Page 17 of Sinners Atone
I follow her glare to Angelo’s cutout, which is now covered in messy lipstick prints. I laugh and squeeze her knee. “Relax, you’re the only one smooching the real deal, honey.”
A beat of realization passes, then her face stretches into a grin so wide it raises goosebumps along my arms. It’s followed by a rush of hot, intense jealousy, which I force out of my body with a loud sigh.
I love their love story; it follows a plot I could only dream of. It started with an explosive meet-cute, jumped right over the dreaded third-act breakup, and now they’re waltzing toward the happy ever after.
I rest my chin on my fist and gaze up at Rory, a soppy smile tugging on my lips. “Tell me the story of how you and Angelo met.”
She shifts in her seat, letting out a light laugh. “I’ve told you a million times, Wren. You must be sick of it by now.”
“You could tell me a million more times, and I still wouldn’t be sick of it.” I stick out my bottom lip. “Please?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “The music’s too loud.”
“I can hear you just fine.”
She grabs a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich off a platter and crams the whole thing in her mouth. “Yeah, but I’m eating,” she mumbles, spraying the glittery tablecloth with crumbs.
Rolling my eyes, I tuck a pink napkin into the neckline of her dress. “Next time, then.”
“Next time,” she agrees.
Rory doesn’t share my love of hyperbolic statements—she probably has told me the story a million times. But I wasn’t being dramatic when I said I could hear it a million more either. I’ll never tire of hearing how their eyes found each other across a busy bar and the world fell silent. Or how later, they reached for the same champagne flute on a passing tray, and the brush of his thumb against hers made sparks fly.
Their meet-cute isn’t even the best part of the story. She’d left the bar without telling Angelo her name, and for the next week, he couldn’t rest until he knew it. In the day, he’d scour the length of the coast, trawling sidewalks and knocking on doors, and at night, he’d wait at the bar they met in, in the hope she’d show up again.
Their first date—a moonlit dinner on the beach—was magic. For their second, he whisked her off to New York, where they had their first kiss atop the Empire State Building, the wind roaring in their ears. They made love for the first time under the stars in Paris, then he declared his love for her as they wandered, hand in hand, through the cobbled streets of Rome.
The courting was a whirlwind so strong and intense that I didn’t see her forthree whole months. Only when she breezed into The Rusty Anchor, a handsome Visconti in her shadow, did I get the full story.
As she scarfs down another sandwich, I grab her free hand and rub my thumb over her ring. It’s a sweet, sparkly diamond that fits both her finger and personality like a glove. “You’re getting married!”
Her hand curls over mine. “I’m getting married!” she squeals, treating me to a view of the mushy cucumber in her mouth. Then her gaze snags on something in the crowd, and she stops chewing.
For a split second, the air pulls taut, but then Rory breaks into a grin and clambers to her feet. “I’m getting married tothatman!”
I follow the point of her finger, to the imposing figure slicing through the dance floor. With every stride he takes toward us, dancers slow, torsos twist, and jaws drop open.
Although Angelo Visconti hasn’t lived on the coast for nearly a decade, he has the same hypnotic hold over the women here as his more well-known brother and cousins do. It’d be naive to pretend a large part of his appeal isn’t all the money lining his pockets, but he also benefits from the signature Visconti good looks. He’s a tall, dark, and handsome stereotype poured into a bespoke black suit, And I just know that underneath it, he’s built like a man who could pick you up with one arm without grunting.
From the moment I looked up, Angelo hasn’t taken his eyes off of his fiancée, nor has that satisfied smirk left his lips. As he steps off the dance floor and reaches our booth, my heart skips a beat.
Is this how he looked at her the night they met? Because, sweet Lord, if a man looked at me like that, I’d fall—no,jump—off the face of the earth with him for three months too.
“What are you doing here?” Rory laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He slides his hands up her sides, breaking eye contact long enough to drink in her dress. “We had a meeting nearby.”
“We absolutely did not have a meeting nearby,” a velvet voice drawls.
I turn to find its owner. Raphael Visconti steps out of the crowd, casts an amused glance at the table spread, then winks at me.
Angelo’s brother is a stereotype in his own right—he embodies every cliché male lead in the straight-to-TV movies I make Uncle Finn binge-watch with me around this time of year.Handsome and ridiculously charming billionaire who made his fortune under the bright lights of Las Vegas moves back to his sleepy hometown to help with the family empire. There, he meets…
Well, I don’t know who he meets. Lots of women, actually, because every time I see him in Devil’s Cove, he has his hand on the small of a different brunette’s back, guiding her through the door of a swanky restaurant, then later guiding her into the passenger seat of his car.
Serial dating habits aside, he really is the perfect Hallmark hero. Sharp suit, silver tongue, and he’s mastered the type of intense eye contact that makes a girl feel dizzy with importance. He’s got that amused half smirk down too. The one they all wear when the heroine does something adorably awkward, like leavethe house with a pair of panties wrapped around the heel of her shoe.
Seriously. All he’s missing is a cable knit sweater and an English accent.
