Page 108 of Sinners Atone
Adrenaline bursts through me like a blown-out fuse. The smoke ishot,burning through my veins and warping every moral I have.
That sounded like a threat, but it isn’t enough. A bead of sweat trickles down the nape of my neck, and though I can’t see farther than my nose, my vision tunnels into a tight line. All I can think about is digging deeper, ripping the jealousy from him with my claws. I needmore.
“Don’t worry,” I breathe. “You’ll find out when I post about it on my Instagram page.”
The air tightens before theclick.A half-second warning before the dark shatters.
Light, in the most violent shade of red, floods over us. My pupils shrink and I recoil. When I find my bearings, I realize Gabriel has turned the heat lamp back on.
He’s stone-still, dead silent, and far too close for comfort. His glare could scorch wet earth.
A cold realization grips my neck and tugs me backward.
The dark doesn’t just hide all sins; it makes you forget what fear is supposed to feel like. Standing there, dripping in the color of blood, Gabriel Visconti embodies it.
His glare burns with every bad deed he’s ever done and doesn’t regret. Every fight he’s ever won is set into the hard linesof his jaw, throat, and shoulders. That scar on his face is the only fault line in something otherwise indestructible.
Light or dark, I must be out of my damn mind.
The only part of him that moves is his eyes as they track my shaky retreat.
My back thumps against the door; I turn to open it.
But two quiet words bring me to a stop.
“Cancel it.”
They drag up my spine like a match, threatening to reignite everything the light just extinguished.
“And if I don’t?” I croak.
His pause is dense.
“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
Salon Privé sits on the beachfront at the far end of Devil’s Cove. It’s the type of place with a strict dress code and a menu with no prices. I’ve passed its unassuming door plenty of times but have never had the need nor the budget to see what’s on the other side.
I step inside and hover in the entryway, trying to gawp without looking like a spectator at the zoo.
It smells like lemon and old money boxed in by dark wood walls. The sconces lining them are too far apart, creating more shadows than they do light. The tables are spaced far apart too, draped in white linen and plated with the kind of silverware siblings fight over in their grandmother’s will.
Jeez. I say a little prayer that I don’t need to reach for my wallet when the check comes, because I doubt I could afford a glass of tap water in a place like this, let alone a full meal.
A polished brunette holding a tablet approaches. “Good evening, ma’am. Do you have a reservation?”
I smile up at her, tugging at my dress, saying another silent prayer that she won’t notice my Chanel flap purse is a knock-off. “Um, yes. It’s under the name David, for eight p.m.”
The screen lights up her frown as she scrolls through a list. “And the last name?”
I pause. Well, crap, I’ve no idea. David and I have been texting back and forth over the last few days, and I thought I’d covered all the important questions. What he does for work—something to do with computers; what his favorite movie is—the third one in that boring franchise about the Fast and Furious cars; does he have an Instagram account I can stalk—no.
But I’d forgotten to ask his last name.
“Um.” I sweep the restaurant, hoping to spot a friendly smile and a wave. But there’s barely anyone here, aside from a handful of men scattered around in corner booths, and even in the low lighting, I can tell none of them are David.
Irritation pulses beneath my ribs. I can’t believe he’s late. I know I’m late too, but that’s beside the point.
I glance toward the bar in a last-ditch effort to find him, but my eyes snag on another familiar figure instead.
