Cruel Sinner (Andriani Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

ISLA

Libraries have always been my second home.

Give me walls of books, the cozy scent of ink and paper, a peaceful, anonymous quiet that no one will dare to interrupt, and a hot cup of chai latte, and I’m in my element.

Sitting alone at a sleek, granite-topped bar at a hotel in the Caribbean? So not me.

But here I am anyway, with a half-empty lemon drop on the polished stone bar, staring at the lights glinting off the ocean beyond. It’s a killer view, even in the dark. The air is humid with a pleasant breeze, the aroma of salt and citrus in the air.

I’m in paradise, but it’s lost on me.

When my bestie first told me about her plan for a destination wedding in St. Thomas a few months ago, I was thrilled.

Luna is like a sister to me and the closest thing to family I have, and being her maid of honor is a dream come true.

Even better? I decided to make it a romantic getaway for my fiancé and me.

Perfect, right?

Except, a month ago, I found out Christian was cheating on me with one of his students.

Needless to say, our wedding is off, along with our relationship.

And the only romance in this getaway for me is going to be happening courtesy of my vibrator, which is currently sitting in my suitcase somewhere inside Miami International instead of here with me.

Note to self: pack all important things in carry-on next time.

Picking up the martini glass, I toss back the rest of my drink, trying not to wince.

Holy vodka, that’s strong. When it comes to drinking, I’m a lightweight.

But I got in late, thanks to a delayed flight, I’m missing my luggage, which—fingers crossed—will arrive tomorrow, and Luna is off on a date night with the groom.

I’m not officially on maid of honor duty for now, and my life has imploded. I deserve a second round.

No place to call my own? Check. I moved in with Christian a year ago, and since Studentgate, I’ve been bouncing around hotels and an Airbnb while I figure out what’s next for me.

Unemployed? Check. I quit my position because teaching alongside Christian after I found out he’d spent the last semester dicking a nineteen-year-old just wasn’t something I could bear.

Single as fuck? Double check. See: self-explanatory.

In other words, damn it, I’m going to have another lemon drop.

I jerk myself from my misery, glancing around for the fatherly bartender who took one look at me when I plopped myself on this barstool and instinctively knew I needed a friend.

I think he told me his name was Johnny. He has graying hair, soft brown eyes, and a contagious smile, and he reminds me of someone’s grandpa.

But Johnny isn’t behind the bar anymore.

A new guy is. And this guy is as far from friendly grandfather as you can get.

He’s dressed all in black from head to toe, and he’s easily over six feet and mesmerizingly jacked, his back to me.

Maybe it’s the lemon drop, but I catch myself staring at his ass before forcing my mind and eyes out of the gutter.

You’re not here to ogle bartenders, Isla. You’re here to support your bestie and make sure she has the best damn day of her life when she marries her man.

It’s a reminder I need. This isn’t about me.

It never was. This trip has always been about Luna.

Luna having the wedding of a lifetime. Luna getting the happily ever after she deserves.

I can have a pity party later, when this is all over.

I’m not even going to tell her about Christian cheating on me with Harlow—that name, ugh—or that we broke up.

I’m keeping this shit on lockdown until Luna rides off into the sunset.

For now, all I need is another lemon drop.

And to breathe.

Yeah, that too.

I take a deep breath, but my plan instantly goes sideways.

The breath freezes in my chest, because Bartender 2.

0 turns toward me. He’s shaking a cocktail, and with his black shirt rolled to his elbows, he is the definition of forearm porn.

But my overloaded brain barely registers all that.

Instead, I’m drinking him in like he’s the martini I’ve been waiting for, only he’s better than any lemon drop could possibly be.

His hands are tatted. His eyes are the same color blue as the Caribbean Sea with the sun setting over the gorgeous waters.

And he’s beautiful. Black hair, high forehead, angular jaw, cheekbones that could slice you, and his mouth.

Sweet baby Jesus, his mouth. This man could have just walked off a runway with those looks and that smolder. He’s one part dangerous, one part sex.

And he’s walking toward me, smiling, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I might fall right off the barstool.

My body is suddenly overwhelmed, my nipples hard under the oversized, comfy tee I wore for traveling.

It’s a good thing I cared enough to wear a bra, because I’d be saluting Hot Bartender right now.

He’s coming closer.

Closer.

He’s in front of me, and I swear, those eyes burn a hole right into my soul. Is it possible that this deliciously handsome man is interested in me? The second the idiotic thought pops into my mind, I cancel it.

No, it’s not possible. I’m wearing a Jane Austen T-shirt and leggings, I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and I’ve spent the day dashing around multiple airports, trying to get myself here. I don’t even know if I brushed my hair this morning.

God.

“Not God,” he tells me, grinning. “I’m Alessio.”

Shit. I said that out loud? And his name is Alessio? Even his name is unfairly hot. Am I awake right now?

“Another lemon drop?” he asks.

My cheeks are on fire. OMG. He’s not flirting with me. He’s serving me. Because he’s the bartender. Right.

Get your shit together, Isla.

I swallow hard. “Yeah.” And then remembering I have manners, I add, “Please.”

He plucks a fresh glass from somewhere behind the bar and sets it on the gray-and-white granite before me. Another shake—as I try not to drool over his tatted forearms, really, I do—and he pops the lid, pouring a martini into my new glass. He adds a lemon twist garnish.

He’s still standing here. Alessio. Sex on fire. And I’m still staring.

“Your room number?” he prods.

“Eight thirteen,” I blurt.

He winks. “Eight thirteen. Got it.”

For a second, I have this wild idea that he’s going to show up at my hotel room later, when his shift is over. Will I let him in? I don’t do one-night stands. But then, my last relationship didn’t exactly work out, did it? I’m in paradise. You only live once. I’ll never see beautiful Alessio again.

I should go for it.

“Should I add it to your tab?” He wants to know, his tone perfectly polite.

I die inside. He only wanted my room number for the charge. Shouldn’t he have my tab from Johnny, though? This is so confusing. Maybe I’m a little, teeny-tiny bit drunk.

“Um, sure,” I mumble, feeling like a complete idiot.

And then he walks away, moving to a couple on the other side of the bar and taking their orders, leaving me to wonder what the heck just happened here.

My overactive imagination, I decide. Fueled by vodka.

But to hell with it, I’m on vacation. Chances are, I’ll never see Alessio again after tonight.

Tamping down my embarrassment, I pick up my lemon drop, and I take another sip.

Saint

I present a rum punch and a whiskey neat to the friendly couple at the bar who are in St. Thomas for their wedding anniversary.

We’ve chatted long enough for me to know that they’re from Maryland, both retired, and they have two adult kids who are married with families of their own.

The husband taught high school math, and the wife owned a bakery.

“Thank you,” she enthuses, decked out in a classic tourist tropical dress, reaching for her punch as bangle bracelets clink on her wrist.

The husband is wearing a flowy button-down palm tree shirt that screams I’m an American on vacation. They’re the kind of parents I could almost wish I’d had, pulling out their phones and showing me pictures of their grandkids with pride. Normal, loving parents.

But I didn’t have normal, loving parents like these two.

Because I’m an Andriani. Born to blood and violence and greed, to an empire of sin and the means to protect it at all costs. My dad was a heartless bastard, and my mom peaced out on my brothers and me when we were kids.

I’m not a bartender, but here in the islands, I’ve found that I enjoy talking to people when they don’t have a clue who I really am. I like getting them to reveal pieces of their lives to me. Pretending I’m someone I’m not, even if it’s only for the night, amuses me.

Not much amuses me these days, so I take what I can get.

Leaving the couple to their lighthearted bickering over their plans for tomorrow, I turn away and feel Sad Hot Blonde eye-fucking me from over her lemon drop.

The minute I saw her in that ugly-ass shirt, I knew she wasn’t my type.

She’s got English teacher written all over her, and the only thing I liked about English class in high school was Miss Esposito’s tits.

Sad Hot Blonde has a leg up on Miss Esposito and hard little nipples just begging for my mouth, but I don’t do girls with baggage.

That’s my brother Lucky’s thing. Besides, our older brother Priest is getting married—technically, remarried to his kick-ass wife Luna—which is why we’re here.

I’m the best man and on my best behavior.

Not going to fuck this up, or my sister-in-law will never forgive me.

I try not to steal a look at Sad Hot Blonde as I charge the whiskey and rum punch to the anniversary couple’s room. Try and fail. We make eye contact, and my dick twitches to life. Damn. That shirt is doing nothing to hide all those curves.

Nope. Not doing it, Saint. Luna will cut off your dick.

She looks away first, which is for the best.

Johnny told me Sad Hot Blonde had some bad luck when I relieved him for his break, and fuck it, I’m in a good mood, so I gave her the martini on the house.

Not that she knows it’s on the house. I asked for her room number so that the entire bar doesn’t think it’s free drink night here at the latest addition to the Andriani empire.

We aren’t in the business of losing money. We like it way too fucking much.

My brothers and I aren’t the sole owners of the Club Bailey Beach Resort, but we’ve recently invested enough money in it that we have a super majority. That means we call the shots.

I make my rounds, shaking and pouring and, yeah, sliding an occasional glance in Sad Hot Blonde’s direction. She’s barely touched her cocktail. I’ve got a few minutes until Johnny comes back from his break, and I find myself heading her way again, unable to resist.

“Hey.” I smile. “Lemon drop not up to Johnny’s level?”

She smiles back, and damn it, she’s gorgeous. For an English teacher in an ugly-ass shirt, that is.

“Not at all. It’s great, thank you. But I’m a lightweight, and I think I better get some dinner before someone has to peel me off this barstool.”

Her eyes are green with hints of cinnamon and gold I can only see because I’m standing close—too fucking close—leaning in to hear her over the new song that just hit the speakers.

Damn it, why do they have to be green? Green-eyed chicks are my unicorn.

Her nipples are still hard, which I shouldn’t be noticing.

Madonna, since when am I a gentleman?

“Would you like a menu?” I ask her. “Or do you prefer a private table?”

I don’t even know if we have a private table for one available.

But it doesn’t matter. I’ll find this woman a table.

I’ve got staff at my disposal. Being an Andriani comes with a hell of a lot of shit, but here in St. Thomas where our enemies aren’t all that plentiful, it mostly comes with power, money, and a billion-dollar view.

She thinks about it, biting her lower lip.

Fuck.

I want to feed my dick between those lips and have her suck me dry.

But I don’t say that. Because damn it, I am a gentleman. Best behavior. Best man.

“A private table would be lovely,” she says.

Now I’m really fucked, because I have to find her the table. And because who says lovely in an actual sentence?

I wink at her like I’ve got the world in my back pocket. Which, I pretty much do these days. Now that our biggest rival, the Revello family, has joined our ranks thanks to Priest and Luna’s marriage—and not without bloodshed—the Andrianis are sitting pretty.

“Gotcha,” I tell Sad Hot Blonde. “Hang tight. I’ll be back.”

Thank fuck it’s time for Johnny’s break to be over.

I nod to the anniversary couple and high-five Johnny on my way.

Good man. I’m going to miss him when I’m in the city again.

Hell, I’m going to miss this whole place.

The vibe, the ocean, the sand, the sun. If I weren’t Priest’s consigliere, I might plunk my ass right here and manage this hotel.

I can think of worse fates than waking up every day to this view.

But I can’t abandon Priest like that. We have a hell of a lot on the line back home.

I head to Kayla, our dining room manager, next.

“Mr. Andriani,” she greets me, giving me a professional megawatt smile. “How are you this evening?”

“Excellent, and you?”

“Fabulous. What can I do for you?”

“I need a table for a friend in the next five minutes.”

Sad Hot Blonde isn’t my friend, but Kayla doesn’t need to know that. She does need a table, though, and I’m going to get her one.

Kayla winces. “Full house tonight. Did she make a reservation?”

“No, but friends of mine don’t need to. Give her a table on the terrace that overlooks the ocean. That corner one I like, with the killer view.”

“I believe there is a couple there who just sat down about twenty minutes ago.”

Too fucking bad. I promised a table, and I’m going to give her the best one in the house.

“Give them an incentive to leave. A champagne bottle and a charcuterie board sent to their room, whatever it takes. I just want them gone.”

Kayla nods. “Of course, Mr. Andriani. I’ll arrange it.”

And I know she will too. Sad Hot Blonde will be in good hands. Our staff is top-notch.

“Thank you.” I’m about to turn away, and then something occurs to me.

It’s stupid.

I shouldn’t do it.

Best man, on my best behavior.

But when have I ever not done something I wanted?

I’m off duty tonight. Priest is doing some romantic shit with Luna, Scorpion and Lucky are off scoping out a nightclub we’re thinking about acquiring, and Sad Hot Blonde is hot as fuck.

I can think of worse ways to pass the time until I pass out in my bed.

“Make that a table for two, please,” I tell Kayla. “I’ll be joining her.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Andriani.” A new energy surges into Kayla. “We’ll get the table prepared right away.”

Looks like I have a dinner date with Miss Hard Nipples.