SWNOVELS Sinners Condemned : Chapter 9
The towering cliff face of Devil’s Dip looms over my shoulders, and in front of me, the orange sun sits low on the horizon, its rays reaching across the glittering sea to touch my face.
Despite the frosty weather burning the shells of my ears and turning my eyelashes crisp, I feel warm from the inside out, because today, I’m going straight. For real this time.
I spent the weekend in the hospital trapped under starchy bed sheets with nothing to do but glare at the white ceiling and eat Wren’s Hershey’s chocolate bars. It gave me the mental space to realize that when I’d returned on the Devil’s Coast last Thursday, I’d hopped off the bus on the wrong foot. Committing one last grift before going straight is like a crackhead saying they’ll have just one last hit before getting clean. I’d set myself up for a false start.
A second chance came in the form of the Ace of Spades and I’m grabbing it with both hands. I’ve even pinned that playing card to the door of my refrigerator, and every time I wander into the kitchen in search of a snack, I’m reminded of how lucky I am.
I’m, unfortunately, also reminded of Raphael Visconti’s thumb grazing over the pulse in my throat.
A gust of wind breaks over the nape of my neck and sends a shiver down my spine. With frozen fingers, I tug my cell from my pocket and glance at the time on the screen.
5.55pm.
Mild panic twists my stomach in a knot. Shit. All Raphael had said was to bring a resume, be on the fisherman’s docks at six pm, and not to be late. Well, I don’t need to check Google Maps for the umpteenth time to know that’s where I am; the stench of rotting fish and the blood staining the two wonky jetties protruding out into the water make that pretty clear. But there’s no swanky bar or restaurant in sight, or even any kind of establishment I could work in, for that matter. To double check, I turn in a slow circle, taking in the charred remains of the main port to my right, the craggy walls of the cliff behind me, and then come to a stop right where I started—staring out at the Pacific in confusion.
Have I been played? Christ, not once did the thought cross my mind.
Annoyance and the seeds of humiliation grow in my belly, and I mutter a curse under my breath.
Fuck him.
I hate being reliant on a man. And of all men, why did I choose to rely on the one with the most shark-like smile?
Grinding out an icy sigh, I slide my gaze to the only sign of life: an old man tying up a rusting bay boat at the end of a jetty. I suppose there’s no harm in asking him if he has any idea where I’m meant to be. As I teeter across slippery rocks and walk over the wobbly slats toward him, I make a new vow to myself. If Raphael Visconti has played me, I’ll go through with my fleeting plan: cut my losses, sell his watch, and fuck off over the border to Canada.
“Excuse me?” I pause for a response. Nothing. I clear my throat and ball my fists in my sleeves. “Um, random question, but do you know if there’s a bar or anything around here owned by Raphael Visconti? I’m trying to—”
“You’ve missed the boat.”
His voice is gruff and barely audible, thanks to the blistering wind.
“I’m sorry?”
His shoulders slump in annoyance, and his rope goes slack. “You’ve missed the boat,” he grunts again.
I frown at the back of his yellow raincoat. What does he mean, I’ve missed the boat? Like, I didn’t arrive early enough for Raphael’s liking and he’s snatched back the job opportunity?
“I don’t understand.”
Another grunt. This time, he jerks his head to the left. “The staff boat left five minutes ago.”
Oh. He means literally, not metaphorically. But—staff boat? I follow his gaze, and when I spot what he’s looking at, I’m even more confused.
A yacht. A big, shiny white one, the type you see in rap videos and documentaries about rich people living it up in the South of France. It’s merely a speck on the blue horizon, and impossible to spot from the mainland, thanks to the way the cliff juts out to the left. But from the end of the jetty, I can see it in all of its tacky, perplexing glory.
Slowly, it dawns on me that I never asked what job Raphael had for me. Because it was in Devil’s Dip, I’d foolishly assumed it’d be some sort of humble service job, but now that I’m staring at a mega yacht bobbing over the Pacific, I’m not so sure.
Am I a boat stew?
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
I blink and glance down at the fisherman. I hadn’t realized I’d said it aloud. Shaking my head, I glance at my cell screen again and panic. “Is there any chance you could take me over to it?”
The man stills. Swivels his head around like a fucking owl. He rakes a beady eye over my tights and dress and meets my gaze. Clearly, he likes what he sees, because he cocks a bushy brow and asks, “What do I get in return?”
I open my mouth but close it again, clamping down on the sarcastic retort on my tongue. Nope. I’ve been given a second chance to become a good, normal person, and that also means getting rid of my smart-ass mouth. So, instead of saying I won’t boot you into the water and pray you forget how to swim, I force a smile and bat my lashes. “You get the joy of helping out a pretty woman in a bind.” I clamp my fingers together and add. “Pretty please? With a big, fat, juicy cherry on top?”
His gaze holds mine for a beat before he rises to his feet, a move that makes his bones crack. “All right, get in.”
Men. For once, I’m glad they’re all the fucking same.
He roughly grips my forearm to steady me as I clamber into the boat. I slide onto a cold, wet bench while he untethers us from the jetty and fiddles with the console. A few moments later, the engine stutters under my ass and we’re skating over the choppy waves. A mix of ice water and wind assault my face and hair, and I squeeze my eyes shut and curl myself around my purse in my lap in an attempt to keep it dry.
But it’s fruitless; by the time the purr of the engine slows to a lazy chug, I’m soaked. Slug-like strands of hair stick to the back of my neck, and I’m pretty sure even my fucking panties are wet. Oh, and another glance at my cell tells me I’m ten minutes late.
Not a great start, Penny.
The boat pulls up to a swim deck at the back of the yacht, and the fisherman takes his sweet-ass time hoisting me up onto the ledge of his boat so I can reach the ladder. When his bony fingers inch a little too low on my hips, I bark out a nasty “fuck off.” His response is something equally as unchristian-like, and before I can make it past the first rung of the ladder, he kicks the engine back into gear and tears off back in the direction of the dock.
Asshole.
Clinging to the slippery ladder, with my purse slung over my shoulder, I use all the strength in my puny arms to hoist myself up another rung. Now, I can just about see over the edge of the swim platform, and my eyes land on a pair of black, tight-clad feet. I run my gaze up further, taking in long, slender legs, a ridiculously short skirt, and a red mouth wrapped around a cigarette.
Eyes, familiar and feline, come to mine. It’s Anna, the girl Matt is obsessed with. She takes a slow, final drag, before flicking the lipstick-stained butt past my ear and into the raging sea behind me. “You’re late,” she says coldly, before spinning on her bare heels and sauntering through a set of double doors.
Well, then. I guess she’s still bitter about me interrupting her conversation with Raphael.
Huffing out yet another curse word, I army-crawl onto the deck and rise to my feet. I consider following Anna through the double doors, but the puddle of saltwater at my feet suggests it’ll only get me into more trouble. Instead, I wander aimlessly along the side deck, peering into portholes, looking for someone, anyone, that can give me even the faintest idea why the fuck I’m on a yacht in the middle of December.
I find a girl further down the deck, bathing in the glow of the security light.
She’s also puking over the railing.
As I approach, she glances sideways and wipes her mouth with a wad of tissue in her hand. “Please don’t tell me you’re Penny.”
I look down at the green sludge sliding over the curve of the boat. “Is it a bad time?”
She huffs out a dry laugh and rips open a water bottle, then finishes it in five greedy chugs. “Sorry, doll. I’m Laurie, Raphael’s right-hand-woman. I’d shake your hand but I think the movement will make me sick again. Do you have your resume?”
I fish it from my purse. Laurie is beautiful, even when she’s spewing up her lunch. A Black girl with brown eyes, long lashes, and the sleekest ponytail I’ve ever seen. She looks a bit older than me, but definitely no older than late twenties.
“I’ll survive without a handshake,” I say, amused. I glance down at her hand married to the railing. “Are you okay?”
“Of course not; we’re half a mile from dry land and I can’t swim,” she mutters, stepping away from the sea and gripping her stomach. “But I’ll get used to it. I have to, because thanks to the explosion at the port, we’ll be working on this damn yacht for the foreseeable future.”
My gaze slides across the horizon, watching the last of the sun’s rays dip behind the storm-gray horizon, cooling the sky’s color palette.
“We will?”
“Come on, I’ll get you up to speed.”
I follow the wobbly path she cuts along the side deck and come to a stop at the open clearing at the front of the boat, where both side decks meet at a point. No doubt there’s a fancier word for it, but the only boat I’ve ever stepped on is a ferry.
The wind feels sharper up here, relentlessly whipping through my wet hair and chilling my bones. Laurie slices through its howling with a dull clap of her hands. “So Coastal Events—”
“What’s Coastal Events?” I interrupt.
Her gaze slants. “Seriously? How the hell did you get this job?” She shakes her head, as if she can’t be fucked to hear my answer. “Coastal Events is the Devil’s Coast branch of Raphael’s events agency. The other branch is Vegas Events, and well, you can figure out where that’s based. Anyway, at Coastal, we supply staff and entertainment for most of the Viscontis’ parties up and down the coast. Poker nights over in Hollow, birthday parties in Cove, weddings in Dip…you get the idea.” She slowly turns so she’s facing out to sea, and I suddenly realize I recognize her from the wedding. She was the woman with the clipboard and the earpiece barking at wait staff for not moving fast enough. Her shaky finger rises toward the shore. I follow it to the jagged cliff face, veiled by a thin cloak of smoke rising from the port below it. Around halfway up it, there’s a crater-sized hole, its edges charred black from smoke. “Rafe wanted to create a more permanent venue on his home turf, and that was supposed to be it. They’d just fitted all the glass when the explosion happened. Apparently, it caused loads of structural damage and weakened the foundations, so it’s going to take ages to rebuild.” We both stare at the gaping hole for a few beats. It makes the cliff look as if it is crying out in agony. “So, yeah, the yacht is the temporary solution.”
“Christ, who’s rich enough to have a yacht on-hand to use as a temporary bar?”
She laughs. “Rafe has two.”
I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t help but think I should have swindled him for much more than a Breitling when I had the chance. But no, that’s not the mindset of a girl who’s gone straight.
“Uh, Penny?” I swivel around to see Laurie glaring at the puddle around my feet. “Did you swim here?”
“The ride over was a little choppy,” I mutter, wringing out the hem of my faux-fur jacket. Fat water droplets splatter against the deck. “Is there anywhere I can dry off?”
“Sure, there’s a whole locker room for the girls onboard.” Catching my raised brow, she adds, “Yeah, the yacht is huge. I’ll grab you a uniform, make yourself presentable and then I’ll give you a tour.”
She bustles back down the side deck and disappears through a door. I follow her in and find myself in a small laundry room. She spins around and stabs a finger at my Doc Martens. “No shoes on deck,” she barks. “Take them off. Your coat too. I’ll dry it during your shift.” I slip off my boots and shake my coat off my shoulders and hand both to her. She places the boots on a rack under the counter and tosses my jacket in one of the dryers. It whirs to life, and for a few seconds, she watches the drum spin before clutching her stomach. “Gotta go,” she grunts, shoving past me and heading back out to the deck. “Uniform is on the counter, locker room is on the first door on the—”
Her instructions are cut off by a gurgle, and then her head dips between her shoulder blades as she feeds the fishes in the water below.
Well, then. Feeling my own stomach churn at the sound of Laurie’s guttural moans, I skim over the row of bags on the counter, find one labeled with my size, and slip out of the internal door and into a narrow hallway. Plush cream carpet compresses underfoot; a glossy mahogany wall grazes my wet shoulder. Christ, if the servant quarters are this posh, I can’t imagine how fancy the rest of the yacht is.
Halfway down the hall, I come to a stop in between opposite doors. Laurie’s lunch decided to make an appearance before she could tell me whether the locker room was on the right or the left, so I suppose I have to guess. I go for the right, twisting the golden knob and breezing over the threshold. My tights-clad feet transition from soft cream carpet to polished wooden floors.
I blink under the yellow glow of recessed spotlights, and immediately the weight of a wrong decision clamps down on my chest.
Twelve pairs of eyes fall on me, but there’s only one that has the power to stretch across the boardroom table and warm my frozen skin.
His gaze, green and indifferent, starts at my toes, skims over the hemline of my wet dress, then hardens on the four-leaf clover around my neck. As if meeting my eye is a reluctant favor to a friend, he slips the pen he’s holding between his teeth and finally drags his eyes to mine.
“Yes?”
One simple word, but coming from Raphael Visconti’s lips, it feels like a bead of condensation sliding down the side of an ice-cold glass.
What the hell is he doing here? Out of all the establishments this man owns, why does he have to be at this one? But now I feel like an idiot. He’s got every right to be here; it’s his fucking yacht after all. It’s my own fault for assuming he wouldn’t be and coming unprepared to be assaulted by that steady gaze.
A hot unease rises to the surface of my skin. It’s not because I’ve burst into a meeting barefoot and soaking wet. Not even because it looks to be a serious one, judging by the sea of solemn faces and sharp suits.
No, it’s because Raphael’s presence is electric. Even when he’s still and silent, it spills out from the head of the boardroom table and crackles between the four mahogany-clad walls. An invisible force, I don’t doubt I’d feel his static even if I curled up in the darkest corner.
I can’t take my eyes off him; I suppose he’s used to that. His appearance, as always, is as crisp as his tone. Fresh fade, fresh shave. Tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones punctuated with a lazy stare that makes my blood burn. His suit is signature—black jacket, white shirt, gold collar pin—and he wears it like armor.
He cocks a brow.
I shake my head.
“Wrong room,” I mutter, taking a squelchy step back and bumping my head against the door. The impact wasn’t hard at all, but the way the thud echoes in the silence makes me cringe and someone in the room takes a sharp intake of breath.
Raphael’s apathetic expression doesn’t break. “Are you lost?”
“No.” Yeah. I hold up the bag with my uniform in it. “I’m just looking for somewhere to get changed.”
Only a man with real power can let silence marinate for as long as he does. Six drops of water drip from the hem of my dress and onto the wooden floorboards before he drags the pen from his mouth and uses it to point to a door over his shoulder.
Eleven pairs of eyes trail after me as I muddle across the boardroom toward the door on the opposite side. None of them belong to Raphael; he’s too busy writing something down in a leather-bound notebook and pretending I don’t exist. But as I pass, I catch his gaze dropping to my feet while a muscle tics in his jaw.
I slip through the door and click it shut. Inside, I rest my back against the cold wood with the intention of waiting for my heartbeat to slow. It doesn’t get the chance to, because only a few seconds later, Raphael’s deep, silky voice floats through the crack.
“My apologies for the interruption, gentleman. Clive, please continue.”
Another voice, this one old and gruff. “Of course, sir. As I was saying, the major challenge we faced last quarter was the dramatic rise of input costs. We responded with pricing actions, delivering an underlying price growth of four-point-nine percent, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is quite impressive considering the current climate.”
There’s a ripple of awkward chuckles. I have no doubt none come from Raphael, and my suspicion is confirmed when I hear his voice harden. “I wasn’t asking about the last quarter, Clive. I was asking about your outlook for the upcoming one.”
A shuffle of papers ripples through heavy silence. Someone clears their throat. “Y-yes, of course, sir. Um, Phillip, would you like to take over? I think you’re better placed for this…”
Painful excuses and numbers plucked out of thin air go in one of my ears and come out the other; the only thing that lingers within the space between them is the satin-like calmness of Raphael’s tone. He sounds so normal. So…businesslike. I wonder if the men on the other side can see the truth, too, or if they think he’s the perfect gentleman like everyone else on this damn Coast does?
I wonder if they know he carried a gun to his brother’s wedding. I wonder if, while he’s sitting there, reclined in his large leather chair talking business, that gun is tucked into the waistband of his bespoke slacks?
For some reason, the thought vibrates through my core in the most inappropriate of ways.
I squeeze my eyes shut to rid myself of it, and when I pop them open again, I squint into the dark room in search of a light switch.
My fingers find one just a few inches from my head, and when I flip it, soft yellow lights flood the space and what I see fills me with confusion.
There’s a black marble vanity with two sinks carved into it. A large shower hugs the corner, and in the middle, there’s a free-standing tub—the type I imagine someone like Marie Antoinette would bathe in.
I’m in a bathroom, not a locker room. A private bathroom.
I step into the center of it, cutting through moist air, heavy with the familiar scent of cedar.
The shower head behind me drips. As I glare at my distorted reflection in the misted-up mirror, my heart slows and a light lust spreads between my thighs. Not only is it a private bathroom, it belongs to Raphael Visconti, and he’s just had a shower in here.
Christ. The thought shouldn’t make my mouth water the way it does. Shouldn’t sweep a thrill through me and tighten my nipples underneath my wet dress. Although I was invited in by the man himself, it feels dangerous to be in here. Too intimate. Like I’ve slipped behind enemy lines and have unprecedented access to what goes on behind.
And of course, it means I can’t help but imagine what he looks like naked.
Trance-like, I slide my fingers through the condensation on the surface of the marble vanity. I ball the corner of a damp towel in my fist. I pick up expensive-looking bottles and skim the French labels attached to them, although I must admit, the French for Dummies book I read a few months ago does little to help me decipher them. Everything is neat and in its place—nothing like my bathroom at home. There’s probably still a damp towel on the floor in my bathroom in Atlantic City.
When I find his aftershave, I bring it to my nose and take a long, deep huff from the nozzle. The scent makes me dizzy, affecting me like a shot of liquor on an empty stomach. I snort in disbelief, mentally scolding myself for being so fucking pathetic.
He’s just a man, for Christ’s sake. Not even one I like. Besides, all men wear aftershave and most of them, save for a few shitty brands they sell at the dollar store, smell pretty nice. Attracting women is literally what they are designed to do, and it’s safe to say I’m not immune to that.
I step away from the counter, if only to clear my head.
Right, I need to stop examining Raphael’s bathroom like it’s a crime scene and get ready.
I shimmy out of my wet dress and bundle it into the sink. Thank god this job has a uniform, because it’s the only smart dress I have.
I run my tights under the hairdryer, momentarily drowning out the boring business chat seeping through the door, then tug out my new uniform from the bag and slip it on.
It’s another dress. A short black one, with wrap-around detail under the bust. Signora Fortuna is embroidered in silver silk on the chest, and I can only assume that’s the name of the yacht.
It’s a cute dress and feels expensive against my skin. Staring at myself in the mirror, however, I realize my hair and makeup are far too dowdy to compliment it. My hair is going to be near-impossible to save without a good wash and blow dry, so I settle for a quick blast of the hairdryer and then bundle it up into a high ponytail. After wiping away the mascara running down my cheeks, I fish out my makeup bag and add a slick of red lipstick and a pair of silver hoops that I’d forgotten I had.
I take a step back and admire the DIY job. A familiar pleasure ripples down my spine; I’ve always enjoyed the process of dressing up. I suppose it’s because it was always a big part of my nightly ritual. I’d take the rollers out of my hair, step out of my robe, and slip on my newest stolen dress. Then I’d slick on some lipstick and spritz some perfume before leaving my shitty apartment and heading to a glossy casino with the intention of hitting men in their pockets.
Le sigh. Those were the days.
After kissing a tissue to remove any excess lipstick, I pause before tossing it in the trash. Something mischievous sparks in me, and instead, I leave it resting on the vanity. I don’t know why I do it, but I know I won’t remove it. In Criminal Psychology for Dummies, there’s a whole chapter on how lots of serial killers, like Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer, would leave calling cards at their crime scenes to taunt police. Well, despite the fact he’s given me a job, I can’t resist the urge to piss off Raphael, even just a little bit. It’s harmless—just a red kiss print on a tissue—but the thought of him coming in here, seeing it among his perfect things, then scowling sends a wave of stupid, silly smugness over me.
I chase the high by looking around for something else to meddle with. My eyes are drawn to the mist on the mirror and with quiet glee, I drag my finger along it.
Still smirking to myself, I bundle my wet clothes into my bag and step toward the door. As my fingers graze over the doorknob, Raphael’s low and slow voice floats through the cracks and touches my chest.
I swallow thickly, not ready to leave the humid room and the intoxicating scent of man that lingers within it.
My gaze falls to the aftershave bottle on the counter. Without thinking, I bring it to my neck and spray its cool contents over the length of my throat. On my wrists. Behind my ears. It sizzles against my warm skin, making me feel breathless.
Why I want to carry a reminder of this man around with me all night, I’m not sure. Perhaps like the kiss print and the artwork on the mirror, it’s just a petty way to one-up him without breaking my vow to keep my head down and be good. It’s another quiet notch of triumph on my belt.
Or perhaps the blow to my head has given me a delayed concussion.
Tucking my belongings under my arm, I steel my spine and enter the boardroom again. Keeping my eyes trained on the shiny floor and clinging to the wall, I pass the table of suits and tune out the dude droning on about shareholder expectations and profit-loss.
A stare burns the nape of my neck and I know it can only belong to one man. As I reach the door, he interrupts the suit’s monologue without so much as an apology.
“Penelope.”
My full name slides across the table and grazes my back. It makes me wince. Not just because the only person to ever call me by my full name was my father, often in a whiny, desperate tone when he wanted me to go to the liquor store to steal him another bottle of Jim Beam, but because it reminds me of hot Sambuca breath and silky threats and soft fingertips grazing my palm.
For some pathetic reason, I can’t bring myself to turn around, so I glare at the grain of the wood door instead. “Yes?”
The click of a pen. The groan of a leather chair reclining. “My office, ten minutes before the start of service.”
Please. The absence of the word echoes around the hollow chamber within my rib cage and forms a knot of irritation. I can’t help but think I should have spat in his fancy French shampoo.
But, in the spirit of second chances and going straight, I simply square my shoulders and force a nod.
“Yes, sir.”
As I stroll out to the hallway, I glance over my shoulder through the narrowing gap in the door. A dent in his perfect brow, a tick of his square jaw. A spark in his pitch-black gaze as it caresses the backs of my thighs.
Another break in his facade and another notch of victory on my belt.