Page 33 of Sinners Atone
“You know what I need? A table plan.” Benny yanks at the stopper of a whiskey decanter. “With big green check marks next to the names of all the chicks we’re not related to.”
No, what Benny needs is to finish his course of antibiotics. He has the clap for the second time this year, and with eighteen of his prior conquests on the wedding guest list, it’ll soon be a third.
“Yeah, and big red crosses next to all thechickswith restraining orders against you,” Rafe drawls.
Cas lets out a booming laugh, though he’ll be swallowing it come Monday morning when his Russian fiancée slaps him with a restraining order of his own. Her brothers aren’t stupid enough to interfere with an arranged marriage to a Visconti, andher four-day hunger strike didn’t work, so she’s trying her luck with the American legal system instead.
I look down. “You done?”
The tailor slips the needle into the crook of his mouth and shuffles around to my other leg. “Uh, nearly, sir. I just need to let out a little more fabric, and then I’ll be out of your way.” I tug my pant leg up an inch. His gaze falls on the blade strapped to my ankle, and the blood drains from his face. “Never mind. All done,” he says before scurrying off somewhere safer.
Smart man.
Between Rafe chewing my ear off and this dick buzzing around my feet, I’m behind on my checks. I scan the perimeters, making sure none of my men have broken rank. There’re four cars at the checkpoint now, all of which I recognize as low risk. All boxes being carried to and from the house have the red seal of approval, and a quick glance at my watch tells me Fez has eyes on Angelo and Rory in the rear garden.
Good.
I grip my nape and release a tense breath. Rafe’s right, Dante couldn’t tell his right hand from his left. Now that Uncle Alberto is dead, he’s been forced to step into his shoes as the head of the Devil’s Cove outfit two decades too early. He’s under prepared and overwhelmed, and even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t have the balls to be a Capo. The guy can’t even pull a trigger without asking for permission, let alone order someone else to pull one. He barely has enough men to secure the perimeters of Devil’s Cove anyway. He’d be an idiot to feed them to my wolves this early on.
Besides, retaliating today, of all days, would be predictable.
And I learned a long time ago that Dante Visconti can be anything but.
My chest starts to burn and my vision flickers. It’s been three years, but the memory of that night still blinds me with rage.Swallowing, I force it to the pit of my stomach and continue my sweep.
As my gaze moves along the wrought-iron railings, it snags on the pedestrian entrance, then narrows on the familiar blonde beside it.
Speaking of that night.
She hands over a little bag to Arben for inspection. It’s the size of a postage stamp and obnoxiously pink, like the rest of her. Pink hair rollers. Pink turtleneck sweater spilling out the collar of a pink coat. Pink knee-high boots. Even under the cold gray sky, I can tell the garment bag slung over her forearm is a pale shade of pink, and I’d bet my entire arsenal that whatever is inside of it is too.
Pink. Pink. Pink.
Christ. I never thought it’d be possible to hate a fucking color so much.
Palming my jaw, I let out a hard exhale through my nose and move on to my other checks.
I last all of ten seconds before I’m glaring at her again.
I knew she’d be at the wedding, she’s Rory’s bridesmaid, but after putting the fear of God into her last night, I didn’t think she’d be so fucking chipper about it.
I don’t make a habit of terrorizing young girls, but I knew the moment she stuck her fucking tongue out at me from across the Catacomb parking lot that I needed to nip this shit in the bud if we’re to coexist on the same coastline. That it’d only be a matter of time before she recognized me. Spoke to me.
Touched me.
Annoyance burns hot under my collar, and I yank at the stupid bowtie around my neck for relief.
The threat to cut out her tongue didn’t work, so I had to double down. But more fool me, because I’d turned up at her house in an attempt to teach her about the age-old adage offucking around and finding out, but instead, I fucked around and found out what her heavy breaths feel like against my palm, and how her hair smells when it’s freshly washed.
The heat in my chest slides south, and I expel it from my body with a gritted hiss before it can reach my groin, irritated that it was there in the first place. I hate my father for a million reasons but beating the ability to lust out of me isn’t one of them.
Women make you weak. You let them run their hands over your body, and they’ll find every hairline fracture and fissure, claw them open until they’re canyon-deep, then have the nerve to look you dead in the eye and call it love.
It’s best not to let them touch you to begin with.
I shake her fingerprints off of my jaw and, glare back down at her again.
I don’t know what’s pissing me off more, the fact she didn’t know danger when it crossed her path three years ago, or the fact she hasn’t learned to recognize it in the years since. Why the fuck was her door unlocked, and why did she just stand there—slack-jawed and wide-eyed, in the thinnest robe on the planet—instead of running for her life?
