SWNOVELS Sinners Condemned : Chapter 18
boat tender, arms outstretched and his legs shoulder-width apart. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips, and his glare is almost hot enough to warm up this icy December day at sea.
“Cazzo,” he growls as Griffin slides a beefy hand up the inside seam of his slacks. “If you wanted to touch my dick, all you had to do was ask.”
“I’d have to find it first,” Griff grumbles back.
Amusement leaves my lips in a puff of condensation, which only makes Benny’s scowl darker. “You don’t trust me, cugino?”
“Standard protocol, Ben.”
“You want me to squat and cough next?”
I smirk. “Depends. Got anything up there I should know about?”
Griffin gives me a curt nod and steps back, clearing my cousin to embark the yacht. I yank him up onto the swim platform with one hand and clap him on the back with the other.
He smooths down the front of his shirt and cracks his neck. “I haven’t seen you on dry land for a while. You living onboard?”
I nod. “It’s a bit more luxurious than any hotel in Dip, don’t you think? Besides, it means you can’t turn up unannounced as usual, with your hookers and your whiskey.”
He laughs. “Unfortunately, the only thing I’ve brought today is bad news.”
My heart sinks three inches in my chest. Of course it is. Seems like all news is bad news these days. Every time I pick up the phone or open an email, another brick of my empire crumbles away.
Benny saunters into the lounge, swipes a bottle of Smuggler’s Club from behind the bar, and disappears down the spiral staircase. I find him in the crew mess, poking his bandaged hand around the pizza boxes and the sandwiches laid out for my men.
“You can’t tell me you have bad news and then proceed to stuff your face,” I say dryly, beckoning him over to the corner booth.
Gnawing on a slice of pizza, he strolls over and drops a thin manila folder in front of me. I flick it open, then run a wary eye down the list of familiar names. Half of them are scratched out with a sharp stroke of a fountain pen.
“What’s this?”
“This V.I.P guest list for Thursday’s poker night.” He kicks out a chair and slumps down on it. “Ten of our biggest hitters have pulled out.”
Benny, Tor, and I have held a joint poker night in Hollow on the last Thursday of every month for years. It’s a partnership that’s always worked seamlessly. Tor brings the big-hitters from Cove, I bring them from Vegas, and Benny brings anything that billionaires with too much money and not enough morals could possibly want. Since Tor has disappeared off the face of the planet—I still haven’t heard from that fucker—Benny and I have decided to go it alone for the first time in forever.
My back molars grind together, but I keep my expression indifferent. “Let me guess; they’ve all caught that nasty flu going around.”
He smirks at my sarcasm. “You’re not too far off, cugino. Dante always has been a fucking germ.”
My gaze snaps up from the list to meet his. “What’s he done?”
“Apparently, he’s holding a poker night to rival ours in Cove. Same night, same time. Called up all of our big-hitters and offered them half-price buy-ins and double the winnings.” He leans back on his chair, watching for my reaction over his pizza slice.
I give a small shake of my head. “Not a single one of these men would take him up on that.”
I can say that with full confidence. Our clients don’t come to our poker nights for cheap buy-ins, they come because I’m there. These men fly from all around the world to have the chance to sit at the same velvet table as me. I spend most of the night signing chips rather than playing them.
“You’ve got that right. Obviously, none of them are going to Dante’s poker night, either. But him calling everyone up and begging them to change their plans makes it obvious there’s a Visconti family rift. Seems like everyone wants to stay away in case they get caught up in the middle of it.”
I strum a finger against the cleft of my chin, glaring at the strip lights above Benny’s head. “Where’s he holding it?”
“Portafortuna. It’s his new joint up on the north headland.”
“We could always blow it up.”
It’s little more than a musing, out of my mouth before I can put weight to it.
Benny lets out a low whistle. “Dio mio. Who am I talking to, Rafe or Gabe? Hell, I’m surprised you haven’t strolled over to Cove and forced both Vicious and Dante to sign a peace treaty, just to smooth things over.”
“This is a little more serious than a drunken argument at Whiskey Under the Rocks, Ben.”
“Mm. You wouldn’t get into Cove even if you want to, anyway. My eyes and ears tell me Dante’s put airport-style security at the borders. Full pat-downs, bag checks, the lot.”
I turn around at the sound of Benny gagging. He pulls something out of his mouth with his bandaged fingers and dumps it on the table. “Is that a piece of fucking pineapple?” he exclaims, looking down at the yellow lump in disgust. “On fuckin’ pizza?”
I smirk into the back of my hand. “Wasn’t bought for your consumption, fat-ass.”
Benny’s phone buzzes, and he takes the stairs two-at-a-time to take the call.
Once again, Penelope proves the age-old adage of, if you think of the devil, it’ll appear. Through the door on the other side of the seating area, I see her saunter into the kitchen and slow to a stop as she approaches the sinks. Her eyes slant at the mountain of dirty dishes.
“Is this all from last night?”
Chef Marco saunters over and tosses her an apron. “Yeah. Usually gets done after the shift.”
“So why’s it still here?”
He shrugs. Taps a cigarette out of a carton and tucks it into the crook of his mouth. “Boss’s orders.”
She rakes her fingers through her ponytail. “Son of a bitch,” she grunts.
I lean my elbows on the table, warm satisfaction filling my center.
“I’ve killed men for saying nicer things about my mama, Penelope.”
Her shoulders snap into a tight line, her gaze roving around to find mine. The surprise of seeing me in the shadows of the next room melts into hatred, which then crystallizes into something more mischievous.
Still holding my eye, she flicks on the hot tap, squirts dish liquid into the sink, and bends her elbows, pretending to roll up imaginary sleeves. My gaze drops to the watch sliding up her forearm—my fucking watch—and my mood darkens.
“I’m sure she was an absolute doll,” she says sweetly, before plunging her hands into the soapy water.
Leaning back against the booth, I hide my amusement behind my knuckles. I’d insisted Laurie put Penelope on back-of-house duties under the pretense that all newbies should learn the ropes of every department, but really, it’s because the new, more modest, uniform isn’t coming in for another few days. It’s less of a punishment for making me question my morals last night, and more of a stupid, self-preservation thing. With so much shit going on with my business, I’m not sure I have the restraint to spend another evening glaring at her over my poker hand while she shakes up cocktails for my guests.
Still, giving the regular pot-washer a paid night off was a petty chess move. And fair play to her, shoving my Breitling into a bowl of suds with a sexy smile is excellent retaliation.
But she’ll never win the war against me. Not now that I know she calls Sinners Anonymous.
Right on cue, steel-capped footsteps thunder above my head and down the stairs.
My men appear like a pack of hungry wolves in the crew mess and make a beeline for the pizza and sandwiches laid out on the dining table. I nod politely as a slew of thanks come my way. Blake chomps off a huge chunk of a sub and grunts approvingly in my direction.
“Is it your birthday or something, boss?”
Is this idiot for real? I celebrated my thirty-fourth birthday three months ago on a private island in the Maldives. Eyelid twitching, I manage to give him a tight-lipped smile. “Just getting into the Christmas spirit of giving.”
Through the sea of broad shoulders and suits, I watch Penelope scrub at the dishes from last night. She pauses every few minutes to huff strands of hair out of her eyes and wipe her brow against her shoulder.
After reverse-dialing the last number called from the phone booth last night, I couldn’t get back aboard my yacht quick enough. I’d intended to settle down behind my desk with a glass of whiskey in one hand and my dick in the other and let Penelope’s sins unravel through my Bose speakers.
They didn’t come. Turns out, Penelope has been using the hotline like a fucking diary. Talking shit for the sake of talking shit. Vapid tidbits about her day, random musings about whatever book she’s reading, or recaps on conversations she’s recently had with her neighbor. Ironically, the only call that mildly piqued my interest was the one she made in the phone booth: I have three library books, and I’ll never get to return them.
The three, drawn out breaths that had preceded it suggested it wasn’t what she’d originally planned to confess.
Still, skimming through the most boring inner workings of her brain hasn’t completely been in vain. One interesting fact I learned about Penelope is that she detests ham and pineapple pizza, and tuna sandwiches make her gag.
Which is why I bought my men both for lunch.
“Where do you want us to put the plates, boss?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, amused. “Just dump them in the sink.”
A stampede of suits and steroids stomps through the door to drop mounds of dirty dishes into the sink. Penelope stares in disbelief as each plate breaks the surface of the water with a loud plop. Rivers of suds run down the cabinet and pool on the floor. Her eyes trail it, before darting to the row of shiny shoes stomping back out into the crew mess.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Her bark receives little more than a few smirks and sniggers. “I’m not washing your shit up! Come back and do it yourself!”
As the crew mess clears, there’s only one of my men left. Blake. He pushes off the doorframe and saunters into the kitchen, holding his plate high above the water.
Penelope takes a step forward. “Don’t be a dick.” Another step. “Seriously.”
The plate falls, landing in the water with such force that it sloshes all down her dress.
The walls of my stomach tense, but I don’t move from my corner. Penelope’s and my eyes run down the front of her dress and tights. Both are soaked. She sucks in a shaky breath, curls her fists, and turns back to my lackey.
“Were you born a cunt, or were you turned into one by school bullies and a father that didn’t love you?”
My lips tilt, a dark chuckle filling my chest. Where does this girl get her smart mouth from?
Blake takes a step forward. “You could always take it off, sweetheart.”
My vision darkens around the edges, but I will every muscle in my body to stay in this fucking booth. I run two fingers over my mouth and watch how Penelope handles it.
She blinks. “What?”
“Your dress, sweetheart. Take it off if it’s wet. I won’t mind.”
My ears ring with all the blood rushing to my head. And why the fuck is my hand brushing against the grip of the gun tucked into my waistband? Ridiculous. That’s not me.
Clamping my jaw shut, I ball my hands into fists and lay them on the table. My glare is so hot on the side of Penelope’s face, I’m surprised she hasn’t caught fire, let alone felt its heat. She licks her lips, like she’s considering something.
Eventually, she swallows, and looks up at him through half-mast lashes. “What’d you say your name is again?”
“Blake. I’d ask you the same, but every man on this boat knows who you are.”
Penelope laughs. Laughs. It bounces out of the kitchen, across the crew mess, and zaps me in the dark corner like a fucking cattle prod. I clench my fists tighter, the weight of my gun growing heavier, like it’s reminding me it’s there.
“Shut up, no they don’t.”
A grunt leaves my lips as she playfully swipes at his chest.
“No seriously,” he drawls, slipping his hand under her chin and tilting it toward him. “You’re gorgeous. Anyone ever tell you that?”
Red mist rolls through the crew mess like a sand storm in a desert. Fuck this. It’d be all too easy to pop a bullet in his head and toss him overboard with a couple of bricks tied to his ankles. But as I’m half-way to my feet, Penelope’s hand sliding into the pocket of his pants stops me in my tracks.
“Gorgeous? I’ve heard it a few times,” she says sweetly, never taking her eyes off his. As he laughs and says something about loving a chick with confidence, she slides out his wallet between her thumb and forefinger.
She presses it against the small of her back and side steps him. “Welp, I better go clean up!” She turns and slinks through the door on the other side of the kitchen, ignoring Blake’s pathetic will-I-see-you-later? trailing after her.
Rubbing a hand over his buzz-cut, Blake lets out a sleazy laugh and strolls out of the crew mess and up the stairs.
Alone with my heart slamming against my chest, I can’t decide who I’m going after first.