Page 111 of Sinners Atone
Gabriel. I’ve avoided looking up to keep him out of sight, but he’s never out of mind. He sits beneath my skin, heavy and constant, pumping each of my heartbeats, squeezing each breath from my lungs. I feel his glare on my throat every time I lean back in my chair. I hear thepopof his gun every time I lean forward over the table.
He’s there, watching me.
And I have an awful feeling that he’s not just watching butwaiting.
Appetizers arrive. I toy with my salad, moving greens and stabbing tomatoes.
David’s telling me about the time he almost made it onto national television when the server appears balancing two drinks on a silver platter.
“Lemonade for the lady, whiskey for the gentleman,” he says, placing them on the table.
David glances up. “Thanks, but we didn’t order these.”
The server offers a polite smile. “They’re from the gentleman at the bar. The whiskey is a sixty-year-old Smuggler’s Club. Only ten bottles were ever produced.”
My shoulders hitch to my ears.
David throws a look behind him. “From the guy you were talking to when I arrived? Do you know him?”
“Kind of,” I mutter, suddenly feeling faint.
Unease tap dances down my spine as I watch him take a greedy gulp. Then annoyance climbs back up the way because what the hell is he playing at, sending over a drink that probably costs more than my college tuition?
I get it; he’s a Visconti. Though he wears the same black top and pants, like every day, I don’t doubt he’s loaded. But flashing his cash sure as hell isn’t going to impress me.
I look over David’s head as he takes a second swig, to find Gabriel doing exactly what I thought he would be.
Staring at me.
Without a word, he raises his glass in a mock toast.
“Bless him,” I say to David, loud enough for Gabriel to hear. “He’s been stood up by his own date. Apparently, she took one look at him and turned right back around.” I drop my voice to a stage whisper. “I suppose you run that risk when you use ten-year-old pictures on your online dating profile.”
I swear, out of the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel’s lips curl upward behind his low-ball glass.
Ten minutes later, David’s halfway through a story about his college roommate’s dog when he coughs.
It’s short, dry. But the second one is harsher.
I give him a sympathetic smile, mutter something about the steak being chewy, and push his water glass toward him.
He moves to lift it, then his hand changes course and flies to his throat.
My eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
When he opens his mouth to reply, a gurgle bubbles out of it. First, ew. Second, what thehell?
My voice sharpens. “David?”
I palm the table, but before I can leap to my feet, an awful scraping sound cuts through the air.
My pulse skids to a stop.
Black boots, lazy strides. Gabriel emerges from the shadows, dragging a chair behind him, and saunters up to our table. He spins it around with a lazy flick of his wrist, hitches up his slacks, and sinks into it.
I stare at him, frozen in shock. “What have you done?”
He settles against the backrest, like a man taking the weight off his feet after a long day working the yard.
