She understood me? “It is code.”
“But not the code, right?”
I couched my words, hoping she’d understand the situation better. “Your grandfather?”
Her jaw worked sideways. “What about him?”
I closed my eyes, hoping I would be wrong. “He was an accountant, no?”
My peek at her was brief. She’d pinched her lips together so tightly, they turned white.
I continued. “His clients were…”
“Criminals,” she supplied.
Damn it. “But you understand code and the code?” I let go of her hand.
She twisted at the ring I’d slipped on her left hand. “Is this your family crest?”
I nodded once.
Her face shifted as she stared at her finger. “You know, most mob wives get a honking diamond.”
The sarcasm in her tone spoke louder than words. I brushed her hand with mine. “But their queens do not.” I dropped my hand and gave her silent permission to ruin my life. What remained of it.
6
Allie
When Mario said we were landing in the fashion capital of the world, I thought he meant it figuratively, like the country or vicinity, not the fucking city.
Milan.
It was everything I’d imagined, and nothing like I’d dreamed. Except maybe in nightmares. We’d left in darkness and landed in darkness. It threw me off completely. An entire day crossed over and measured in fever checks and lies.
The skyline zipped by in smears of neon and incandescent lights as a bruiser of a man named Loppa drove us to a charming period building within walking distance of the town center and tucked into a residential neighborhood so palatial, it might as well have armed gates at the end of each block.
As I helped Mario from the car, Loppa snatched him away without a word. The excuse we gave the flight crew for Mario’s imbalance was that he was drunk. The two bottles of wine I’d snagged from the custom wine cabinet at the front of the plane were the supposed culprit for his inability to walk without assistance. In reality, his fever was so high, I was afraid he’d fall down the stairs without someone to hold him upright.
We hadn’t drank a drop of the expensive liquid.
And I kept up the facade of “happy wife.” Although, deep inside I fumed at every delay, question, or judgmental inspection.
When we finally exited a severely slow elevator, I directed Loppa to deposit Mario on the deep blue, artistic sofa directly inside. “Where is this Zio Tommaso?” I asked.
A distinguished man stepped into the lit room. His hair was completely gray, but he carried himself with such poise and authority, I immediately changed my tone. “Hello, are you Zi?—”
He held up a hand. In rapid-fire Italian he addressed Mario.
My…husband replied in weary tones. His face was pale despite his natural coloring. I sat down beside him to hold his hand, and potentially catch him should he fall over. That became more likely as the questions wore on.
Loppa discreetly studied the terrace and the city skyline while Mario drooped further.
Finally, Mario said something in English that I understood. “This is Allie, my wife.”
The bastard interrogating him said something crude, or at least his tone inferred it. I studied Mario’s expression to gauge whether I should be insulted or not.
There was a big wall of nothing there. It was so emotionless, it held a power of its very own. He closed his eyes briefly as the man wound down his tirade. “Allie, this is my father. You spoke with him on the phone.”
