Page 51 of Sinners Atone
A sour taste brews at the back of my tongue. It’s not often Dante Visconti can say he’s right twice in one day.
I must have been silent for a beat too long because he rests against the windowsill, swirls the whiskey around the glass, and flashes me that fucking smirk again, as though he suddenly has the upper hand.
“You’re not going to kill me.”
My thoughts briefly boomerang back to Her, and how she said the same thing just hours earlier. She was right—though I don’t like how she took my fucking word as gospel. Dante, however, is not.
Still, I give him the same answer. “No?”
“No. It’s not in Angelo’s grand plan.” He huffs out a quiet laugh over his drink. “I can picture it perfectly. The Dip brothers huddled around a table, plotting revenge on their mean older cousin.” He crooks a brow, pondering. “You would have wanted to blow my head off immediately, of course. But Rafe would have sat there, twirling his little poker chip, dreaming up something more exciting. A game, perhaps. And Angelo…” His gaze falls to mine, glinting with amusement. “Well, Angelo always goes along with Rafe’s plans, doesn’t he? He’s the smarter brother, after all. And you, the Dips’ lackey, have to grit your teeth and do their dirty work.”
Well, would you look at that. The bastard’s on a roll.
He’s right again, about Rafe at least. I don’t know what that fuck wit was high on earlier as he sat in Cas’s office flicking chess pieces off a playing board and talking some shit about taking Dante’s men out one by one until he’s the only one left standing.
Because what the fuck does he know?
The only game he’s ever come up with that doesn’t make me want to suck on the end of a loaded gun is the Sinners Anonymous hotline.
Though games are his thing, war is mine. And while I’ll nod and agree and spout whatever bullshit my brothers want to hear to keep them out of my way, I live by a mix of my father’s rules and my own to keep them alive.
“Well, this has been fun, but I’ve got more interesting things to do,” I drawl, twisting the cigarette butt into the armrest and flicking the remains onto the rug for good measure.
When I rise to my feet, Dante stands straighter, tracking each step as I close the gap between us. My shadow creeps up over his torso, and amusement bleeds into my chest. This idiot is so predictable.
Except for when he isn’t.
His gaze probes mine as I stand toe-to-toe with him. His jaw is locked and ready, but the flicker of fear in his eyes betrays him. It burns brighter when I slip my hand into my pocket and press the tip of his own knife into the tender flesh beneath his chin.
I let out a slow, wistful sigh, dragging the blade lightly over his skin. “Your day is coming,” I whisper. “But it’s not today.”
His chest caves when I drop the knife back into my pocket.
Then I drive my knee up into his balls.
A humorless smirk touches my lips as I shut his bedroom door on his screams with a quiet click.
That was for calling Rory a gold-digging whore.
Every Christmas, Devil’s Cove transforms into a snow globe. Nightly, at 6:00 p.m., God gives it a good shake, and the town bursts into a spectacle of festivities.
Thousands of lights zigzag above the promenade, shimmering down on frost-kissed walkways. Christmas classics and laughter bubble out of the bars and restaurants lining it, and in about an hour, so will the locals and tourists as they move on to the nightclubs.
Usually, Cove during the party season never fails to put a little pep in my step, but tonight, the electricity in the air has me on edge. Everybody is celebrating, blissfully unaware—or willfully ignorant—of the disaster playing out just outside of its dome.
It’s sickening. It’s been five days since the Devil’s Dip port explosion cut Rory’s wedding short, which means five days of working double shifts at the hospital and five nights of helping out with the cleanup mission too. Three workers werepronounced dead at the scene; another dozen are still fighting for their lives, and yet, the coast’s famous party town spins madly on.
What’s even worse, the rest of the world doesn’t care either. The explosion barely made local news, let alone hit mainstream media. Everything I’ve learned of its cause is from the rumor mill and passing conversations not meant for my ears. All explanations, both reasonable and farfetched, point in the same direction: it was someone with a vendetta against the Viscontis.
I chew on my bottom lip, wondering if I should go home, as a gaggle of girls staggers past in matching sexy Santa outfits. Every cheer and clinking of glasses feel like an insult, and here I am, standing in the midst of it.
Then I think of all the girls who will need me tonight. The ones with blisters and boyfriend problems, no cellphone battery, and mascara-stained cheeks.
The thought alone is enough to straighten my spine.
I guess the show must go on.
Leaving my pop-up stand, with my SOS bag under a red-and-white striped streetlamp, I step into the middle of the road, adjust my pink elf diddly boppers, and snap a selfie in front of the twinkling “Happy Holidays!” sign strung from one telephone pole to another. After some subtle editing and a few filters, I tug off a glove to tap out a caption.
