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I swallow the thick knot in my throat and slide my eyes up to the sky. “I’d heard the gunshot that killed my mother but I thought it was part of a dream. I didn’t wake up properly until I heard my father’s cries floating up the stairs.” A sour laugh escapes my lips. “Wish I’d stayed in my room, because the men in balaclavas didn’t even know I existed until I appeared in the kitchen doorway and started screaming. One dragged my father out into the garden and shot him like a rabid dog, and the other pinned me between the refrigerator and the washing machine and told me they’d been instructed not to leave any witnesses behind.”
A lone tear carves a hot trail down my cheek. I don’t move to wipe it away, because then Raphael would realize it was there. Instead, I blink, hard, and pray another doesn’t fall. “He put his gun to my temple and told me to close my eyes and count down from ten. When I was younger I had a doctor that’d use the same trick to administer vaccines, so I knew what his plan was. He’d probably let me get to, like, four or five, and pull the trigger so I wouldn’t see it coming.” My fingers slide to my necklace, and I run it up and down the chain, just like I did that night, too. “He only let me get to eight.” I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering the click that followed the number leaving my lips. “The gun jammed. And you know what he told me? That I didn’t know how lucky I was, that I was—”
“One in a million,” Raphael murmurs into my hair, body growing stiff behind me. “That’s why you don’t like lightning, because getting struck is another one-in-a-million possibility.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, giving a small shake of my head. “I know it’s irrational and self-absorbed, but if it can happen once, it can happen again.”
Despite the silence swirling with the wind, my breath comes out steady for the first time since I heard the shot. I guess talking about things really does help. Even if you’re talking to a velvet-clad murderer. The feeling of his warm chest expanding and contracting against my back lures mine into a false sense of security: I’m not expecting it when his hand slides up from my stomach, over my breasts, and touches my necklace. “That’s why you think you’re so lucky.”
My heart does a double-thump under his touch. “One of the reasons,” I whisper back.
“Tell me the others.”
I open my mouth but clamp it shut just as quickly. While the ghost of hands pulling up my dress grab me, I decide to stay silent. Instead, I attempt to wriggle out of his grasp and opt for a reply that’ll put the world to rights again.
“Well, I beat you at absolutely every game, for one.”
His hand slides off my necklace first, then his other hand gently unwinds my hair. Feeling it cascade down my back, I swallow and dare myself to turn and look up at him. His gaze searches mine, flickering with dry amusement. Relief tinges my skin; if I’d turned around and seen sympathy in his gaze, I might have had to claw my eyes out.
He stares at me for a beat too long, before the growl of an engine turns our attention out to the Pacific. Underneath pregnant clouds, a sleek black speedboat slices through the water at a ridiculous pace. There’s a lone sharp figure behind the wheel, all broad lines, big muscles, and mirrored sunglasses. Just before the bow touches the swim platform, he steers sharply, pulling the craft up beside the yacht at the last second.
Raphael scowls. “Watch the paintwork, dickhead.”
Gabriel Visconti pulls off his sunglasses, revealing a stony glare and a scar so angry it makes my throat tighten.
He tethers the rope to the platform post in heavy silence. My gaze falls down to his fitted black T-shirt—in December—and all of the ink that seeps out from underneath it.
He hops onto the platform and comes to a stop next to his brother. He turns to stare at me, then glares at my necklace for what feels so long my fingers twitch to rip it off and hand it to him.
“Paintwork is the least of your worries, my brother.”
The yacht rocks more than usual as he takes the stairs two at a time and disappears from view. A shiver plays down my spine. If Angelo is the rough outline and Raphael is the clean, final portrait, Gabriel is the demon that lives in the artist’s nightmares.
Letting out a huff, Raphael turns his attention back to me. His eyes soften to something warmer as they search my features. I shake off a shiver for a different reason when his hand cups my jaw, and his thumb trails the curve of my cheekbone.
“No crying.”
My next breath grazes the back of his hand, shallower than the last. This is the same hand that just pulled a trigger and ended a life. So why does it feel so good against my skin?
My jaw flexes against his palm in an attempt to regain some footing. “Why do you care if I cry?”
He tracks his thumb as it trails further down, across my bottom lip and along my chin. He grips me there for a moment, regret coating his features.
“Because last night, I saw you laugh.”
