Sinners Condemned : Chapter 23

contracts I glare at or how many whiskeys I sink, I can’t get rid of the rock-hard erection straining against my slacks. Can’t get rid of I didn’t think she’d call my bluff, not when it required stripping for me.

And now she’s everywhere, yet, nowhere at all. The shape of her body burned into the backs of my eyelids; the wet heat of her pussy branded on my thigh. Don’t even get me started on that mischievous glint in her eye—it’s got my dick in a choke hold.

Her scent, smile, They swirl like an incoming storm, and the door of my office can’t shelter me from it. It’s pathetic, but I’m relieved she’s not on shift tonight.

Kind of.

I let out a bitter laugh and lean back against my chair. I’d find humor in the ridiculousness of it all, except there’s nothing funny about it. Every time Penelope has dug under my skin, it’s been my own fault. I pushed open the locker room door for the second time, despite learning the first time that what lay in wait for me was something I couldn’t handle. I’d pushed back the driver’s seat knowing if I found out what shade of pink her nipples were, there was no going back.

Now I’m paying the price for my impulsiveness: having to take all my meetings for the day over the phone because my body reacts like a twelve-year-old-boy seeing tits on T.V. every time I think of her.

I should…deal with it. Hate-fuck my fist in the ensuite behind me. But then, whether she knew it or not, Penelope would win again, and, despite my odd obsession with her, I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a rusty penknife than let her win.

Despite it being ten a.m., I pour another whiskey. Rattle my dice in the crook of my palm. My office is cold and silent, save for the thrum of the motors and the hum of a vacuum cleaner underneath my wingtips.

I could always just fuck her, but I know there’s a major issue with that. By my own rule, if I wanted to use Penelope’s thick thighs as earmuffs, I’d have to take her on a date.

Never going to happen. I couldn’t muster up enough charm in the world to convince her to go for dinner with me, and besides, what would we talk about? She’s feral, for Christ’s sake. I’ve seen the way she eats, and no doubt I’ll leave the restaurant a Rolex and two cars lighter. I’ve already paid for the most expensive lap dance of my fucking life.

I huff a sardonic laugh into my whiskey, before slamming it back and flicking the glass across my desk.

The only plus is that she believes love is a trap. I wouldn’t have to worry about her hoping it’d go farther than one sordid night.

No. If I was to fuck Penelope, it’d have to be without all the airs and graces. I’ve never treated a woman like that, but then again, I’ve never threatened to clump one around the head with a hammer, either. She seems to have a habit of reaching through my charm offense and bringing out the darkness in me.

Suddenly, the door to my office flys open with such force, I can only assume somebody’s kicked it in. My hand goes to the Glock next to my MacBook, but as I glance up, I drop it back on the desk with a sigh.

Well, that’s one way to short-circuit a boner.

Gabe. He darkens the doorway like a sleep demon. Behind him, a pair of suit-clad legs lie on the floor at an awkward angle.

“Your men couldn’t protect a password,” he grunts.

I mutter something dark under my breath, but I have to admit, he’s got a point. Twenty-three ex-special-ops guardians and none of them could stop one man getting to me. Sure, that man is Gabriel Visconti and I don’t think a ten-foot-thick wall of iron would have stopped him getting through that door, but still.

He strolls in. Sneers at the photo frames on my shelf of me cutting red ribbons and holding oversized checks, and snatches up the whiskey bottle.

“Want a protein shake with that?”

“Already had three today.” He fists a tumbler and narrows his gaze on me. “Where were you last night? You’re usually belle of the ball.”

I feign boredom. “I see you idiots all the time now. Besides, Benny only has so many fingers, and I’m growing tired of watching you break them.”

“I wish I could say the same for my wife.” I look over Gabe’s shoulder to Angelo in the hall. With a mild look of disgust, he steps over the legs of my fallen man and kicks the door shut with his heel. “Gabe has turned her into a sadist.”

“That girl has always been a sadist,” Gabe says, gulping back his drink.

Angelo glares at him, and I wipe away my smirk with the back of my hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure, brothers?”

Angelo hitches up his slacks and sinks into the armchair opposite. His gaze comes to mine, sparking with annoyance. “You forgot we had a meeting today.”

And so I did. I suppose I was too distracted by the memory of Penelope sinking her teeth into my bicep as she came against my leg.

.

I’ve been so focused on everything Penelope that I’m embarrassed to admit the war with the Cove clan has barely crossed my mind. If I’m honest, I forgot Dante existed for a minute. The last I heard, Angelo and Cas arranged a meeting with Dante in Hollow a few days after the explosion. He’d rocked up to Cas’s house with a ring of security and sat at the end of the dining table as meek as a bird. A real, hot-blooded don would have owned up to the attack, but not Dante.

Fucking idiot. A well-dressed bed is more of a made man than him.

“Me? Never,” I drawl, leaning back in my chair with a lazy smirk. I turn to Gabe. “How’s the chess game coming along?”

His glare tells me everything I need to know. It’s dark and dangerous and I wonder how many men have been the subject of it and pissed their pants. He tugs a lighter from his pocket and, with a flick of his wrist, brings the flame to life.

“Needles in the neck. Heart attacks. Cut brakes.”

I nod slowly, raking a cautious eye over that flame as it dances under his chin and shifts shadows over the hard planes of his face. Wouldn’t put it past my brother to set my office ablaze, just for shits and giggles. “Sounds productive.”

The flame snuffs out, plunging his molten gaze back into darkness. His palms slam against my desk with such force that half of my whiskey sloshes out of its glass. “It’s child’s play. I’m restless. Losing my fucking mind. I need more, I need something…” He huffs out a dark breath. “Something to silence it all.”

Slightly stunned at his outburst, I toss a look at Angelo, but he just rolls his eyes, a bored expression carved into his face. I have a feeling he’s heard this already.

Somehow, I think it’s safer to change the subject. “Well, I still haven’t heard from Tor.”

Now, Angelo’s eyes come back to mine, flashing dark. “Yeah. Dante hasn’t either.”

My spine straightens on its own accord. “What do you mean?”

“What I said. He never went back to Cove after the explosion. I called Donatello, and he hasn’t heard from him either.”

His words settle on my chest and push me back in my chair. I’d have bet both my yachts Tor wouldn’t have chosen Dante over us. But disappearing entirely? This…I don’t know. It seems worse.

Three heavy knocks on the door cut through my thoughts. Gabe’s gun comes flying out of his waistband, and the noise is so loud that even Angelo twitches toward his weapon.

“Relax,” I sigh. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a yacht in the middle of the Pacific. The only threat onboard is food poisoning.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Come in.”

Griffin bursts into my office and his stride screams trouble. He’s old and bald and has seen enough sick shit in this world that almost makes him walk fast. The sight pinches the back of my neck, and I find myself rising to my feet and picking up my gun, too.

He comes to a stop behind Angelo. “We’ve got an emergency.”

Gabe’s safety catch releases. “Mine.”

Griffin’s gaze slides sideways, tinted with disgust. “Not an emergency concerning you or your thugs.” Shifting his attention back to me, he adds, “Lucky Cat’s been hit.”

My heart jolts at the mention of my Vegas casino. I suck in a whiskey-fueled breath, lean my palms against my desk and grind out, “I’m going to need more intel than that.”

“Hit and run. Armed van crashed into the lobby and shook out all the ATMs in under two minutes. Took just over six mil in cash, by the looks of it.”

“Yeah? And where were your men?” Gabe growls.

Angelo lets out a low whistle. “Who’d be that fucking dumb?”

Griffin chooses to ignore my more insolent brother. “Nobody on the West Coast. Has to be an outside job from a gang that didn’t know better.”

“Mine,” Gabe repeats quietly, taking a step toward Griffin and cracking his knuckles.

“No way,” Griffin growls back. “You and your thugs run rampage up and down the Coast, and that’s fine. But Raphael’s a prolific businessman, and part of my job is to uphold that reputation. We’ll sort it, and we’ll sort it ” He stabs a finger toward him and Gabe looks down at it like he’s considering tearing it off with his teeth. “By the way, I saw what you did to Clive.” He turns to say to me, “He left his head in the trunk of my Sedan with a cocktail umbrella in his mouth.”

I bite out a laugh.

Griffin shakes his head, jaw ticking in annoyance. “I thought you were more than that, boss.”

I am. Usually. Griffin’s style has always worked perfectly for my agenda. It’s quiet, elegant, and no bodies means no leads back to me. But a cocktail umbrella? Come on. I’m not immune to the charm of irony, even on my darkest days.

As silence cloaks the office, Griffin’s revelation settles on my shoulders, thick and lava-like. I’m burning up, so I turn toward the French doors and crack one open. Beyond them, the icy sky melts into dark waters, and through the small gap, the sound of waves lapping against the hull float in with the wind.

Ignoring the three pairs of eyes on my neck, I slip my hands in my pockets and rest my head against the glass.

Lucky Cat.

Out of the forty-eight casinos I own, they had to hit the one that started it all. Ten years ago, it was barely a box with four borrowed roulette wheels, and I couldn’t get customers through that door even if I begged. I paid my staff with the bills fed into the slot machine in the corner. It was a but I loved it—still do. It was the only one of my casinos my mama got to step foot in. She was used to the life of luxury but damn, did she sit at that bar in her Sunday best and sip her lemon drop martini like she was at the Ritz.

Emotion curls its hand around my throat and I flex against it. My breath misting against the glass is the last thing I see before I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Gabe.”

Heavy footsteps lead out of my office.

When I turn around, two pairs of eyes touch me, both conveying different expressions. Griffin’s gaze burns with fury while Angelo’s is tinged with thinly-veiled amusement.

I stroll back to my desk. Rest my knuckles against it. “Griff?”

He glares at me in response.

I nod to the pair of legs in the hall. “Chuck him overboard before he wakes up.”

My brother cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything. Griffin’s shock disappears behind the faceted wall of crystal as I slam my whiskey in one. Its contents carve a hot trail down my throat and stoke the flames in my chest. When it clatters against the desk, Griffin’s gone and Angelo is holding a photo frame of our mother.

His eyes soften at the corners. Without looking up, he muses, “If mama was here, she’d say you were having an unlucky streak.”

His words prickle against my skin sharper than he knows. “Yes, and mama was a sucker for bullshit.”

If I ever got my hands dirty and he wasn’t my brother, I’d sweep that smirk off his lips with a swift right hook. Instead, I drop to my armchair and regard him with a mild-mannered stare.

“Anything else? I’ve got shit to do.”

He rubs his chin in thought. “Forty G’s lost last Monday.

You’ve lost Miller and Young, and your best bud has disappeared off the face of the planet under suspicious circumstances. Hmm.”

“What?” I snap, growing hot under the insinuation in his tone. Red hair and playing cards flash behind my eyelids.

“I think I’d have to agree with mama on this one.”

In case Penelope the Queen of Hearts, I probably shouldn’t have let her grind on me.

I scratch my jaw. Shrug. “Shit happens.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck off now, please.”

With a dark chuckle, he rises to his feet and casts a shadow over my desk. “Look on the bright side, brother. It’s your favorite time of the month.”

I frown. “Is it?”

“You shitting me?”

In the beat of silence, the realization hits me.

Usually, we choose our Sinners Anonymous candidates on the last Sunday of every month, but that’ll be Christmas Day this year, so we’re doing this Sunday instead.

I can’t believe I forgot. The Sinners Anonymous hotline is my baby, a love letter to the sadist that lives deep within the hollow of my chest. It’s the ultimate game, and just once a month, my brothers and I come together to relive the better parts of our childhood. The simpler times, you know, before our father killed our mother and Angelo killed him in retaliation.

“I’m on it,” I say, smoothing my collar pin. I jerk my chin up when I remember what I had to ask him. “Are you around tomorrow?”

“Depends.”

“I’ve got a meeting with Kelly, and I’d like you to sit in.”

Immediately, Angelo’s expression sours. “You know I hate you working with the Irish.”

“You hate me working with anyone who doesn’t have a with a secret alfredo sauce recipe.”

When it comes to business partners, I don’t discriminate. If they’re smart and can front cash and connections, I’ll look past their family ties. Kelly might be an O’Hare, but he’s all right in my books. We’ve got three joint ventures in Vegas together—a casino, a bar, and a boutique hotel—and our partnership has worked seamlessly for the last eight years.

“What does he want, and why do I have to be there?” Angelo grunts.

“He…has a habit of wanting things that aren’t his,” I say with a tight smile. “Just need him to know Dip isn’t unclaimed territory.”

He nods. “All right. But I don’t want you whining at me if he gets a bullet in his head.”

I roll my eyes. “No whining.”

Angelo leaves me in my office with a near-empty liquor bottle and violent thoughts.

In dire need of something stronger to distract myself, I decide I probably should choose my top three sins of the month for when my brothers and I meet in the church on Sunday.

I open my laptop, pull up the Sinners Anonymous voicemail box, and click One by one, the sound of sin fills the room.

There’s always the usual shit when I listen. Shaky confessions of road collisions from the side of a highway. Drunken, unintelligible slurs from people whose demons only come out at three a.m. But occasionally, there’s a sin that brings a perverted smirk to my lips and sweeps a thrill under my skin.

Today though, they aren’t scratching the itch as well as they usually do. So, I reach over and open the sub-folder of calls I’ve removed from the shared network.

I slip a cigarette out of its carton and tuck it into the crook of my mouth. Swipe the flame of a Zippo underneath it.

Then I lean back, close my eyes, and let Penelope’s silly ramblings soak into my skin like an ointment.

If I’m sinking to the bottom, at least her voice will keep me company on the way down.