Page 100 of Sinners Atone
“Come on, man,” his co-founder groans. “An acid trip isn’t the same as a dream.”
“All right. It was a prophecy, then.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, man. I saw him too. He also said you should go all in on red.”
There’s a heavy pause, the type that brews bad decisions, then:
“Fine. Fuck it.”
A chorus of cheers ripples around the table, followed by the swish of chips gliding over velvet. The ball drops and rattles, like teeth in a glass jar. It skips and clinks, growing slower and slower and slower, before dropping into a slot with a dull, final, thunk.
Silence.
“Fuck. My wife is going to kill me.”
I drag a hand down my face. Consider clawing my eyeballs out while I’m at it, becausefuck, I hate these fucking parties.
We’re in Whiskey Under the Rocks, in Devil’s Hollow. It’s one of the many cave bars buried deep beneath the ground, and for the life of me, I’ll never understand why Rafe insists on holding his annual poker night here. The ceiling drips, the walls sweat, and the acoustics amplify every liquor-fueled laugh and coked-up conversation.
Tonight, it’s dressed up like an aging hooker working the holiday season. Christmas trees sprout from every corner, their branches sagging under gaudy baubles and lights. There’s tinsel wound around stalactites and fake snow jutting from limestone. The whole joint flashes red and green, and to top it all off, some annoying cunt is bashing piano keys in one of the alcoves.
He ran out of Christmas classics to play an hour ago, so now he’s working through commercial-jingle versions of mainstream songs instead—not that anyone here is sober enough to notice.
Grinding my teeth, I flip over the next card in the deck and toss it on the table. I don’t bother glancing down to see what I’ve dealt—I’m far too on edge to care.
It’s the law of probability: shove three or more Viscontis in a room together and at least one of the bastards is going to set it on fire, then look to me to put out the flame.
I never come to these parties to play cards; I come to babysit. I’ve fine-tuned my order of observation over the years, always looking for the biggest fire-starting dickhead in the family first—Benny, obviously—then working my way down the list. But tonight, there’s a tense undercurrent running beneath the festivities. It’s stitched into suits, poisons the drinks. The floor is wet with gasoline, and even if I were a betting man, I couldn’t say for sure who’s going to strike a match first.
Cracking my knuckles, I glance over at Benny out of habit. He’s running the poker game opposite, a spaced-out smirk on his face and a blonde draped across his lap. He catches my eye and winks before blocking a nostril, dipping his head, and snorting a line off her thigh.
Fucking idiot. Of all the girls he could trick into opening their legs tonight, he had to choose the one who arrived with a Turkish arms dealer.
But it’s typical Benny behavior. Nothing Emile can’t handle. No, tonight I’m more concerned with the fire hazard sitting to my left.
“Deal.”
My attention cuts over to Rafe. “What?”
“You deaf now?”
My fist clenches. “The last card was an ace.”
“I have eyes,” Rafe snaps back. “Deal a fucking card.”
As I flip over another card in the deck, Rory flashes me a shit-eating grin from behind her hand.
A mild amusement prickles my chest. Yeah, and if Rafe’s eyes weren’t permanently glued to the elevator doors, he’d probably notice that our sister-in-law is taking him for a ride.
He takes after our mama: superstitious as fuck, only he’s too embarrassed to admit it. Usually, he’s only wary of the stupid stuff. He’ll avoid walking under road signs and make sure to salute a passing magpie. But recently, his bad omen has the shape of a short redhead with a smart mouth and sticky fingers.
Penelope Price has got him fucked up. He’s convinced she’s the reason that his fortune is bleeding out of his asshole. I don’t know about that, but I do know she’s the reason he’s taken first place on my fire-starting dickhead list tonight.
She’s also the reason Angelo’s sitting three tables over, sulking.
Raking my teeth across my bottom lip, I find our older brother. He’s spent more time glaring at Rafe over the top of his cards than playing them, because as expected, the meeting with Kelly O’Hare went south. His eye wandered too far for Rafe’s liking, so he blew the dust off his gun, fired a bullet and triggered a war with the Irish.
