September 22, 1944

Angelo Salvatore.

That’s whose house we’re currently pulling up to. I sit next to my husband, tossing glares his way every few moments while Frank sits in the back, having already attempted and failed to make light conversation. Not even the war ending could slice the tension in the car.

I know that my husband has been lying to me. All those unanswered questions clicked into place like puzzle pieces.

His recent influx of money and subsequent lack of debt, and how at times, he’d come home roughed up after gambling, paranoid and consistently checking over his shoulder, even in the safety of our home.

Now that we’re being invited as guests to a party hosted by the biggest mob boss, I realize that he’s been involved with the Mafia longer than I could have imagined. And the worst part is, I know he’ll continue to lie, even when I demand the truth.

If I had the grit, I would strangle my stupid, stupid husband.

We cruise up a circular drive with an exorbitant fountain in the middle featuring baby elephants carved out of stone, their trunks serving as the water spouts. At the front of the house, a valet awaits wearing an all-black suit.

Flicking one last glare John’s way, I allow the valet to open my door and help me out of the vehicle, his face carefully blank and his stare pinned above my head.

John and Frank flank me moments later as the valet driver hands John a ticket. Then he takes off with our car, disappearing with my only form of escape.

A rock forms in my throat as I stare at the monumental Georgianrevival mansion before us. Erected on either side of the walkway leading to the entrance are intricate twin statues of Saint John. Beyond the open front door, a grandiose chandelier glistens, exhibiting just how much money the Salvatores possess.

John holds out his crooked elbow, and begrudgingly, I accept it. Gossip spreads like wildfire in Seattle, and I’m sure there will be plenty of wives with scrutinizing eyes in attendance who will instantly pick up on the tension between John and me. It’s my duty to ensure that doesn’t happen, even if I’m tempted to stick out a foot and trip the damn man.

Folks come and go from the entrance, some of them smoking cigarettes and loitering about. Others stand in small groups, sharing stories with animated hands and laughing loudly while they sip champagne.

Uncharacteristically, it’s a beautiful September night. Not only has the rain held off for once but the air is warm and the breeze gentle, attracting many of the partygoers outside to enjoy the weather.

John leads me through the front door, where we’re greeted by a butler holding a tray of champagne flutes.

The three of us accept one before wandering farther into the oval foyer, taking in the beautiful Rococo ornamentation etched into the walls and leading up to a plafond dome. Intricate gilded edges surround a painting depicting a scene from a Roman myth.

White marble floors extend straight down a wide walkway, illuminated by several more chandeliers. To the left is a sweeping wooden staircase leading up to a balcony that overlooks the foyer.

I swallow, hesitant to take another step. The detail that went into crafting this house is intimidating, to say the least. I’m terrified to touch a single thing in case I ruin or break it.

“Do you think he’s got a Bentley?” John wonders aloud.

Frank snorts. “I would bet good money he’s a Rolls-Royce type of fella.”

The thought of that alone is incredible. Before John’s gambling habits, he dreamed about owning a luxurious car. Now, he’s ensured it will always remain just that—a dream.

John and Frank appear just as taken with the decadent interior, slowly herding me along as we wander deeper into the house, following other attendees into the great hall.

It’s just as opulent, with high ceilings, more glistening chandeliers, warm orange walls, and the familiar Rococo architecture.

In the middle of the room gather several couples, swinging each other around as they dance to the Glenn Miller Orchestra. On the outskirts are several tables covered in white tablecloths and littered with whiskey glasses, champagne flutes, and ashtrays.

The room is robust with chatter and laughter as if we’re not in the middle of a brutal war, and certainly as if we’re not in the home of the leader of the largest crime syndicate in Seattle. Not only the largest but the most dangerous.

“Remind me how you received this invitation?” I ask, forcing myself to take a sip of the bubbly liquid before I do something worse like vomit.

“I helped the Salvatores with a little bookkeeping, that’s all,” he responds flippantly. If it’s not a lie, it’s a gross understatement of the truth.

I drag my gaze to Frank, who is staring at the scene with his lips flattened into a firm line. I’m confident that he’s privy to John’s involvement with Angelo Salvatore, but Frank has always tried to protect me from harsh realities, despite my insistence that I can handle them. I’m not a delicate woman, yet he refuses to treat me any differently.

Now, I regard him with scrutiny. If he knows John is working with Angelo, shouldn’t he arrest my husband? How could he possibly be okay with it—he works for law enforcement, for God’s sake!

Unless . . . he works with Angelo, too.

“You’re a homicide detective. How are you even allowed to be here? Are you okay with this? Shouldn’t you be arresting every one of these people right now?” I whisper heatedly.

“It’s not that simple, Gigi,” he mumbles tightly. “But as a matter of fact, no, I’m not okay with this. Angelo is very aware of who I am and only cleared me to join the party alongside John on strict instruction that I’m off the record and cannot use anything I see here against them.”

I hum, unconvinced that he’s not involved with the Mafia. Even still, walking into a den of wolves as the hunter attempting to kill them doesn’t seem very . . . safe. “They’re not going to shoot you, right?”

He sighs and mutters contritely, “If they do, make sure they shoot John, too.”

Well, now. That’s not very reassuring.

He sighs and grabs my elbow, leading me several feet away until we’re out of hearing distance from my husband. John glances at us, and Frank gives him a stern look, silently relaying something to him that I can’t interpret. John apparently can and turns back toward the party stiffly.

“Look, Gigi, I don’t want to be here any more than you do,” Frank begins, a pleading look in his gaze. I refrain from rolling my eyes, convinced he’s going to wax on about how John really does love me, and I just need to give him a chance. The last thing I need to hear is all the reasons why I should forgive his lying best friend. “So, leave with me.”

I blink, sure that I didn’t hear him right. “Leave?”

“It is John who is required to make an appearance tonight, not us. I can make up some excuse that you’re not feeling well, and I will take you home.”

I shift as something uncomfortable and disconcerting unfurls in the pit of my stomach.

“And leave him here alone in a pit with dozens of mobsters?” I ask incredulously, keeping my voice low. I glance around, double-checking that no one is listening.

Lord knows what would happen if one of them heard me refer to them as such.

“He’s been around these men for months gambling. I think he can handle a party, Gigi,” he says, scoffing with condescension.

My brow furrows, and I stare at him with bewilderment, at a loss for what to even say.

“I’ll stay with you until he comes home,” he continues, his eyes sparkling. “Mark is sleeping, and Ruth is expecting me to stay out late tonight anyway. We can relax, open a bottle of wine, and listen to some tunes until John is finished here.”

My mouth flops open, attempting to process that.

Ruth is his wife, and Mark is their eight-year-old son. Mark has spent many summers and weekends over the years at our house, even with his being six years younger than Sera. He’s quite the handful and has a bit of a temper. He’s gotten violent a few times, which has caused Frank and Ruth a lot of stress. They both have differing opinions on how to correct his behavior. However, Mark has always been attached to Sera, and she seems to keep him calm, so we’ve never had an issue with the two of them. Though it’s something I’ve watched carefully as Mark’s tantrums have worsened with age.

So, I suppose I can understand why Frank wants to continue to enjoy his night away. He and his wife rarely see eye to eye these days. Yet I can’t help but feel strange about his request.

“I don’t know, Frank. I think it would be best if I stay here. I would be a nervous wreck otherwise.”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, what looks like fury passes over his eyes. Just as quickly, it’s gone, and he offers me a defeated smile and a nod.

“Of course, I understand. Let’s get back to the party, then, shall we?”

Inhaling deeply, I attempt to shove away the unsettled feeling clinging to my gut, forcing a grin and marching toward my lying husband.

“Would you care to dance?” I ask. I’m still angry with him, but I feel the need to separate myself from Frank for a bit, and a dance is the only way to do so.

“I’m afraid I must interrupt,” a deep voice cuts in from behind us.

Startled, I turn around, finding none other than Angelo Salvatore before me.

Except it’s not the sight of him that makes my heart stop in its tracks.

It’s the man standing beside him, and though I keep silent, my lips mouth the question anyway.

Ronaldo?

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