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With a slight tremble, the bartender pours out a whiskey and fixes my vodka. She drops a wedge of lime in for good measure, and it reminds me of my mother, because that’s what she’d do in the earlier days—add a wedge of lemon or lime or a sugar rim to her drinks to make her alcoholism look more sophisticated. She dropped the pretense pretty fast; by the end, she was slamming liquor straight from the bottle. I try not to think about my parents when I drink. If I changed my habits as a precaution, I’d have to admit I’m like them. And I am nothing like them.
“So.” Nico slides my glass across the bar then leans his forearm against it. “What are you doing back here?”
My mouth opens to deliver the same bullshit excuse I gave to Matt. But Nico was like an older brother to me; I owe him more than that.
“Because you were right.” His tight jaw disappears behind the rim of my glass as I take a big gulp.
When I turned eighteen and realized it was impossible to hold down a job without quitting or getting fired within training week, I decided to put everything I’d learned into practice and hit the tables in Cove. Blackjack was my game of choice, and card counting was always what I was best at. Of course, I avoided the Visconti Grand like the plague, but it took Nico no time at all to figure out what I was doing anyway. He was livid. Because although card counting isn’t illegal, it’s highly frowned upon in casinos. And in a Visconti casino? You might as well get on your knees and beg them to put a bullet in your head.
He was leaving town to study math at Stanford, and told me if I wanted to continue my antics, then I should do the same. He drove me to the bus station, handed me a brick of notes, and left me with a parting message.
“Remember, no matter how lucky you think you are, your sins will catch up with you eventually, Little P. They always do.”
Now, Nico takes in the sea of guests over the top of my head. “Are you on the run?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.
“No.” Maybe.
“Is anyone looking for you?”
“No.” Hope not.
“Are you planning on hitting Cove now that you’re back?”
This is the only ‘no’ I can say with confidence. “I’m going straight.”
His eyes drop back to mine, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I’m back at my apartment in Devil’s Dip, and I’m looking for a regular job.”
“Good idea. Cove’s not safe right now, anyway. So do me a favor and avoid it all together, yeah?”
“Why?”
His attention drifts to behind my head again. This time, I follow his gaze and find Tor Visconti sitting on the back row of chairs, cell phone to his ear.
“Family drama.”
I gulp my drink to squash the shiver rolling down my spine. Yeah, I don’t want to know, not even just to be nosy. I’ve had enough drama in the last week to last me a lifetime.
We converse for a few more minutes, peeling back the layers of the last three years, when a sudden unease rolls through my body like a slow-moving tide. The anecdote I’m telling Nico trickles off. I’m all too aware, too distracted, by the cold shadow brushing the nape of my neck.
The moment I realized this wedding was polluted by the Viscontis, I knew it was only a matter of time before I had the misfortune to meet Raphael again. It’s obviously the reason he’s visiting the Coast. But still, even knowing it was inevitable, I’m not prepared for the way his voice drapes over my shoulders like a silk blanket.
“Nico, the ceremony is about to start, so I’m afraid I’ll have to steal you away from your lady-friend here.”
I swallow as the coldness shifts and then he’s in my peripheral view. A hazy vision of navy, white, and gold. A satin-wrapped statue I don’t have the balls to look at. Instead, I ignore both the thumping in my temples and the gaze blistering my cheek in favor of staring at my open-toed stilettos slowly sinking into the mud.
“But of course, it’d be rude of you not to introduce us first.”
Introduce us? Annoyance creeps up my neck, itchy and hot. How does he not remember the girl who took a six-figure timepiece off his wrist less than twenty-four hours ago? The girl he chased with a hammer? Not only am I irritated, I realize I’m also partly offended. Stupid, really. But I thought about him all night, and yet, he clearly didn’t think about me at all.
“Penny, Rafe. Rafe, Penny,” Nico says lazily, swiping a limp hand between the two of us. He’s leaning against the bar, once again distracted by something behind me.
I want to tell him we’ve already met, but then he’ll ask how, and I don’t think he’ll take too kindly to finding out I swindled his cousin last night. Especially not this cousin. It doesn’t pair well with me just telling him I’ve gone straight.
Unable to put it off any longer, I clench my molars together for courage and drag my attention upward. My eyes start at the shiniest pair of brown leather wingtips I’ve ever seen. They trail up the razor-sharp front fold of navy suit pants, climb the gold buttons of a waistcoat, and land on a gaze so intense it steals my next breath.
Holy fuck. Maybe it’s because his edges are no longer softened by the liquor and mood-lighting, but his presence is even more imposing than I remember. Towering over me, he’s a network of clean, straight lines, from the cut of his suit to the angle of his cheekbones and jaw. Every crease in his outfit is intentional; every jet-black hair on his head in its place.
