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Twohourspassin a blur of beers and bets. With every flick of my wrist, Kings and Queens welcome me back to the dark side with vapid smirks. As the night blackens against the windows, they reflect only us, the colorful Christmas lights, and the life I left behind.
I have to remind myself that I’m merely visiting.
The door opens and a suited figure strolls through it. He brings in something colder than the December wind.
“Husband alert,” Rory mutters under her breath, sweeping the cards up and greeting him with a charming smile.
Angelo Visconti strolls up behind her, wraps his hand around her throat, and pulls her head back against his chest. I stare at his busted knuckles and my eyes itch to look away, because it feels too intimate for my viewing pleasure. His lips drop to her bun and his attention slides up to me. “You made a friend.”
“We were already friends, silly.” Sadly enough, this admission makes the pit of my stomach warm. “This is Penny.”
“I know, we’ve met.”
“You have?”
We have?
“Yeah, she walked in on you sucking my dick in the storage cupboard of Rafe’s yacht.”
Turning beet red, Rory attempts to twist out of Angelo’s grasp and claw at his face. Angelo laughs, easily pinning her arms to her side, and lands a gentle kiss on the crown of her head.
“I’m going to get you back,” Rory hisses, biting back an embarrassed smile.
“Look forward to it.”
Why the fuck am I grinning like an idiot? But then my amusement twists into something resembling jealousy and I don’t even know why. I don’t know what my Happy Ever After entails yet, but it won’t involve a man, of all things. Still, I can’t stop a single bitter sentence flashing behind my eyelids. Must be nice.
I stand and shove my coat on, and when I look up from the faded carpet, Angelo is still staring at me, dry amusement lurking in his dark gaze. An uneasy sense of deja vu crackles under my skin. Not because I’ve lived this moment before, but because he looks so much like his brother. A rough outline to Raphael’s meticulously drawn portrait.
Angelo is everything Raphael Visconti pretends he’s not.
Dominance and danger ooze from every pore, but, unlike his brother, he embraces it. He doesn’t attempt to distract you from it with a silver tongue and diamond cufflinks.
No. He’s raw, rugged. All shadowy stubble and open-spread collars. In theory, his version of a made man should be scarier, but it’s not. At least not to me, because if Angelo wanted to kill me, he’d put a bullet in my head and move on with his day.
Raphael would turn it into a game. Like a cat with an injured mouse, he’d toss me from paw to paw, before outsourcing my death to someone on his payroll once he got bored.
Despite my father’s final calls to God haunting my memory, I know how I’d rather die.
Angelo looks over my shoulder. “Tayce, one of our men will take you home.”
“Yes,” she hisses, sliding off the stool and slinging her leather jacket over her shoulder. “There’s nothing better than a Visconti Uber. Blacked-out windows, reclining seats, and those mini water bottles in the center console. A dream.”
Rory frowns. “We don’t have any mini water bottles in our car?”
“Because you’ve filled the center console with candy, baby,” Angelo replies. Looking back to me, he adds, “My men will take you home, too.”
“Sweet, but no need.” I pick up my purse and hoist it over my shoulder. All eyes fall on me. A few beats of silence, then I crack under the awkwardness. “I’m only ten minutes away. I’ll just walk.”
Angelo’s gaze thins. “You won’t. It’s past midnight.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll be fine. Thanks though!”
Rory clamps down a smirk, as if she wants to say something but thinks the better of it. Under the heat of Angelo’s glare, I exchange pleasantries and numbers with all three girls and head toward the door with pace to my step. Partly because I’m buzzing off the high of a successful night making friends, and partly because I have a feeling one of Angelo’s men is going to reach out from the shadows and snatch me up at any moment.
There are more of them in the parking lot, too. Suits leaning against sedans and blowing cigarette smoke up into the night sky. Avoiding their gazes, I tuck my chin into the collar of my coat and walk to the main road. Tonight, the streets are stiff with frost, and the impending threat of rain crackles down my spine.
Despite not being dressed for rain—my faux-fur coat smells like dog when it gets wet—I decide to take a walk. Why not? I know tonight, of all nights, won’t be one in which I experience the miracle of sleep, anyway. Instead of turning down toward main street, I take a left, climbing higher up the cliff-face.
