secret between enemies.

Well, I doubt he thinks of me as his enemy.

I doubt he thinks of me at all.

“Rafe would give his left nut for you to return to Dip,” Tor says, cutting through my racing thoughts.

Angelo smirks. “He told you that?”

“He’s my best friend, he tells me everything. Seems like you’re thinking about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve noticed you’ve been having meetings with my old man.”

“Hmm.”

“And I saw your Gulfstream fly in earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not gonna get anything out of you, am I?”

“Nope.”

Tor drops his cigarette butt and grinds it into the gravel. “I hope you think about it.” I don’t. “I know you live this fancy life in London, but just think about it, all right?” He bumps his fist against Angelo’s, then slaps his shoulder with his other hand. “Even if it’s just to piss off Dante.”

“Tempting.”

Tor strides towards his Bentley, waving over his shoulder. I scurry after him, not wanting to be left alone with the Devil himself. Being alone in a dark alley with a monster is never a good idea.

“Goodnight, Aurora.”

The baritone in his voice sends a hot flush through my body. The shells of my ears burn, and I find that I close my eyes, just for the briefest of moments.

The passenger seat of Tor’s car feels like a refuge, even when he kicks the car into gear and peels off out of the alley.

I shouldn’t glance in the side mirror, but I do.

Angelo stands under the streetlamp. Before we turn the corner, I see the flick of his lighter. A billow of smoke oozes out from his parted lips.

Oh, swan. I’m in over my head.