The nephew of my fiancé is privy to every transgression I’ve ever committed, poised to become the most profound and shadowed among them.
I am Rory Carter, a perpetrator of wrongdoing. Beneath this seemingly angelic exterior lies a scorched soul, and I often question whether my weekly confessions to the Sinners Anonymous hotline will suffice to mend it.
The sole act of benevolence in my repertoire is marrying the septuagenarian head of the Cosa Nostra to rescue my father. Despite the fake smiles and snug dresses that cloak my burning bitterness, I manage to hold it all together. That is, until the uninvited arrival of my fiancé’s nephew for dinner.
Angelo ‘Vicious’ Visconti, a striking monster with razor-sharp cheekbones and an equally cutting tongue. They claim I need not fear him because, nine years ago, he embraced a lawful path, barely retaining his status as a Made Man. However, I assert that he is the most perilous Visconti of them all.
It’s not merely due to the way his cold sneer induces a flutter in my pulse or the manner in which his velvety drawl cascades down my spine. No, it’s because he cradles all my sins in his sizable, calloused hands, and the only sins darker than mine are the ones he harbors himself.
