Sinners Condemned : An Enemies to Lovers Mafia Romance (Sinners Anonymous Book 2)
Sinners Condemned : Chapter 31

“YOU TOLD ME YOU were going straight, Little P.”

Nico’s voice touches my back from the other side of the bar and I sigh into the cocktail shaker. Last night, as I scurried through the cave bar trying to make the most of Raphael’s phony ten-second head start, I caught Nico’s eye from the poker table. He looked at me, then to his cousin and back again, and by the spark of annoyance in his gaze, I knew this conversation was imminent.

“I’m as straight as a ruler these days.”

“There’s nothing straight about teaching Rory how to card count.”

I brave looking at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, hoping my angelic smile will soften his edges.

It doesn’t.

“And you better have kept my name out of it.”

Now that’s a promise I won’t break. “C’mon, Nico. That’s a given.”

Ignoring the heat of his eyes on me, I pour rum, sugar syrup, and mint over ice, glancing at the recipe I’ve written on the inside of my wrist to make sure I don’t fuck it up. Turning around with the cocktail shaker in hand, I try my angelic smile on Nico again. You know; just in case he didn’t see it the first time. “Fancy being a guinea pig for my first-ever mojito? It’s on the house.”

He stares at me. “I’m a Visconti. Everything’s on the house.”

“Christ, how this yacht makes any money I’ll never—”

“Listen.” Nico cuts me off, leaning his forearms on the bar to close the gap between us. “Rafe gave you this job as a favor to me, and after last night’s stunt, you’re lucky to still be employed today. I know all you girls think Rafe is this…”

He strums his inked fingers on the bar, summoning the word.

If he says gentleman, I swear I’ll—

“Gentleman.”

Sigh.

“But just because he’s nice and smiles a lot, don’t be fooled. He’s still…” More strumming. “He’s still Raphael Visconti.”

I haven’t been entirely untruthful. For the most part, I have gone straight. Lifting Blake’s wallet aside, the only man I’ve played games with since returning to the Coast has been Raphael. Hell, every interaction we have is a game. Every time he’s near me, I feel like I’m standing beside a roulette wheel, eyes closed, about to bet my entire soul on black.

My eyes dart toward the door of the casino, like they have done every two minutes for the past hour. I woke up this afternoon in a state of delirium, high off having Raphael’s hands in my panties and his damning confession in my ear.

Fuck Martin O’Hare and his disgusting brother; Raphael admitting he’s superstitious has been all I can think about. And not only is he superstitious, he thinks I’m bad luck. Me. The girl with the necklace and a history of making it out of sure-fire deaths alive.

And fuck, if I’m not going to use that to my advantage in all games going forward.

Well, that was my plan, until Raphael strolled through the casino door, took one look at my shit-eating grin, and ordered a vodka. Now, I’m not feeling so smug.

A slimy drawl pulls my attention away from liquor-fueled kisses and million-dollar bets. “If Rafe fires you, you can always come and work for me, baby.”

Benny. He slides up to Nico’s side and delivers his sleazy line to my chest.

I slam down the cocktail shaker and glare at him. “What tit are you offering a job to, Benny? Left or right?”

His gaze skims up to mine, mischief accompanied by a lop-sided grin. “Two for the price of one. What’d you say?”

Nico mutters something under his breath and turns to his cellphone.

“You know every drink you order off me tonight will be spat in, don’t you?” I snap back.

He licks his lips. Winks. “Adds to the flavor.”

Jesus.

I’ve never liked Benny. Even when we were kids, he was always just Nico’s asshole older brother. Always fighting, always disappearing into rooms at the Visconti Grand with various girls. I doubt he’s got more than three brain cells rattling around in that head. It’s probably too full of boobs, brawls, and bets.

Just before he opens his mouth to add another layer of sleaze to the conversation, a hand smacks him upside the head. Laurie materializes behind him, an annoyed expression on her face. “Stop harassing my staff, Benedicto.”

“Fuck me again and I’ll think about it.” His eyes trail her ass as she moves toward the stockroom.

“Last time I fucked you, I had to change my number because you wouldn’t stop blowing up my phone,” she throws over her shoulder.

I burst out laughing and Benny’s hard gaze comes to me. “That’s not true,” he grunts, sliding off the bar stool. “Cazzo…”

He storms off after Laurie and I turn my attention back to Nico. “Your brother is a dick.”

“He has his moments.” He produces a wallet from his pocket. Immediately, I know it’s not his, because the initials BV glint in gold under the recessed lights. “Here.” He flips it open and tugs out a sheaf of bills. “Call it compensation.”

I tut, but slide the money into my bra regardless. “You’re a bad influence, Nico.”

“Do as I say, not as I do, Little P,” he retorts, a twinkle in his storm-gray eyes. “Seriously, though. I know you said you didn’t want to work in Hollow, but if you do get fired, I’ve got the perfect job for you.”

“I won’t bullshit you. I’m very bad at bar work.” I flash him the recipe scrawled on my wrist in smudged ink. “See?”

“I can tell by the color of that mojito. They aren’t meant to be brown; you know?” He slips off the stool and raps a knuckle against the bar. “It’s something I think you’ll replace a lot more interesting than hospitality.” He glances at his cell in his hand. “I’ll see you at the staff Christmas party all right? We can discuss more then.”

With a lazy wave over his shoulder, he puts his phone to his ear and disappears into the next room.

I chew over his words. What the hell could I possibly do in Hollow that isn’t hospitality? The whole town is one big cave full of poker games and parties. The posh academy is there too, obviously, but I didn’t even finish school myself, so I doubt I could work in one.

Before I can put too much weight to it, the bar phone rings. Absent-mindedly, I lift the receiver and tuck it between my ear and shoulder.

“Yes?”

Raphael’s velvet drawl trickles down the line and caresses my cheek. “Ah, just the little arsonist I was looking for.”

My heart forgoes its next beat, and I clutch the receiver in an attempt to remain nonchalant. “Another vodka to your office, boss?” I say sweetly. “Or some sage to ward away the bad spirits?”

A huff of amusement crackles down the line. “No, Penelope. Just yourself.”

Click.

Stomach clenching, I stare at the mouthpiece, before putting it back on the hook with a defeated sigh.

Raphael wants to see me in his office? This can’t be good.

The unrelenting storm rocks the cream hallways and rain taps on the portholes like fingers desperate for my attention. Each room I cut through grows quieter in sound and louder with nervous expectation.

Outside Raphael’s office door, I take a steadying breath and knock. No answer. I knock again with a little more flair, but the silence is unwavering.

Growing irritated, I shove my shoulder against the door and immediately regret my haste. The air feels different in here. Too cool for comfort; too silent for peace. From his leather chair behind his desk, Raphael’s presence seeps from his perfect pores and winds around my neck and wrists like silk-clad chains.

Self-preservation makes me grip the door.

The imaginary hiss of a roulette table and the click-clack of dice make me kick it shut with the heel of my bare foot.

“You wanted to see me, boss?”

Lit only by the fragmented moonlight fighting its way through the rain-stained glass, the hard lines of Raphael’s silhouette are motionless. Only his gaze moves as it slides up from the golden poker chip in his hand to my face. It’s ink black. Immoral. Suddenly, the silence has a heat to it, eating through the frosty air and blistering my skin.

I curl my toes into the plush carpet to keep myself from folding.

“Would you like to play a game with me, Penelope?”

A game?

“What game?”

“Heads or tails. The classics are always the best, aren’t they?”

His eyes flash with wicked amusement, while mine fight to convey indifference.

I move one step forward, closing the gap between me and danger. “And the wager?”

My gaze tracks his hand as it reaches for the crystal tumbler on the desk. Both the clear liquid and the face of his wristwatch glint as he takes a sip. “You win, I kiss you. I win, you kiss me.”

My mind dislikes the idea with a passion. With a one-in-two odds and a million dollars of non-existent money on the line, I’d be an idiot to agree, no matter how hot the pendant around my neck sizzles.

My body, on the other hand…

The space between my thighs beats with the idea of having his lips against mine. My mouth waters with the thrill of taking such a risky gamble.

With a reckless haze sweeping through my bones and spurring me on, I place my hands on his desk and lean over it.

“What’s the catch?”

His stare is hot and unapologetic as it tracks the curve of my throat and settles on my necklace. “No catch.”

“Then tails never fails, baby.”

It’s out my mouth and wading through the thick air between us before I can stop it.

He continues to stare at my necklace, a slow, devilish smirk stretching across his lips. Those dimples deepen with mischief and something uncouth.

My heart beats on the double as he pulls a penny from his slacks. Blood swooshes in my ears as he balances it on the back of his thumb.

He looks at me quickly, and when he flicks, I feel it against my clit.

Everything slows except my pulse. One revolution. Two revolutions. Three. I can count every spin of the coin as it falls to the desk.

The clattering of copper against wood is deafening.

It lands between the glass tumbler and a paperweight. Holding my breath, I lean over and look at it. Raphael doesn’t bother, he only leans back in his chair, runs two fingers over his lips, and studies me for my reaction.

Tails.

The cocktail of excitement and relief floods through me so violently it buckles my knees and buzzes in my fingertips.

Laughing maniacally, I push off the desk and stroll around the office like I own it. I don’t know what I’m high off of; the thought of becoming a mushroom millionaire, or discovering what Raphael’s tongue tastes like.

Hell, who am I kidding?

“A million dollars. Whew. Maybe I’ll buy a yacht of my own, anchor it right over there—” I gesture to the pitch-black ocean beyond the window “—and point a laser beam into your office every time you’re trying to work.” My hand glides down the silky curtain. “Or I’ll buy up every collar pin in the world, so you have to go back to wearing boring old ties.”

I turn around and meet Raphael’s gaze. He’s watching me with a hint of amusement, turning his chair to follow me as I prance around his dimly lit office.

“Where do you want to kiss me, then? I suppose we could do it upstairs in the casino so everyone knows you’re a massive loser. Or…” I turn back to the French doors and press my hand up against the rain-streaked glass. Let out a dramatic sigh. “We could do it out in the rain. You know, like the scene in The Notebook?”

“Never seen it.”

“Christ, then you’ve never lived.” I turn around again, expectancy written over my face. “Well?”

He digs his heel into the carpet and rolls his chair a few feet away from his desk. His hand thumps the edge of it twice. “Up here.”

“What?”

He cocks his head, the punchline to his joke burning bright behind his eyes. “Do I look like the type of man that gets on his knees, Penelope?”

“I-I don’t understand.”

He regards me for a few beats, as if drinking in my confusion to quench his own enjoyment. Then he feigns a look of surprise.

“You didn’t think I was going to kiss you on your lips, did you?” He shakes his head while he unbuttons his cuffs. “Why, that’d mean I owed you a million dollars.”

My ears ring, then the realization settles like dust on my skin, cooling the fire beneath it. My limbs grow heavy, and my brain fogs.

“You said you’d kiss me,” I whisper, too numb to care how whiny my tone is.

“And I will.”

“B-but, you said there was no catch.”

He frowns. “There isn’t a catch. I said, if you win, I kiss you, and if I win, you kiss me.” A sinful glint heats his eyes. “I didn’t say where.”

Heart palpitating, I step back and press my shoulder blades against the glass. The condensation does little to cool my blood or bring a rational argument to my brain. Surely, he doesn’t mean…down there? My gaze slides up and clashes with Raphael’s, and we enter a new battle—one of wills.

I stare at him.

He stares at me.

Since I stepped on this Coast and stomped down those stairs, Raphael and I have been playing a game of chess. Both of us play dirty, and neither of us likes to lose. Now, I’ve found myself alone on the board without so much as a fucking pawn to protect me.

What options do I have? I either walk over to his desk or I walk out the door. And if I choose the latter, not only will the defeat eat me up from the inside out, but this arrogant asshole wins twice over.

So, I take the six steps over to Raphael’s desk. His eyes darken to something more sinister as they track my movements. I wonder if he thought I’d choose the door instead of calling his bluff?

As my ass slides over the edge of his desk, a rush of nerves scrape through me, settling into a wet heat between my thighs. My breaths are louder than the storm beating on the windows, and with every tense second that drips by, they grow more ragged.

Raphael, on the other hand, is the dictionary definition of cool. He leans back, brings his vodka glass to his lips, and clinically assesses the sight in front of him over its rim. Finally, he sets the drink next to my right thigh, the cold glass singeing me through my work pants.

He licks his lips. Meets my defiant stare. Then, with a sigh that suggests following through with this bet is as exciting as filing his taxes, he leans forward.

My vision dims as he runs his flat palms up the fronts of my thighs and comes to a stop at my hips. He hooks two index fingers into my waistband, pinching my pants and the band of my thong together. He paints on a charity fundraiser-worthy smile that’s at odds with the sinner that lives behind his eyes.

“May I?”

It’s not a question. Not really. If it were, he would have waited for a response before roughly tugging off my bottoms. They slide down my legs like butter, but only because the shock of it made me throw my palms behind me and arch my back.

Raphael takes his time sliding my pants over my feet. He’s still and expressionless as he untangles my thong from the fabric and holds it between his thumb and forefinger in the space between us. My pulse flickers at the sight of him holding the scrap of lace. Like he’s just had the inconvenience of replaceing it in his dry cleaning.

He rakes an eye over the thong. Swallows. “This is highly inappropriate for work, Penelope.”

The tautness in his tone only makes my skin burn hotter.

In silence, he straightens my pants. Folds them in half on his lap and half again, then drapes them over the edge of the desk beside me. Then, he starts to do the same with my thong. Every slow, silky movement he makes is another second of torture endured. It’s as if he’s avoiding the inevitable, either as a punishment to me or to himself.

The anticipation is making me dizzy, and I can’t stand another second of it.

Dropping back to my elbows, I part my thighs. Through a half-lidded gaze, I watch as Raphael stills. He doesn’t look up from my work pants, and the delicate fabric of my thong disappears inside his fist.

Eventually, without moving his head, he slides his gaze between my legs. His eyes darken and he runs a hand down his throat.

“You’re…” his jaw ticks. “Natural.”

Despite the maddening lust crackling in my lower core, annoyance fills me. I keep it well maintained down there, but there’s definitely no baldness going on. I don’t know how he didn’t realize when he was fingering me in the shadows of Whiskey Under the Rocks.

“Not quite. Problem?”

He lets out a soft, bitter laugh, like he thinks I’m a fucking idiot.

“I’m not one of the little boys you’re used to fucking, Penelope.”

Well, I’ve only fucked two boys, neither of which did this. The reminder of how much older he is than me is intimidating, and my thighs twitch to clamp shut.

He clears his throat and rolls his chair so he’s between my legs. The sleeves of his suit jacket graze against my inside seams, making the walls of my stomach tighten.

I’m burning up. Squirming under the intensity of his gaze, under the burden of the silence. I turn my attention to the ceiling in an attempt to slow my breathing.

When Raphael speaks, his hot breath tickling my clit makes my eyes damn near roll to the back of my head. He’s so fucking close.

“You’re wet already,” he says, tone void of emotion.

Jesus, what’s with all these observational statements? Is this another method of torture I haven’t heard about?

I grind my molars together and feign boredom. “I’m twenty-one; I’m always wet.”

A vodka-tinged hiss crackles against my clit. Christ. “Wet, for who, Penelope?”

I lap up the annoyance in his tone. After the dirty tactic he used to get me into this position, he should feel at least a fraction of my discomfort. “Any hot man that steps onto the boat.”

He mutters something in Italian under his breath, then grabs both my ankles and forces my feet up onto the desk, so my heels press into the backs of my thighs. The movement stuns me, slides my back half a foot up the wooden surface, and sends papers cascading to the floor.

I hope they were important.

Balling my fists against my sides, I squeeze my shoulder blades together and attempt to ride out the warm flush spreading across every inch of my skin. Down south, a cool breeze combined with hot breaths reminds me how exposed I am.

Without warning, his mouth clamps down on my clit, his tongue flattens over the bundle of nerves there, and he sucks.

Slowly. Sloppily. It’s a move so at odds with his silky image that it makes it ten times hotter. My blood burns so hot it turns to steam, sizzling through my body and contorting it in a way only lust can. My spine bends and my hips tilt. My throat opens to let out a strangled gasp.

And then he pulls away.

It’s instinct that fuels me to bolt upright and grab his hair to hold him in place. He tilts his chin, my juices glistening in the cleft of it, and meets my gaze with a crazed one of his own.

He licks his lips. “Yes?”

I glare at him, barely able to think over the thumping in my pussy. His breathing slows with every silent second and his eyes grow hotter with a challenge.

“Something you want to say, Penelope?” he rasps.

Yeah. I want to beg him not to stop. I want to beg him to toss that coin again and hope I win another round. But none of that will leave my lips without a gun pressed to my head. Because all of that requires begging. He’s already winning; I’m naked from the waist down on his desk, for Christ’s sake.

I need to level the playing field.

Maybe it’s the lust driving me insane, or maybe I’m bitter about him stealing two orgasms from me within the span of twenty-four hours, so I do what he did to me.

His gaze tracks my hand as I unwind it from his hair and slide it over my pubic bone. I cup my pussy. Realization slowly sweeps over his face, snuffing all the triumph out from behind his eyes. When I curl two fingers inside of myself, an embarrassing squelching sound bringing attention to my wetness, he grips the inside of my thigh and watches with fascination.

“Penelope…”

“You’re a bad man, Raphael,” I say, deepening my fingers in my entrance. “And you know what happens to bad men?”

His shoulders go rigid, and with a steadying breath, he reluctantly brings his eyes to mine. Recognizing his own words from last night, a demonic smirk creeps onto his lips.

He knows what’s coming.

He doesn’t push me away when I put my free hand on the base of his neck. Doesn’t jerk his head when I pull my two fingers from my pussy and slowly rub my juices over his bottom lip.

His groan is guttural, cooling my knuckles as I coat his mouth with my wetness. Christ, I’ll never be able to look in the mirror and attempt to convince myself I’m a lady ever again. It’s so animalistic. So depraved. Something only maddening lust and spite could drive someone to do.

“They never win,” I whisper.

With a flash of his citrine ring, he grabs my wrist, halting my movements as I trace his bottom lip again. He holds me there, then with a lazy, half-lidded stare, he watches me as he slides my fingers into his mouth, sucking all of my juices clean.

In my mindless state, I grind out a moan at the sight. He looks as depraved as I feel. Like the bespoke tailoring and the gold and the perfect haircut are no longer thick enough to hide the monster that lives within. Once he licks my fingers clean, he captures his bottom lip in his mouth and smooths down the front of his slacks.

“Go back to work, Penelope.”

While his face is expressionless, his tone sounds almost defeated. I think I won that game. Didn’t I?

Or maybe we’re both just losers.

Regardless, I don’t protest. If I don’t get out from the darkness of this office now, I fear I may never see the light again. Heart and clit thrumming to an off-kilter beat, I slide off the desk and pick up my pants.

My gaze drops to Raphael’s fist clenched against his thigh. The trim of my lace panties peeks out from the top of it.

“Can I…?”

His grip tightens. “No.” I flick my gaze up to his. “They’re mine now.”

Intoxication swirls through me, sweeping all sarcastic retorts away. Instead, I pull on my pants, sans my thong, knowing the dampness between my thighs will stay with me for the rest of my shift.

I move to the door on unsteady legs, willing myself not to look back, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle what I see sitting behind the desk.

Out in the light of the bridge, I let out a shaky exhale.

Behind me, the office door locks.

Twice.