Chapter 20 #2
A spark of adrenaline lights up my chest. There’s no we, and there’s no figuring it out. I already know what I will do with him. Been planning it for the last three years. Been fucking with his head for the last three years too.
The day I finally look Dante Visconti in the eye and cut him from cunt to chin with his own knife, is a day I’ve been looking forward to.
As the dutiful employee sweeps up shards of glass, Rafe launches into a tirade about his latest misfortunes.
I took care of the kids who raided his casino in Vegas, but there’s more.
His investments are down; he lost a six-figure bet to our cousin Benny because he beat him at an arm wrestle.
I’m normally the first to point out the irony of him moaning about losing a fraction of his fortune while wearing a Brioni suit aboard one of his several multi-million-dollar yachts, but today, his first-world problems seem to weigh heavier on his shoulders than usual.
He’s agitated. Gray half moons underline his eyes, which keep darting toward the door as if he’s also waiting for something bad to happen.
When he tops off his rant by mentioning he dropped his iPhone in the downstairs bar and cracked the screen, my short-lived curiosity reverts to annoyance.
“I’m going,” I grunt, shoving myself to my feet. I nod to Angelo. “You coming?”
He shakes his head. “We’ve got a meeting.”
“With who?”
He glances at Rafe, who’s suddenly preoccupied with tightening his cufflinks. “O’Hare.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise at the mention of the Irish. “Martin?”
“Kelly.”
“Then I’m staying.”
“No,” Rafe snaps. “It’s just a quick catch up. No reason for you to stay and scowl in the corner.”
Unease tightens its grip on me. Rafe co-owns a few establishments in Vegas with Kelly, and I’ve never fucking liked it.
Never liked him either, and not just because he’s Irish.
The man’s unpredictable, always jacked up on pills that his doctor stopped prescribing him years ago.
All it’d take is an ill-timed joke from my brother, and shit would hit the fan.
Sensing my hesitation, Angelo’s gaze lifts to mine. “I’ve got it covered. I’m packed and loaded, and I haven’t missed a shot since ninety-two.”
I let out a wry breath. “Yeah. I’m more concerned that Rafe hasn’t shot a gun since ninety-two, though.”
But Angelo’s words are reassuring. He’s right, he never misses, and with the temper of a toddler, he never pauses before he shoots either. Besides, I’ve got bodies to dump and lackeys to torture.
“Fine. Call me if shit turns south.” I glare at Rafe. “Not Griffin. Me.”
I move to leave, but Angelo’s question stops me. “Gabe. Why have you got Gio stalking my wife?”
I run my tongue over my teeth and consider letting a lie filter through the gaps. The truth’s complicated, and is less about my sister-in-law’s protection, and more about who she’s always hanging out with.
I settle on no answer at all.
I leave them bickering over who technically won at Mario Kart before I put an end to their game and slide open the external doors.
I have every intention of turning left toward the tender. Every intention, until the sea breeze drifts up over the railing and brings that fairylike laugh with it.
The sound knots my shoulder blades.
Between my brothers acting like they’re on vacation and Rafe’s self-pitying monologue, I’d almost forgotten she was here.
With a sudden weight in my jaw and a thump in my chest, I grip the railing and glare out to sea.
Turn left.
Turn. Left.
Then another laugh rises from the deck below and blisters my skin, igniting a violent spark beneath my ribs—who the fuck has her laughing like that?
I turn right without thinking, then stomp down the stairs and through every room.
I pause in the entryway of the downstairs lounge.
Rory’s perched on one end of the bar. She gives a lazy wave before turning back to her deck of cards and a calculator. And on the other end is Her.
Head back, eyes closed, her hand resting on her chest. My next breath catches when I suddenly realize why the sun is shining on a cold mid-December day.
It’s shining for her. Like a personal spotlight, it pours through the window and surfs down her golden waves, catching the sparkle of her lip gloss and the shimmer of her eye shadow.
The light loves her.
And clearly, so does the cunt standing in front of her.
She has her other hand on his chest, touching him, while he stares at her like she put the fucking sun in the sky herself.
I know how her hand feels. I know the exact number of seconds it takes for her heat to bleed through my shirt and warm my skin. I could pick out her fingerprint on its texture alone because it’s etched onto my bicep, the hollows of my cheeks, the scar on my face.
Jealousy swells into impulse in my stomach. It twitches my muscles and makes my vision hazy. I’m all too aware of the gun in my waistband and the knife strapped to my ankle, and now I’m wondering how I can use both at the same time to do as much damage as possible.
A soft sigh slips through her parted lips and pulls me off the edge. She opens her eyes and slides her hand off his chest.
“I was right, I’m afraid. We’re totally out of sync.”
Her gaze shifts to the right and lands on mine. His follows, and when the realization hits, he jumps back like he’s been shocked.
“I—”
“If I didn’t have places to be, I’d take you to the top deck, tie a brick to your ankle, and make you jump off,” I say quietly. “Get back to work.”
He scrambles out of the nearest door—which I’m sure leads to the supply closet and not the hall—putting his earpiece back in as he goes.
Guess I now know why Rafe’s men are nowhere to be seen. They’re too busy trying their fucking luck with women twenty tiers above their league.
I glare at the door rattling from the impact of his slam, still tempted to follow him through it and make good on my threat. Filing the thought away for later, I look to Rory, because I can’t look at Her. Her gaze is too heavy, and that fucking skirt she’s wearing is too short.
“Need a ride?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Rory waves a dismissive hand, engrossed in her calculations. “No thanks, I’m waiting for Penny.”
I nod and stride toward the French doors leading out to the deck. I have a grip on the handle and can almost taste the sea air when a breathless voice touches my back and brings me to a stop.
“I do!”
My jaw clenches. I muster up the will to turn around, and find her staring at me with a shy, goofy grin on her lips.
Rory looks up, frowning. “What? Why? You’re not waiting around to see Penny?”
Her eyes hold a sparkle, glued to mine. “Would love to, but I’ve got to get ready.”
“For what?”
“The poker night, silly.”
“You know that’s tomorrow, right?”
“Of course I know. But to have cute hair tomorrow, I’ve gotta wash it tonight.”
“True,” Rory says. “Okay, make sure to send me a photo of your dress.
Agitation slithers through me as I realize she means the poker night in Devil’s Hollow. Rafe holds it every year, and unfortunately, I’m going too.
Temples throbbing, I watch as she collects her coat and purse—both ridiculously fluffy and pink—and hold open the door for her, glaring at the space above her head as she passes, before reluctantly following her outside.
Leaning against the wall while she tugs on her stupid shoes, I stare out to sea in silence, fists clenched at my side. I last all of two seconds before my eyeballs get itchy and slide down to her.
No surprise, she’s head-to-toe in pink. Skirt shorter than my patience and a top that shows a slither of her midriff. There’s something written across the chest in rhinestones, and I narrow my gaze to read it.
Cuddle me, I’m cute.
There’s that violent feeling again. It bubbles at the base of my throat and foams in the form of a bitter question. I turn my eyes back to the sea. “You touch every man like that?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Only when they ask me out.”
My lungs squeeze. “What?”
“Only when they ask me out,” she repeats slowly, as if I’m hard of hearing.
I suck in a breath and clamp my jaw shut, tensing every muscle in my body. If I move, it’ll be to go back inside and slit that scrawny asshole’s throat.
“My mother used to always say that your soulmate’s heart will beat exactly in time with your own.
That’s how you know they’re The One,” she continues, straightening.
I make the mistake of looking at her again.
She returns my glare through her long lashes, doe-eyed and innocent.
“Ours were way out of sync. So, no date for him.”
My blood is fucking fizzing. I’m breathing so hard steam would be coming out of my nostrils if it were cold enough. “You believe that shit?”
“Uh-huh.”
She’s so quick to invade my space, I don’t expect it. There’s no time to sidestep or bark at her either, so I just stand there, frozen, as she closes her eyes and places her hand on my chest.
Now I’m not breathing at all. Every muscle in my stomach tenses. It’ll take only one, two, three seconds until the heat of her palm soaks through my T-Shirt.
I knew it’d get under my skin too; she already lives there. It poisons my nervous system and works its way south, stirring up shit it shouldn’t.
I glare at her long lashes resting on her cheeks, self-loathing chasing the spark, like thunder after lightning. And yet, I still don’t fucking move—can’t. She’s too still, too perfect.
Her touch doesn’t belong to a man like me.
I’ll be damned if it belongs to another man either.
“Huh.” She frowns, opens her eyes, and steps back. “That’s strange.”
My heart beats even faster. “What?” I snap.
“You don’t have a heart at all.”
She flashes me a cavity-inducing smile and flounces toward the tender.
I let out a bitter laugh, a tremble in my hand as I drag it over my jaw.
This will be the longest boat ride in history.