Somme Sketcher

While the locals called us the Angel’s of Devil’s Dip, they didn’t know that we were the judge, jury, and executioners of this town too, and throughout our teens we buzzed with our secret power.

. Life is all about balance, Angelo. The good always cancels out the bad.

Hold the fuck on. You’re shitting me, right? You take down a lackey at Big Al’s Sunday lunch, follow it up with some bullshit excuse about the Russians, and you’re not going to tell us why?”
I huff out a lungful of stale air and drag a knuckle through my beard. Truth is, I don’t know why the fuck I did it. And the reason I think I did it is utterly fucking insane.
Her.

. He’s still standing in front of the altar, arms crossed over his chest.
“Dad wasn’t the hero you thought he was,” I say quietly.
He stays silent, his jaw as hard as steel.
“And Mama?”
I pull my collar up, dig my hands into my pockets and get ready for the fall chill.
“Mama was a fucking saint, and don’t you ever forget it.”

“I don’t smoke.”
My eyes shoot upward, locking on his. What? He was smoking up on the cliff; that’s how I knew he was there in the first place.
We stare at each other. His expression is disinterested as always, but behind his eyes something dark glitters. A challenge. Like he’s silently goading me to dispute his lie. I tilt my chin up and he cocks an eyebrow, as if to say, go on. I dare you.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but strangely, not in fear. It feels…exhilarating. The same adrenaline rush I got in Alberto’s office, when Angelo covered for me. A secret between enemies.

Before I can pluck up the courage to ask, he pushes off the hood and strolls to the passenger side. He holds the door open. “Get in.”

He hooks his thumbs onto the steering wheel and speeds up, taking the road out of the Visconti grounds with the speed and control of a Formula One driver.

“Perhaps I’m not as innocent as I look,” I snap back. Immediately, I regret my outburst. Darn it. Why can’t I just be relieved that he’s unaware of my obsession with the hotline? But the way he looks at me so condescendingly, like I’m a child, makes my skin itch with the desire to prove I’m not.
“Let me see. You’re a twenty-one year old virgin who swears using bird puns.

“Are you a bad girl, Aurora?”
I swallow. His eyes dance with dark amusement, but his tone is more sinister. Dripping with an insinuation that ignites a flame between my thighs.
“Sometimes.”

“What do you want from me?”
“A sin.”
I blink. “W-what?”
“Tell me a sin, Aurora,” he drawls. His tone drips in syrup, thick enough to drown in. I briefly close my eyes from the twisted pleasure of it.