Devoted to the Don

Leighton Greene

This is a work of fiction.

Product names, logos, brands, and other trademarks referred to herein are the property of their respective trademark holders. All trademarks remain the property of their respective holders.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

© 2021 Leighton Greene. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.

Cover Design: Cosmic Letterz

This book, and the series as a whole, would not have been possible without my own consiglieri:

Alexa S. and Scarlett P.

For all your help and support—thank you!

Devoted to the Don

Luca thought keeping me out of the Family business would keep me safe.

He was wrong.

Now his own life is hanging in the balance, too.

While our enemies stalk us, long-buried secrets begin to resurface, and I’m not sure who we can trust.

But I won’t let anyone take him from me. No matter what I have to do.

I meant every promise I made to Luca in my marriage vows. And now it’s time to make good on them -- for better or worse.

Till death do us part? Over my dead body.

I’ve been underestimated my whole life. But if there’s one thing our enemies should have counted on, it’s my love for my husband.

My devotion to the Don.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Epilogue

Next: His Lethal Desire

Dear darkly devoted reader…

Also by the Author

About the Author

This is our big mistake: to think we look forward to death. Most of death is already gone. Whatever time has passed is owned by death.

Seneca

Prologue

FINCH

I’m sitting in the most non-denominational hospital chapel I’ve ever seen, my best friend next to me praying harder than I’ve ever heard him, while some surgeon cuts into my husband, and the only thought in my head is how foolish I was to spend my life teasing Death.

Before I met the man of my dreams, I lived most of my days trying to find my way into Death’s arms. Death was my closest friend, my companion, the comfort that followed me around as I lived large, trying to find the right accident to step in front of.

And then one day, Luca D’Amato stepped in front of me.

Today, he stepped in front of Death. For me.

I’m not religious. I’m not particularly superstitious, even. But I still can’t shake the feeling that tonight is the result of all that flaunting and flirting with Death that I did in my younger years. That Death hung around, even when I rejected him. That he’s been stalking me like a crazy ex who just can’t let go, and now—

Now Death is looking to claim the person who means more to me than anyone else.

Aidan is praying. My sister in Boston, I’ve been told, is praying. All the Morellis, they’re all praying. I just sit, and I look at the flower arrangement at the front of the chapel, and I wait, because I know the one making the final decision tonight isn’t some God.

It’s Death.

Chapter One

FINCH

I don’t know how much time passes, how often I have to come out and deliver more no-news news to the waiting Morellis and ignore the waiting cops, but eventually the surgeon comes to speak with me. She looks pleased—with herself more than the outcome, I think, and when she speaks, she confirms it.

“Your husband is a lucky man. Most of the gunshots missed anything vital. There was one bleed that was quite tricky at first, and will take some time to heal. However, our main concern now is the head injury.”

“They shot him in the head?” The room goes out of focus for a moment.

“No,” the surgeon says, and puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “This injury was from a blow to the head, or perhaps a fall. It’s caused some swelling of the brain, but that should reduce with time to heal. Since he’s hemodynamically unstable, we have him in an induced coma anyway while he’s on the ventilator.”

“But—he’s going to live?”

“Yes, he’s going to live,” the surgeon says, as though it were a foregone conclusion. As though she hadn’t even noticed Death slipping into the operating theater behind her, hitching a ride on her coattails.

“When can I see him?” I ask.

* * *

It took a lot of hours and a lot of pointing out how much money Luca and I have given to the hospital before they let me in to see him in the ICU. Carlo Bianchi and Aidan O’Leary did most of the heavy lifting in those negotiations, and I was grateful to them, because I could barely speak.

And when they finally let me into that blank little room to see Luca, just for a few moments, I almost walked straight back out again and told them they’d made a mistake. I just couldn’t believe it was him, covered in tubes and masks, lying more still than he ever has in his life.

Now, even a few days later, when Luca has been moved into a private recovery ward and I can stay with him all day and night, I still get the urge to argue with the staff sometimes.

This is not my husband lying here in this bed.

Luca has always been paler than me, but never this colorless. He’s disappearing into the sheets except for the spill of black hair across the pillow. But more than that, the man in this bed looks fragile.

Empty.

He looks so empty that every hour I’m terrified he’ll just…let go. So I’ve been cradling his hand in my own, anxious that I’ll only hurt him more, but I have to keep him here. Anchor him to the living.

The ventilator has been removed, along with the drugs that kept him comatose. But Luca still has not woken up.

They’ve told me it’s just a waiting game now—that Luca will wake when he’s ready. I’m so terrified he just won’t wake up at all that I can’t even ask if that’s a possibility, if he just…won’t ever open those blue eyes again. Sure, that surgeon said he’d be okay. But he doesn’t look okay. He doesn’t feel okay.

And I think so much about Connie Taylor—who was in this same damn room they’ve put Luca in, to allow for bodyguards out the front and all the Morelli comings and goings—and how Connie never made it out of here alive.

My God, I hate hospitals.

Luca’s hand is neither cold nor warm, but his skin feels dry, and his fingers always just lie there in mine. Before now he always held my hand tight, sometimes too tight, but always secure, even when we were asleep.

I squeeze his fingers hard. “I’m here,” I rasp. It’s the same thing I’ve been telling him every hour. It’s the only thing I can say without choking on my own tears. I can’t go anywhere near what I really want to say to him. If I do, I’ll totally lose it.

So I sit and I hold his hand.

And I replay, over and over again, the events that brought us here. But none of those things that happened is a root cause for Luca’s lying here, bandaged, with tubes running into and out of him.

No.

The root cause for this is me.

* * *

Some hours here in the hospital seem to drag. Some fly past. I only leave the room when I absolutely have to and I don’t know how long it’s been since the attack.

The nurses are letting me use the shower in Luca’s room, and after I napped in the chair in the corner more than once, I heard Aidan talking to someone about setting up a camp bed for me. It’s against policy for me to be staying here with Luca like I’m doing, but the camp bed appeared. Either the hospital staff knew better than to try to keep me out, or Aidan or Carlo Bianchi or someone has laid it out for them, nice and simple.

And I know it must be Carlo keeping the cops off my ass, too. During Luca’s operation I gave a brief, uninformative statement to a woman who identified herself as Detective Gina Garcia, but since then, I haven’t had to face law enforcement.

Every day there are Morelli guards near the door. From what I’ve overheard, the Clemenza Family is making moves on Morelli territory. Meanwhile, the Feds want to close in on Luca and charge him with anything they think might stick. So I don’t even know what’s going to happen if Luca wakes up.

When he wakes up.

I won’t let myself think anything else.

Chapter Two

FINCH

I’m woken from my doze next to Luca’s bed by the door opening. I’m already on edge, so every time someone comes into the room, I know it. My head jerks up, whipping around on my neck as I scope the room.

“Howie,” says a gentle voice. “I’m so sorry.” And then I’m enveloped in soft arms, a hug very unlike all the hard, squeezing hugs I’ve been getting from the Morellis, and my mouth is full of my sister’s long red hair. But I don’t care; I hug her right back and let her rub between my shoulder blades with a soothing, almost maternal rhythm.

“What are you doing here?” I sniffle when Tara lets me go, and I stretch up from the chair I’ve been hunched in, my back complaining.

“I’m your sister. Where else would I be?” She takes hold of my hand, looking down at Luca. Her other hand comes up to her throat, and she takes a shaky breath. “Oh, Howie,” she says at last. “I’m so sorry. Is it true that the attack came from the Irish Freedom Fighters?”

I nod, with nothing to add. The IFF, a terrorist group, has only recently taken exception to Luca and to me. But the Donovan Family has been dealing with them for a very long time.

Tara swallows. “Will Luca—I mean, what do the doctors say?”

“They say he’ll be okay. But when I look at him lying there, I don’t…I don’t know if I believe them.” My voice breaks for a moment, and I tug my hand away from Tara’s, go over to pour out a glass of water from the side of the room, get myself the fuck together. “You want water?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she says. She reaches out, her fingers hovering above Luca’s hand, then receding.

“You can touch him,” I offer over my shoulder. I’m so tired I have to concentrate on getting water from the jug into the paper cup. “God knows I do. I’ve been holding his hand so damn tight I think I cut off circulation.”

She sits in the uncomfortable chair I vacated and slides her fingers into his. “Hi, Luca,” she says to him. “I’m sorry to see you so…unwell.” There’s a pause before the last word, and it makes me give a cynical smile.

I’m sorry to see you so full of bullet holes just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I come back, chewing on the rim of the paper cup rather than drinking the water, and look down at my husband. “He’s a tough son of a bitch,” I say, echoing what I’ve heard more than one Morelli man say outside in the hallways. “He’ll pull through.”

“Of course he will,” Tara says, and gives me her lovely smile. “But Howie—what about you? How are you? You had a terrible time of it yourself.”

We’re interrupted about twenty minutes later by a signal knock on the door, a specific pattern, and Tara looks over my shoulder with sharp eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s Conor. I’ll just see what he wants.”

“Conor’s here too?”

“Yes, along with my security detail. Since the attack on you and Luca, Conor’s insisted on extra protection. He wouldn’t let me come to New York without it.”

“Oh.” Extra protection. For a moment I wonder if extra protection would have made any difference to me and Luca. Probably not. Probably just more dead and damaged men.

The door opens, but this time it’s Aidan, his glasses appearing around the side of the door. “Hi, Tara,” he squeaks. “Finch—I thought maybe you need a ten-minute walk or something? I can sit with Luca if you like.”

“I’ll come say hello to your people,” I tell Tara, although the last thing I want to do is leave Luca here. But I still feel stiff all over, my head heavy and dull. Getting out of the room, even if just for a few minutes, will wake me up.

Outside and a little way down the hall there seems to be a Heavies Convention going on. The combined presence of the Morelli and Donovan bodyguards has not gone unnoticed by the hospital staff, although when they see me joining them, the tension lowers a little. I give Darla the nurse a nod at her questioning glance, and although she still frowns at the men, she gives me a nod back. Guess she won’t call in security just yet.

“These guys claim they’re with your sister, Mr. D,” Bobby Tramonto tells me as soon as I arrive in hearing distance. His voice is gruff. Suspicious. All the Morellis are moving in front of me, squaring off against the Donovans.

“They are,” I say, but it doesn’t stop them milling around me. “Okay, you all need to stop hanging around in a group like this,” I add. “You’re freaking the staff out.”

Teo Vitali appears at the entrance to the ward, looking like a man on a mission.

“Go on, now,” he says when he arrives at the group of us. “Back to your posts. I checked it out; we’re okay.” He gives an up-nod to Conor, who gives one back, while the Morellis disperse—two to guard Luca’s door, two more to skulk separately in reception, and I know there are more of them throughout the rest of the hospital, too.

Teo stays with me. I figure he must be waiting for Aidan. The Irish contingency—Conor O’Hara and two other men—give me respectful nods.

“Hi, Conor,” I say, offering a hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your husband,” he says, and I’m touched that he said your husband rather than Don Morelli. Maybe he figures discretion is called for out in the open like this. Still, I like him for it.

“Thank you. Who’s with you?” I turn my attention to the other two men. Vitali might be our security specialist, but there’s no way I’m going to let anyone hang around in this waiting room without knowing who they are myself.

Conor flicks his head at them, and they step forward one at a time to shake my hand.

“Rory Byrne,” says the first, with a smile that has exactly the right edge of sympathy to it without being condescending. His thick black hair falls in loose ringlets around his face, the kind of face you do a double take at because it’s so damn handsome.

“Everyone calls me Murph,” says the older, wiry man. He’s rodent-like, with a sharp nose and chin and prominent overbite. “Pleasure to meet you.” He shakes my hand but I yank mine away, sucking in a breath.

Irish. Real Irish, his brogue rich and warm and familiar to me, the kind that I heard growing up when we had visiting family members from the place we called back home, even though our branch of the family had bred several generations in America.

“I’m Finch,” I say at last. “Just call me Finch. Everyone does. Well, except Tara. I hear you’re looking after my sister?”

I wonder what they think about me, what they’ve heard about me. There’s a curiosity in their eyes, a watchfulness, a deliberative gaze like they’re summing me up.

“Rory here made a hero out of himself just last week saving Ms. Donovan’s life,” Conor says drily, but I don’t miss the look he and Rory exchange. It’s a look that should be kept private, the kind of look Luca and I give each other without thinking sometimes.

Well, well. Good for Conor.

But feeling that flirty, lighthearted energy bouncing around between them just makes me remember my own soulmate, laid out and unmoving just down the hallway. “I’ll get back to Luca,” I say, and I try to smile. “Unless there’s anything I should know about?” I ask Teo.

Teo shakes his head. “I got word there might be something going on outside. Someone checking out the scene,” he adds. “But there ain’t nobody there now.”

“I’d still prefer to get you out of here and back to the hotel, Ms. Donovan,” Conor insists.

“I should let Howie get some rest, anyway,” Tara says. She hugs me again as we say our goodbyes, and then she and her men make their way out of the waiting room. The hospital staff at the reception counter visibly relax. They’re used to the Italian mobsters hanging around here, but not so much en masse, not to mention the additional Irish.

Speaking of the Irish, I turn to Teo. “I’ll send Aidan back out to you so you can leave.”

“I’m here to watch you, Mr. D,” Teo tells me gently. “Relieving Carlucci for the night so he can get a little sleep. But you send Aidan on out and get some rest yourself.”

“Oh. Well—thanks for being here.”

“Just doing my job,” Teo says, but he looks so grim that I almost ask again if there’s anything I should know about. But I’m not supposed to know too much about Family business, and I don’t have time to worry about the Morelli Family right now.

Luca needs all my worrying power.

* * *

I’m woken later by two familiar voices arguing in the hallway, their voices echoing down the hallway. They build and build until they’re loud enough that I stomp over to the door, yank it open, and glare out at Teo Vitali and Nick Fontana.

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell them in a fierce whisper, closing the door behind me. “I don’t want Luca hearing whatever shit you’re arguing about. He’ll just get pissed that he can’t get up and knock your heads together himself.”

“Sorry, Mr. D,” Teo says at once.

“Sorry,” Nick says after a glance down at his feet. “We didn’t know—I didn’t know you could hear us.”

I prop my hip up against the wall, cross my arms and lift my chin. “What’s the problem?”

The two of them glance at each other, uneasy.

“Come on, you might as well tell me,” I sigh, when neither is forthcoming. “It’ll take my mind off Luca for a second.” It won’t, but I also feel slightly better standing here than I did dozing in the chair next to him. For the last hours—days—whatever—I’ve only been able to stare at Luca, sleep, or watch hospital staff do various things to his inert body. A little light conversation about Mob business might give me a break.

“Vitali’s blaming himself,” Nick says at last.

“Shut up,” Teo growls.

“For what?” I ask.

“For this whole…” Nick waves his hand around.

I stare at Teo. “Seriously? That’s what all the racket was about?”

Teo shifts on his feet, his hands deep in his pockets, and sends Nick a glare from the side of his eyes. “I just wanted to see if…if maybe someone else should take over security. Since I’m not—I’m not doing a great job.”

“And I’ve been explaining to Vitali here,” Nick snarls, but then drops to a mutter at my scowl, “that he’d just be fucking up further if he quit doing the job the Boss told him to do.”

“What the hell?” I sigh. “Teo, you can’t just…quit. I mean, literally, right? Once you’re in the Family, you’re, you know. In the Family. For life.” These last few days have been surreal. Now I’m standing here giving career advice to a mobster. “And like Nick said, Luca wants you doing it.”

“Besides, there’s no one else,” Nick adds.

“Oh, is that it?” Teo fires back. “Having a shitty security guy is better than having no security guy?”

“Quiet,” I hiss.

“Listen, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me,” Nick insists, keeping his voice down this time. “If I hadn’t been sneaking around with Bianchi and making the Boss neurotic—”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. I really wish it was, because then I could be angry at someone who’s not myself.

“Mr. D, it was my job to make sure you and the Boss were safe—” Teo starts, but I shake my head.

“It wasn’t you, Teo. You know that.” We look at each other, and I put a hand on his arm, put out my other for Nick to take. “It wasn’t your fault either, Nick. Not the first cause, anyway. It was me. I’m the one to blame for all of this.”

Teo does a double take.

“What are you talking about?” Nick asks.

“I’m talking about the fact that if it weren’t for me, if it weren’t for everything I’ve done—everything I am—then he wouldn’t be lying there in that bed.”

“That’s not—” Teo begins, but I cut him off by holding up a hand.

“Listen, I need to go back in.” I’m weary again and I want to sleep, or at least lay my head down on Luca’s bed, hold his hand, and doze. “You guys, I need you to go deal with all that Family shit. Do it for Luca, okay? Keep it together for him.”

I back into the room and shut the door on them before they can say anything else.

Chapter Three

LUCA

Before

When Angelo Messina left New York, left the Family, left me, I knew there would never be another like him. But I have to admit that Teo Vitali has impressed me. When he stood up in Boston and asked for a place at the table, for example, or when he put himself in danger to protect the priest, or when he stepped up without hesitation to help our Donovan allies… Yes, Vitali has impressed me. He’s a dedicated Family man and he’s a great security adviser, and I’m lucky to have him.

We don’t always agree, though.

Like the morning he walked into my study and I showed him the note the Irish Freedom Fighters had sent me—sent to my home address.

We will avenge the murders of the martyrs Fearghus Donovan and Margaret Fincher Donovan.

“Well, Vitali?” I prompted. “You’re our security guy. What do you think it means?”

“It means we need to get ready for war, Boss,” he told me.

I liked that he didn’t hold back. He told me straight out, confirmed my own thoughts. That reassured me; Vitali was taking the threat as seriously as Angelo would have done. But where we differed was in the solution to this problem.

He rubbed his fingers across his mouth, thinking. “First thing we do, we get extra security for this place.”

“Extra security?”

“We already got bullet-resistant glass everywhere, but we need stronger bars on those lower windows, safe room installation, more guards—”

“No.” I sat back in my seat and watched him try very hard not to say anything. But he couldn’t help himself in the end.

“Boss, if there’s an attack here like there was on the Donovan house…” He paused, hoping I’d simply agree. “And I think we need to step up your guards, get you a twenty-four/seven shadow. Maybe two of them,” he went on, as though I had agreed.

“There are already bars on the downstairs windows,” I told him, and he should have heard the warning tone in my voice. He did not, or perhaps he just ignored it.

“Those bars might keep out thieves, but they’ll buckle like tinfoil under the kind of attack Tara Donovan went through. You weren’t there, Boss. You don’t know how—”

“No,” I said again. “I will not change my house, my plans or my life just because some asshole is threatening me.”

He was smart enough to change his tactics then. “There’s just as much threat against Mr. D as there is to you.”

“And it’s up to you to make sure he’s protected. But I will not have my own actions curtailed because of this, Vitali.”

“But—”

I slammed my fist down on the table, and saw him blink. “I will not make myself appear weak.” After a moment, I continued, “Our position in New York is tenuous, Vitali. You need to understand that. The moment anyone thinks I’m worried about my own safety is the moment I will need to be worried about my own safety.”

And, more importantly, Finch’s safety. But I kept that thought to myself.

I thought we’d be on the same page after that. But I was wrong.

“I’d still like more guards on the house,” Vitali persisted. “And at the nightclub with Mr. D.”

“I already told you, you can assign as many as you think Finch needs.”

“Yeah? Well, about that. He keeps refusing. And frankly, Boss—” Vitali had never taken this tone with me before, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. “—it’d be a lot easier to convince Mr. D he needs extra protection if you led by example.”

I took a second to quell my temper before I said, “Just do your fucking job, Vitali. The one you wanted so badly. Or do I need to drag Angelo Messina back here to do it for you? He understood the value of optics.”

His lips went thin and tight. “No, Boss. I get it. No need to bother Mr. Messina.”

I gave him a moment to breathe while I collected my thoughts. “Who’s with Finch tonight?”

“New guys. I got three of them working together, and—”

“I won’t have fucking trainees guarding my husband.” My temper was rising again.

“They’re not trainees. They’re good guys, well trained. They need some time in the field is all.” At my silence, he sighed, “I’ll go myself as well. Keep an eye on things.”

I mulled that over. “No,” I said at last. “If you really think they’re ready, then I trust your judgment.”

His eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “Okay, then. Thanks, Boss.”

* * *

I paid a visit myself to Finch that night at Kismet Nightclub. I dropped by once or twice a week normally, but Finch always liked to know when I was coming so he could alert staff, have my favorite drink waiting for me. But this night, he didn’t know I was coming.

Every time I’d been there, I’d always wondered if he’d made sure to have extra security in place, and now what Vitali had said to me struck a nerve. I wanted to know exactly how safe—or unsafe—my husband actually was. I also wanted to know if I really could trust Vitali’s judgment or not.

So I arrived alone and unannounced, rather than pulling up, chauffeured, in one of the town cars like I usually did. I came from around the corner of the block on foot and scared the hell out of Dino, the bouncer who was on that night, by walking up behind him.

Once he’d put his tough-guy attitude back in place, Dino raised his wrist to his mouth, about to alert security to my presence, but I put my hand over the microphone in his sleeve. “Not tonight.” He put his hand down slower than any man working for me would have, but I guessed his problem. “I’ll cover for you with Mr. D’Amato, Dino.”

“I’d appreciate it,” he said.

The bashful relief in his eyes did not escape me. Finch might have been my angel, my baby bird, but he commanded respect from his staff—possibly even fear on occasion, judging by Dino’s reaction.

From the other end of the block, Nick Fontana was coming around the corner. “You let Fontana in nice and quiet when he gets up here, too,” I told Dino on my way past him.

“Yes, sir,” his reply echoed after me.

Inside Kismet, the coat-check clerk looked the other way so fast I thought I heard his neck crack. The bouncers let me walk past the metal detector rather than through it, then opened the inner doors for me without even catching my eye.

All in all, the security staff was trained to make my visits to Kismet run as smoothly as possible. But I wanted to see what would happen if I made things more difficult for Finch’s closest protectors. Three of them, that night. Three men to make up one higher-level bodyguard. I wasn’t sure if that meant Vitali was just being Vitali—overly cautious, covering all his options—or if the three of them really did only make up one Gio Carlucci, for example.

I’d been eyeing Carlucci for a Capo position, but if he was indispensable as Finch’s bodyguard, he’d just have to wait a little longer.

I stood at the bar with my cap pulled down low, keeping my face away from the cameras as much as I could. I nursed a drink for half an hour before Finch made an appearance, but I knew he was there as soon as he entered the club from the opposite side of the dance floor. I could feel him, even among hundreds of others, his presence unmistakable.

I scrutinized the crowd to pinpoint him, my heart missing a beat like it always did whenever I saw him again. Every time I came home. Every time I woke up. Every time I kissed him. I’d expected that feeling to wear off, for us to settle into habit, but it never had. Finch owned me, surely and completely, and every time I saw him it only renewed that ownership.

I waved away the bartender, who wanted to refresh my drink. And then I beckoned over a big guy waiting in line and shouted in his ear. “You see that guy over there in the VIP area, the one with the gold hair?”

He looked where I was staring. “Yeah?”

I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Go ask him to dance.”

He laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“You even know who that guy is? No way. You keep your money; I’ll keep my teeth.”

He walked off, shaking his head. I was starting to think my plan would be stymied before I even got to phase one.

“You could try him, sir,” the bartender suggested, nodding at a leatherman down the end of the bar. “Haven’t seen him here before. He might not know Mr. D by sight.” I studied the bartender, and his smile dropped. “Uh. If that helps?”

“It helps. But keep it between us. And don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

“Sure, sure.”

I gave him a nod of thanks and set off to try again.

The leatherman drove what he thought was a hard bargain, but three hundred dollars and a complicated story about wanting to catch a cheater in action got him moving. I kept an eye on him while I skirted the crowd, slipped along the edges of it to find the easiest way in to where Finch was sitting in the VIP area.

I had to work harder than I expected to keep my face hidden from the guards; all of them were focused on the crowd, none of them distracted from their duties. Finch was sitting in his preferred lounging area, playing with his phone while the guards stood around in a semi-circle like a human wall. As my paid leatherman strolled up, he found himself pushed back with a firm hand by bodyguard number one.

Strike one for my leatherman.

But still I waited.

The leatherman started to argue, and I saw bodyguard number two glance over at the disturbance. While I’d been hiring my pick, Nick had done the same from the other side of the dance floor. And now his man walked up to make a simultaneous attempt. The two of them together, my leatherman and Nick’s bear, were making enough of a distraction for all three guards that I decided it was time.

I wove through the crowd, up behind the VIP area, and slid right up to the back of Finch’s seat. I threw my arms around him, my hand across his mouth, and kissed the side of his neck. He relaxed into my embrace as soon as he realized who I was.

“Come on, baby bird,” I said in his ear. “Come with me.”

We were halfway across the floor before the guards even thought to look around and check their ward. And when they did, they came face-to-face with a furious Nick Fontana.

Nick had just lost a large bet with me. And as for Vitali? He’d have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

But right then, I had my own plans for my husband.

Chapter Four

LUCA

“Not that I don’t love seeing you,” Finch said as we went through the staff door, up the stairs, and he unlocked his office, “but what’s the occasion?”

“Can’t a man surprise his husband?” I kicked the door shut behind us and took Finch into my arms.

“A man like you can do whatever he wants.” I smiled at his words until Finch added suspiciously, “And he frequently does. So, come on. Tell me. What’s this all about?”

He allowed me to kiss him, but when I pulled away from him, his mouth set back into a straight line. Finch and I are both stubborn as hell. “I was testing your new bodyguards,” I relented.

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “That’s not cool, honey.”

“Not cool? They didn’t even notice you’d left the goddamn floor. Your bodily protection should be their highest priority, so whether it’s cool or not—”

Finch put a finger on my lips and gave a small smile. “Okay. Don’t blow a gasket. These guys are green, but you didn’t play fair. And,” he went on fast, knowing that I was about to point out that none of our enemies would play fair, either, “you taught them a lesson. Now they know, and it won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t. They’re all off bodyguard duty, permanently. And what’s this I hear about you refusing extra protection?”

Finch closed his eyes with a small sigh. “Luca, you can’t…” He pulled out of my arms and went over to his desk. “I can’t keep living like this,” he muttered, almost to himself, but then he glanced up at me. “We can’t keep living like this. Anxious. Afraid. Fucking paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia when they are out to get you.” There was an argument brewing between us; I could feel it gathering like one of New York’s brutal summer storms, the artificially-cool air of the office beginning to bristle and thicken.

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Boss?”

“Come,” I snapped, at the same time as Finch called, “What is it?”

Nick Fontana entered as gingerly as a man his size could, his eyes flicking between Finch and me. “Just checking in. The boys want to apologize.”

“Apologize? You can tell them—” I began, but Finch spoke over the top of me.

“Tell them they can stay on the floor. Make sure no one comes up here. But Luca will watch me tonight. Isn’t that right, husband?”

I didn’t want to argue in front of Nick. “That’s right.”

Nick hesitated. “And…the meeting, Boss?”

Fontana and I were supposed to attend a late-night video meeting with the board members of a multinational company. I’d been working on buying up their stock and was coming close to being a majority shareholder. But I’d run up against a few impediments in their company bylaws, and an influential Italian stakeholder—who happened to be in bed with the Clemenzas right here in New York—was trying to kneecap me. On Lou Clemenza’s personal orders, I assumed; the old man was trying to find new ways to hurt me. So it was an important meeting if I wanted to persuade the company board to my way of thinking.

But certainly nowhere near as important to me as Finch.

“You go,” I told Nick, waving a hand in dismissal. “The lawyer will be there. Let him negotiate, and just get it done.”

“Bianchi’ll be there?” I couldn’t place Nick’s tone. “Senior or junior?”

“Carlo,” I told him. “But he’s just as good as the old man. Better, even.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Nick gave a quick nod to Finch, then me, and backed out of the room. I locked it after him and turned back to Finch, ready for our argument to continue.

But Finch, who had taken a decanter and glass from the side table, was pouring me out a drink at his desk. “We’re not going to fight,” he said, glancing up at me from under his eyebrows. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not.”

Finch gave a brief, twisted smirk. “Right.” He picked up the glass, swirled the liquid inside a few times, and then offered it to me.

I undid the second button of my shirt as I came over and accepted the whiskey-flavored olive branch. “So you’ll stop trying to defend those fools downstairs?”

“No, baby. But I’m not going to spend the night going back and forth with you about it, either. Now, come on, Luca.” He gestured to the leather sofa at the side of the room, and walked over there himself to sit on it. “Drink up. Calm down. Then tell me why you’re really here.”

“I am calm,” I said, but Finch was already making himself comfortable on one side of the sofa, so I threw myself down on the other side, took a large swallow of the whiskey, and waited.

And waited.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I snapped at last, as Finch regarded me with those green-gold eyes, soft and liquid in the warm, low lights of his office.

“I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I told you already—”

“Not the bodyguards. The why behind it. Why are you so worried about my protection all of a sudden?”

“The Irish—”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘the Irish.’ Or it’s ‘the Clemenzas,’ or it’s ‘the West Coast.’ I want to know the real problem behind all this. You’re not yourself, husband, and it worries me.”

I was surprised enough that I did not reply right away. “Not myself?” was what I settled on at last.

Finch scooted forward, took the drink from my hand, and set the glass on the coffee table. He slipped his fingers into mine and lifted my hand into both of his. “You’re not sleeping. You’re on edge all the time, angry over small things that don’t matter.”

“Your personal protection is the only thing that matters to me,” I began hotly, and Finch lifted my hand to his lips. His soft kiss against my wedding ring helped douse my temper.

“You’re being mean to everyone,” he murmured against my skin.

“I’m trying to run a goddamn Mafia empire, here, Finch. I don’t know how else you think—”

“You know what I mean. Take those guys downstairs. Yeah, they’re new, and yeah, they need to be better. But throwing fresh meat off my detail won’t make them better, and it just means I’ll have another set of newbies next time who know even less. Teo put extra protection around the club tonight already, since he and Gio aren’t here. The fact that you didn’t see them means that everyone is doing the jobs they’re supposed to be doing.”

I sniffed. “Some extra protection, if I can still sneak up and—”

“Luca,” he snapped, his jaw clenching. “No one in this world would dare stop you from getting close to me unless they had a death wish. You can’t blame your own men for allowing it.”

Even irritated with me, Finch was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, and the only one I had ever loved. I would never love anyone else, not like I loved him. And what he said about everyone in town knowing it was true, so I pulled my hand from his, cupped his face instead, and kissed him. “Fine,” I said afterward. “I won’t kill the bodyguards.”

It was supposed to be a joke to defuse the tension. It did not have the desired effect.

“I’m kidding,” I added, as Finch stood up and pulled away from me. “Baby bird, I’m kidding.”

“That’s the thing,” he said, returning to his desk. “I don’t know that you are, not these days. These days, you could tell me you planned to execute every single guard out there, right in the middle of the dance floor, and Luca?” He sat in his chair, pulled up to the desk and folded his hands together. “I would believe it.”

He wasn’t wrong, was the thing. There was a part of me that, even now, wanted to punish those men down there. “I’d never do anything like that,” I said unconvincingly, and Finch’s steady gaze took on a strange, compassionate air. “I just don’t want you to be scared of anyone.”

“I am not scared of anyone. I am scared for you.”

I huffed at that. “You don’t have to be scared for me, baby bird. I know how to protect myself, and I have Fontana or Vitali or one of the others with me most of the time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Usually, when Finch and I had what I thought of as the hard conversations, we made sure we were in close physical contact. We would cuddle up in bed, or on the couch, or at least hold hands. This approach, where he sat behind his desk while I stayed on the sofa—I didn’t like it.

“Then tell me what you mean.” I gathered myself up and walked over to him to half-sit on the edge of his desk, right next to his chair. He leaned back in it, gold hair wild against the black leather headrest. I reached out to brush one unruly lock back into place.

Finch caught my hand in his, and I looked down at the wedding ring on his finger. Every time I saw it, it calmed me. It was a symbol of the unbreakable bond between us—in more ways than one. The rings we both wore contained trackers, just in case. Finch’s had come in handy more than once. He tended to use mine merely to ruin surprises I was trying to set up for him.

You really need MORE Armani??? he had texted once when I was buying him a new shirt.

“Luca,” he said then, and his eyes softened. “You’re all wound up. I know why, and I get it, but you need to remember: you have friends. You have allies. You literally have men who would die for you. So maybe calm down a little, huh?”

I watched his mouth as he spoke, and then I leaned in to kiss him. He let me do that, at least. “If I’m planning on killing anyone special, I’ll check in with you, see what you think,” I told him afterward, and this time the joke landed. I even got a smirk out of him. “For now, though…”

I pushed his chair back so I could get on my knees in front of him, and then I started to unbutton his jeans.

Chapter Five

LUCA

Finch shook his head ruefully, but let me tug his jeans down to his ankles and then fish around in his underwear.

“You can’t distract me with sex, babe,” he sighed.

“Of course I can.”

He took a sharp breath as I yanked down his boxer briefs and leaned in to nuzzle my cheek against his junk. “Okay, maybe you can,” he admitted after a moment. “But there’s a conversation we still need to have.”

“And we can have it, but after I blow the Boss-Man in his office. Come on, angel, let me live out my fantasy.”

His pretty pink cock was in my hand and already half-hard, so Finch gave in…for the moment. I knew he’d insist on talking again later, but I was relieved to put it off. I kissed the tip of his dick reverently, cupping his silky balls in one hand, and looked up into his face.

“I just want to keep you safe,” I told him. “And happy. That’s all I want.”

He threaded a hand through my hair, coming to rest at the back of my neck. “I know.” Finally, I earned a real smile from him, just before he pulled my head down and shifted his hips up to give me better access.

I licked his cock into my mouth slowly and teased him to full hardness, taking him with deep, long sucks that drew sighs out of his mouth almost as much as pre-cum from his dick. I’d always loved how responsive Finch was during sex, and not just the way his cock dripped for me in a near-Pavlovian response. I loved the way his nipples stood up in visible points under his shirt, the way his pupils blew wide and dark, the way his lips parted and stayed that way, as though in invitation.

I’d blown him here in his office before, but Finch never tired of it. I think he got off on the idea of me, the most powerful man in the whole city, getting on my knees for him in his own place of work. As for me, I would do anything, anytime to please him—and, right then, to distract him from the things he’d been trying to say.

Because he was right, and that was the problem.

I knew it myself. I was getting paranoid, jumping at shadows, second-guessing even the most loyal of my men.

A knock at the door made him start and try to wriggle away, but I grabbed at his hips, determined to keep his cock in my mouth. “Luca,” he hissed.

“Anything you need, Mr. D?” someone called through the door.

“N-no,” Finch spluttered, his voice rising as I slid my tongue around his crown, then crammed his whole length down my throat. “Ah, Christ—”

“Mr. D?”

“It’s fine!” Finch shouted desperately. “I’m fine, Luca’s—oh fuck—taking care of me.”

Whoever it was at the door finally got the picture and left us alone. Finch’s taste was spilling freely across my tongue, and I knew he was already close. Maybe it was the idea of getting caught that turned the dial up to ten for him, or maybe he was just hot for me. I released him from my mouth only to wrap a hand around his shaft while I looked up at him, jacking his cock into my open mouth. He was close, hips rising up helplessly as he climbed toward his peak—and then I stopped.

“Luca.”

The desperation in his voice stroked my ego. “Not done with you yet,” I murmured, getting from my knees to my feet. His dick quivered against his belly, flushed, glossy with my spit and from the mess of his own trickling slit.

I licked my lips to find the taste of him again, then put out my hand. He took it, chest heaving with arousal, and I yanked him to his feet, turned him around, and shoved him over his own desk, his feet still tangled up in his jeans. Keeping him there with one hand on the back of his neck, I rummaged in his desk drawer with the other hand, until I found what I wanted.

He was bucking his hips, seeking friction but getting only fresh air, and his bouncing ass was such a temptation that I leaned in to bite it on each cheek as I fumbled with the lube cap with one hand. He jerked at each nip, hissing and begging, and when I touched slick fingertips to the knot of his ass, he pushed back impatiently, enveloping two of my fingers before I knew it. He was hot and pulsing inside, smooth as silk, and the sight of his ass opening up for me as I worked him made me feel powerful. Wanted. Needed.

Under my hand and beyond his sweet little ballsack I watched the tip of his dick drooling, spilling over his pants and shoes, painting out a Jackson Pollock on the carpet. When I removed my fingers from him, he whimpered; I leaned over him, pressed my lips to his ear.

“You want my cock in you?”

“Yeah.”

I coated myself with another handful of lube, then gave in to the growing throb in my balls and pressed my tip to his hole. Finch bucked his hips to get me inside him, moaning as I breached him. Another hungry shove from Finch got me deeper in, and then I took over, slow but inexorable, invading him until I was buried to the hilt. I stayed there for a moment, stroking the curve of his back, letting him adjust, but he clamped down on my dick inside him, begging with his body as much as his mouth.

“Luca, fuck me, please…”

My head was buzzing with desire for him. The whole world could have gone to hell right then and I would have let it. I pulled back only to snap forward again, and again, and again, shoving him in increments across the desk, his hands clutching, sliding on papers, palms leaving ghost prints on the sheen of the polished wood of the desktop. I couldn’t hear the music from the club downstairs, but I could hear the beat of it, feel the bass, a dirty, greasy, sexy throb echoing the pulse in my nuts, driving me into him over and over again.

He was struggling to open his legs wider, to wriggle his jeans down and off, but I paused to kick his feet closer together and mounted him, high, so that he squeezed even tighter around my cock, a velvet vice. I planted my hands on his shoulders, holding his torso down, and let him buck his hips as much as he wanted as I held on for the ride.

He powered on like that longer than I expected, but eventually he collapsed on the desk, still unsatisfied, huffing as he fought to get his breath back. I pulled out of his ass in one slow tug and he flung a hand out, searching blindly for me. When I caught his wrist, he half-peeled his chest up off the desk, twisting his back like a contortionist to send me a challenging glare.

“Don’t tell me you’re done already.”

“Get up,” I told him fiercely, but I was gentle as I helped him to his shaky feet, and then I stripped him completely. I batted away his hands when he reached for the buttons on my shirt. “No. On the desk. Face up.”

I stepped back to watch as he hoisted himself up on the edge of the desk, noted the slight wince as his ass came down on the hard wood, and then I helped him lie back, arranging him for my own viewing pleasure. When I first married Finch, part of me assumed my hunger for him would die down. That a blaze as hot as ours would eventually extinguish itself, collapse into embers, need careful tending to keep it alive.

I was so wrong.

There was an everlasting inferno inside me that burned only for him; I was as desperate for him that night as I had been that very first night we met.

His elegant, glistening cock rolled around in the crease of his thigh. “Cute,” I said, drawing a slow finger down his shaft. He took in a shuddering breath at my touch, and flung his hands over his face as another rivulet of clear liquid spilled from his cock, dripping down his inner thigh. “You look just about ready to pop, baby bird.”

“Just about,” he mumbled, half-laughing, into his hands. He rubbed his face, took in a deep lungful of air, and reached out for me. “Put me out of my misery, huh?”

I was back inside him in an instant, leaning low over him, watching every flicker of his eyelashes, enjoying every gasp I fucked out of him, making him squirm and shudder with every thrust.

“You know how much I love you?” I demanded.

His eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open and stared straight into mine.

“It’s all for you,” I panted. “All of this. Only for you, angel. Understand?”

He put a hand up to my face. “Luca,” he murmured, his eyes so compassionate, so tender, that for one terrible moment I thought I was going to cry.

I came instead.

Wave after wave poured out of me, a long, almost painful orgasm that left me half-choking in Finch’s neck, his grassy cologne filling up my nose, and the sweet scent of Finch himself under it, a heady combination. I stayed buried in him, my cock still half-hard, and tried to get hold of myself. But when Finch mumbled something and began shaking, I pushed myself up on my arms.

“Baby bird—”

I found him laughing. His face was red, sweaty, his hair wet and sticking out at all angles.

Dropping my head in relief, I panted, “What did you say?”

“I said,” he snickered breathlessly, “you told me you wanted to blow the Boss-Man, but what I ended up with was an assful of cum leaking all over my goddamn desk.”

“Yeah? Well, enjoy it.” I was almost glad of the excuse to withdraw, hissing as I pulled out, over-sensitive and tender. I pulled up my pants. Whatever we’d just done, it hadn’t just been the sexy interlude I’d meant it to be.

I was too raw, somewhere within me. Too anxious.

Finch pouted at me, first playful, then with an edge of annoyance. “No fucking way,” he puffed. “You get me all worked up and now, what, you’re just gonna zip your fucking Armani over your dirty cock and—”

I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and gave him one long, twisting stroke, rubbing my thumb into the V of his cockhead. Finch arched up into it, mouth open, eyes fluttering closed.

I leaned over him, “You really think I’d leave you high and dry—or, should I say, hard and dripping?” I said into his ear. “You should know me better by now, husband.” I reached behind me with my other hand to pull up his leather chair. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch me sit on the edge of the seat, and then his head fell back and he groaned as I took his cock back into my mouth.

He wrapped his legs around my neck, pulling me closer, fucking into my mouth, and I let him take his pleasure like that, the thrust of his hips becoming more and more erratic the closer he got. I looked up at him, watched him watching me for just a few seconds before he collapsed back down on the desk, gripped the edge of it tight, and let go. My mouth filled up in long, delicious spurts, Finch’s hips jerking again as I milked him through it and then sucked his softening cock down again until he begged for mercy.

In our dual post-orgasmic haze I felt a little bad for using sex to distract Finch. And a little concerned about my own reaction during our love games. But the point was, it worked. He didn’t bring up the bodyguard issue again that night, nor for some time after.

And I got to keep watching over him as closely as I wanted to.

As I needed to.

Chapter Six

FINCH

Now

“I wonder—perhaps we could get a better mattress for the camp bed?” Aidan is murmuring outside the door, but it’s cracked open enough that I can hear him still.

“I’ll speak to them about it,” a female voice replies, as hushed as he is. It’s Darla, I think. It would make sense if it were her. She’s always had a soft spot for me, since back when Connie was in this same room, and we started making huge donations to the hospital.

Now it’s Luca lying there in the bed like Connie was for so long. In a coma, just like Connie was for so long.

Before she died.

Luca still hasn’t woken up. After more scans and tests, I’ve been told, yet again, that it’s a waiting game, that he’ll wake up on his own when he’s ready.

I wish he’d hurry the fuck up.

I pull up the arm of his hospital gown and trace my fingers over his finch tattoo, over the jagged, raised, white scar tissue that the bird stands on, remembering that night I stitched him up myself. The first night. I gave him that scar with my shitty sewing skills, but he’s always laughed about it. Cherished it. Made it into a symbol of our love.

He’ll have more scars now, all over his body. And I feel like all of those new scars are my fault, too.

I stand up to stretch, my back cracking as I arch it and give a sigh of mingled pain and relief. Aidan slides back into the room, his eyes straying to Luca on the bed before coming back to me. “Do you want to take a shower, maybe get some food? I’ll stay with him.”

I want to tell Aidan no, but if I tell him no, there will just be more suggestions designed to get me out of the room, which means more conversation, and I want that even less than I want to step out of the room a minute. Besides, I do need to stretch my legs. “I’ll go get a coffee, then I’ll come back. You want anything?”

Every so often I make these concessions, just to beat back the feeling I have that if I ever leave his side, Luca won’t be waiting for me when I get back. That he’ll slip away from me while I’m out of the room.

But thinking like that won’t help anything, and so every three or four times Aidan suggests it, I leave him there with Luca, and I pretend that I can still function like a human being.

Outside the room, two members of Nick Fontana’s old crew are standing around; they must be Luca’s guards for the day. They each give me a nod. “No change,” I tell them, because although they’d never ask, they still want to know, are anxious for any information, even the status quo.

Gio Carlucci is there as well, but he’s waiting for me. Not to talk—just to shadow me. I give him a nod, and he follows me at a slight distance as I set off down the hallway. He’s further back than he usually would be, but he seems to know I need my space.

There’s a coffee machine in a corridor just off the ward, but it only serves asswater. I take the time to go all the way downstairs to the café instead, and order a trayful of options. On my way back, I’ll hand them out to the ward staff, and to the guards watching over Luca like dark angels, keeping everyone sweet—not to mention caffeinated and alert.

Another attack is coming. I can feel it in my guts, a twisting certainty.

Nick’s tried to pretend to our enemies that everything is just fine, but it’s hard to keep something like this quiet. Luca has never been more vulnerable than he is now, and there are plenty of people all over town who would love to take advantage of that fact.

But I will not let them.

I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep my husband safe.

* * *

While I’m waiting for the café staff to get the large order together, I wander into the chapel, a place that has become familiar to me now. It’s empty, so I take a seat up front, staring at what I assume is supposed to be a serenity-inducing blue glass artwork that hangs on the wall at the front, very carefully non-specific to any religion.

Aidan was surprised when I joined him here on the night of Luca’s admission into the hospital. Prayer was Aidan’s first thought, of course. But for me, the chapel offered an opportunity for quiet, and to get away from the heavy presence of law enforcement near the operating room, as though Luca might wake mid-surgery and make a run for it, holding in his insides while he did.

Carlo Bianchi has worked hard to keep both the locals and the Feds away from me since then, and I appreciate his work. But that night, the chapel offered a place to think. And, for me, it was also an opportunity to bargain with my old frenemy, Death.

I begin that bargaining process again now, glaring so hard at the blue glass mosaic that I wouldn’t be surprised to see it shatter. You can take me, I offer this time. You always were a fucking cocktease, edging me all those years, why not just take me now? Take me, leave Luca.

I’m so focused, my lips moving along with my thoughts, that when someone sits down beside me, I jump. “Aidan?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayers.”

It would scandalize Aidan to explain to him exactly what I’m doing. Who I’m praying to. But he’s been so kind to me the past few days, so gentle. “It’s alright.” And then I grab at his wrist, making him wince. “Aidan—is Luca—”

“He’s fine,” he assures me at once, patting my hand, and I ease up the pressure.

“But someone needs to be in that room with him at all—”

“Someone is with him,” Aidan tells me, and he’s smiling.

Smiling?

I jump up from my seat. “Who?” I demand, fear still coursing through me. I’m getting angry, too. Who the hell could Aidan trust so much that he’s abandoned Luca’s bedside?

There’s no one. No one else in the whole world I would let that close to Luca, not unaccompanied, and a wave of betrayal comes over me, fury at Aidan for daring to make that decision without consulting me first.

“Who?” I shout again.

As soon as Aidan stammers out a name, I take off running.

Chapter Seven

FINCH

When I reach Luca’s room, with Carlucci sprinting along behind me, the Morelli guards are grinning at each other, their faces still weary, but something in their eyes that I haven’t seen for days. Hope.

I burst right through the middle of them and fling open the door.

Standing over my husband is a shambling figure with a ruined face and a prosthetic hand. He looks up when I throw myself towards him, turning awkwardly so that his one working eye can take me in. He only just has time to recognize me before I’m on top of him.

“Brother Frank,” I sob into his neck.

He gathers me up tight and holds me close. “Ey, Principessa. I missed you.”

I need a moment with my face buried to pull myself together, and Frank, bless him, lets me have it. He hugs me until I pull back from him, and then he smiles down into my wet face. “How you doin’?” he asks softly.

I thought I was okay, but at his question my lips start trembling again and I can only shake my head. He glances over the top of me to the doorway, his muscles bunching, readying. “Who’s this?”

I turn, relieved to have the distraction, and wave Gio into the room. He’s on high alert as well for some reason, and then I realize—he’s never met Frank D’Amato, Luca’s brother. Gio joined the Family after Frank and his wife, Celia—one of my closest friends—left the country. “Gio,” I say, sniffing and motioning him still closer. “This is Frankie. The Boss’s brother.”

Gio’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit,” he says, and drops his hand from where it’s been hovering over his gun. “No kidding?”

“This is Gio Carlucci,” I tell Frank. “He’s—”

Frank frowns. “Yeah, I hearda you. You treating Huddie-boy right?”

“Yes, sir,” Gio says. “Yes, sir, to the best of my ability.”

“Okay, then.” Frank drops the gruff act and steps forward to offer his left hand—the other one is a prosthetic—to shake. Hudson Taylor, who is kind of like my own little Underboss at Kismet Nightclub, is pretty near and dear to Frank’s heart. For one thing, he’s the biological uncle of Frank’s kid.

“We, uh,” Gio says, awkwardly shaking with his own left hand. “Me and Blondie—I mean, Hudson, me and Hudson, we’ll look to move out now that you’re back in town, sir.”

Sometimes I forget that Hudson was only house-sitting that Upper West Side brownstone for Frank and Cee. We knew my brother-in-law and my outlaw sister were not going to come back to New York for a long time. So it made sense for Hudson, who had been staying there with them, to look after the place. It actually belonged to me first, passed on in Tino Morelli’s will as one of many properties he owned, and then Luca and I gave it to Frank and Cee, who have been letting Hudson stay there.

Frank’s next words send my heart plummeting.

“Shit, no,” Frank snorts. “It’s just me in town. The wife and kid ain’t with me, so you and Huddie sit tight. I only need the spare room, or the sofa if that’s too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, no trouble at all, sir. I’ll call Hudson right now and ask him to make sure we got sheets on that bed in the spare room.” Gio backs out of the room, pulling out his phone as he goes, nodding at me in his usual gesture for stay the fuck right there.

As if I’m going anywhere.

“Cee’s not with you?” I ask Frank forlornly once the door closes again.

Frank gives me the kindest smile he can from among the wreckage of his face, and gives the back of my neck a comforting squeeze. “Didn’t want to pull the girls into this mess. Besides, our life is in Italy now.”

This is all news to me. I mean, not that Brother Frank and Sister Cee are in Italy. But that they want to stay there. “I thought it was just until Bubbles—I mean, Marcy—was out of danger.”

At the mention of his adopted daughter’s name, Frank’s face softens, the crags and valleys smoothing over. But what he says is just as hard to hear as everything else he’s told me so far. “And when will that be, Finch? Eh? There are always enemies here for us. Always.” He hauls me upright as my knees buckle. “Hey, watch out there. I don’t want Georgie bitching me out if he wakes up and you’re lying right there next to him. Come on, come and sit down.” He half-supports me over to my usual chair next to Luca’s bed, and looks me over critically. “Ain’t no one taking care of you?”

There’s a soft knock at the door and it begins to swing open. “Of course people are taking care of me,” I say, feeling a little better when Aidan comes into the room, blinking in concern at me. “Aidan, for one.”

“I brought you these,” Aidan says, handing Frank and me a coffee each. “The café said you’d been waiting on an order. I handed out the rest,” he adds quickly, as I open my mouth again.

I give a little sigh of pleasure. “Thanks, A.” I’ve drunk so much coffee in the last few days that I can’t stomach it anymore, but it gives my hands something warm and comforting to gather around. Frank downs half of his in one go, making a face as he does.

“Used to the Italian style now,” he mutters. “But fuck me, I need the caffeine. That flight knocked me around some.”

“I’ll get you another,” Aidan suggests, gliding out of the room. I know he’s allowing us time alone, with each other and with Luca, and if I had any gratitude left in me, I’d feel it now.

All I can feel these days are the more uncontrollable emotions. Anger. Fear. Hatred, sometimes. But also love, and overwhelming devotion to the man lying in that damn hospital bed. I set down my coffee and cross to him, stroking a hand across his brow, running the backs of my fingers down his jaw, just to remind him I’m here with him. I’ll have to trim his facial hair again tomorrow, keep it tidy and sharp the way I know he likes it. Darla helped me do it yesterday because I knew he’d hate how much it had grown.

“Can’t believe he’s lying there so…” Frank rumbles, trailing off, as he comes to stand next to me. “It’s not him.”

It’s exactly what I’ve been thinking the past few days. From the moment I met him, Luca has been a fiery beacon—and not just to me. His ambition, his drive, his desire; those qualities made him unmissable even in a crowded room.

His fire has dimmed so much now that I can barely see it.

“What’s the doc said?” Frank asks.

“That, in so many words, my husband is a lucky son of a bitch. He took several bullets, but only one of them was the real problem.” I try to keep my voice steady through the next sentence, because there’s no point making Frank as worried as I am. “Plus he had a head injury, which they think is why he hasn’t woken up yet.” There were a whole lot of complex medical terms that the doctors told me, and I was thankful to Darla, who’s been interpreting for me. “But he will. He will.”

Frank’s jaw clicks as he works it, staring down at his brother. “How in the hell did this happen?”

It’s what I’ve been asking myself. What every other Morelli Family member has wanted to ask me, too, but hasn’t so far. Maybe they’re sensitive to my emotional state. Or maybe, like Teo and Nick, they just feel too guilty to talk about it.

Frank doesn’t have those handicaps. He turns to me, more insistently this time. “Huh? How’d it happen? Why the hell wasn’t there more security with you two? How’d the Irish get in the house? Was there another Family involved? Did someone sell you out? Why—”

“Frankie,” I sigh, and I put a hand on his arm and pull him away from Luca’s bedside. “Please don’t. Not right now. I don’t want Luca getting stressed out while he’s lying there.”

“No,” Frank says, and the pugnacious jut of his chin is too familiar. “I wanna know. And I wanna know now, Finch. Because it sounds to me like some heads need kicking, if this fucking Family don’t have its shit together enough to take care of my little bro.”

I rub a weary hand across my face and nod. “Alright. Come with me.”

Chapter Eight

LUCA

After I came close to painting a warehouse with Fontana’s brain matter, Finch told me many times that I needed to let it go, get over it, move on. He didn’t seem to understand how deeply the whole thing affected me, how wounded I was by Fontana’s betrayal. For Finch, it seemed like things done for love were forgivable no matter what.

“He loves Carlo. You can’t fight love, baby,” he told me on more than one occasion.

But Finch had never really understood what it means to be a Morelli. It wasn’t just a betrayal of me when Fontana went behind my back, refused to follow my orders. He betrayed the whole Family, his brothers, all of us bound to him by blood oaths and sacred traditions.

It was as shocking and terrible to me as it would be to Finch if his priest friend suddenly threw down the rosary he always carried and set it on fire, pissed in the holy water, called out a Hail Satan.

But then, Finch was an iconoclast at heart. Maybe it wouldn’t shock him at all.

I wasn’t the only one who could not—would not—forgive Fontana for his duplicity. There was no way to miss the evil looks Al Vollero sent Fontana’s way every time the senior Family members met. One night his heckling of Fontana got so bad that I kept Vitali behind to question him about dissent in the ranks.

He hedged until I told him to give it to me straight and then, with reluctance, he gave in. “Okay, Boss. Just don’t shoot the messenger. Vollero’s not happy, but it’s not only about the fact that Fontana’s still breathing. It’s about—”

“His granddaughter.”

Vitali nodded. “He don’t like Sophia’s involvement in our business. He likes her training under Fontana even less.”

“She’s training with you, too.”

“Yep. But I’m not the one who has the reputation as a rat.” My face must have betrayed my thoughts, because Vitali held up his hands. “You told me to give it to you straight, Boss. I got no problem with Fontana, but he’s a rat in Vollero’s eyes. Vollero’s giving me a free pass on Sophia, but only because he feels more justified in hating Fontana. So Fontana’s getting all of it, deserved or not.”

“Mostly deserved,” I muttered, and then wished I hadn’t. It wasn’t wise to let anyone know what I was thinking, even the man responsible for Family security. “Pull Vollero into line,” I said after a moment.

“Will do, Boss.”

It wasn’t Vitali’s job. Fontana, thanks in large part to his boyfriend’s logically-reasoned and difficult-to-ignore argument, was supposed to be my Enforcer, but I could hardly get him to tackle this issue. So Vitali it would have to be. I wanted to avoid any of my senior members locking horns where I could. Al Vollero was getting lazy in his old age, but he had standing in the Family, and the men working for him were effective at their jobs.

As for Fontana, he could still be useful to me in his own way.

“Any news from Boston?” I asked Vitali. I heard from Tara Donovan myself from time to time, but Vitali was in closer contact with her man O’Hara. “We know how the IFF got hold of Shanahan yet?”

Vitali shook his head. “Nothing new.”

The murder of Shanahan, a Donovan man who had been imprisoned after the attack on Hillview House in Boston, was a dangling thread in my mind. I didn’t like the idea that the IFF had grown roots so deep in this country that they had contacts in the prison system who would do their bidding. But it had been months since Tara’s man had been assassinated. If we didn’t know how the IFF had pulled it off by now, it was unlikely we ever would.

Still, I kept hoping. “Alright,” I said. “Anything for my ears only?” Some of the security issues I preferred to keep between Vitali and me; there was no point widening a circle of knowledge if it was unnecessary. Vitali hesitated again. “No shooting of messengers,” I reminded him. But I already knew what he was going to say.

“Well, Boss, it’s about expanding Mr. D’s security detail options—”

“No. And don’t sigh at me. I said no, and I’m still saying no. We keep the current arrangements.” Since that night at Kismet, I’d refused to let any greenhorns near Finch again.

“There are other—”

“No.” My voice rang out a little louder and a little harsher than I really meant it to, but at least it shut Vitali up. He snapped his lips together and gave a tight nod.

“Understood, Boss. I’ll say goodnight, then.”

I waited until Vitali had left the warehouse before I called out, “Come on, baby bird.”

I heard his footsteps heading towards me, and reminded myself that I was Don Morelli, and I feared no one. But when Finch’s face appeared with fierce, glittering eyes and a thin, straight mouth, my heart did skip a beat.

It wasn’t that Finch ever scared me. But marital harmony was important to me, and occasionally tricky to find, given our mutual stubbornness.

“Don’t start with me,” I tried preemptively, but he was shaking his head, his brows drawn.

“You said.”

“I know what I said, but what I told Vitali is also—”

“No, Luca. You said.” He was actually shaking his finger at me, so mad at me that he could barely get the words out. I knew if I smiled it would only make the time bomb of his temper explode, but he looked like a pissed-off toddler. “You promised me you would talk to Vitali about getting me a new security detail.”

“Baby bird, I know I did, but—”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Suddenly his anger was not amusing at all. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t have you keeping me wrapped up like fine china, Luca. I love you, but I’ve got my own shit to do.”

By our current arrangement, I was his security. On the nights I really couldn’t do it, I made sure Carlucci and Vitali were both with him, along with a few of Finch’s own Kismet staff whom I knew, without a doubt, to be loyal. But Carlucci and Vitali were running themselves down between guarding Finch and their other jobs for the Family, and I…

Between my insomnia and my work and my watching over Finch, I was surviving on a couple of hours’ sleep a night, and worse, he knew it.

“I did promise I would find an alternate arrangement,” I agreed slowly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t speak to Vitali about it tonight.”

Finch, standing in front of me then, crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. “And?”

“And I’ll talk to him at the next meeting.”

“No, you fucking won’t. You’ll call him up tomorrow and get him into your study and talk to him then.”

He was no longer angry enough to combust. Still annoyed, still exasperated, but I’d been forgiven for tonight at least. It was difficult not to smile about that, too, but it would only earn me another tongue-lashing. Finch was never more adorable to me than when he was bossing me around. “Alright, angel. I’ll do that, just as you say.” I moved forward to hug him, but he took a step back, face still mutinous.

“I mean it, Luca. I love the hell out of you, but I can’t have you standing over me like you have been the last few weeks. It’s not…” He sighed, dropping his arms.

“It’s not what?” I demanded, irritated now. I’d promised to talk to Vitali, hadn’t I? What more did he want?

“It’s not healthy,” he murmured, his eyes searching my face. “You know that, right?”

I took a deep breath before I replied, because Vitali had annoyed me and now Finch was doubting me. “I’m fulfilling my duty as your husband. I’m protecting you. It doesn’t matter if I miss a few hours’ sleep.”

“It’s not a few hours, and it’s not your sleep that I’m worried about—not primarily, anyway.” He took my hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Luca. It’s not good for your mental health to try and take total responsibility for me…and it’s not good for us as a couple, either.” He kissed my palm and then added bluntly, “I’m your partner, not your pet. I might be your ‘baby bird,’ but you can’t lock me up in a cage. You feel me?”

“I feel you,” I said automatically.

But it was a lie. I had no intention of standing down.

Chapter Nine

LUCA

Five Days Ago

Finch was quiet in the car on the way back from our dinner at Nick Fontana’s place—a bad sign. “Alright,” I sighed at last. “What did I do wrong?”

Finch just shook his head and kept staring out the window.

“I was polite and I didn’t kill anyone,” I pointed out. “I feel like I should get some credit for that.” I wasn’t even joking. I had completely refused at first when Finch told me we were going to Fontana’s for dinner. Finch was the one who’d insisted, and he’d had to work on me over a few days until I gave in.

He was lucky I’d even deigned to speak to that traitor tonight. As far as I was concerned, Fontana had broken my trust beyond repair. He had been one of my closest friends. Now he was a business associate and nothing more. If I needed to sacrifice him, I would, without hesitation. He was already dead to me, anyway.

“Luca, you—” Finch began, but then he cut himself off. He turned in the seat to look at me, which wasn’t fair, because I had to keep my eyes on the road. I was driving us tonight. I drove us every night these days. I didn’t trust anyone else to keep Finch safe.

“What?” I prodded. “Maybe, ‘Luca, you are so right and I should never have insisted we go tonight’?”

Finch was silent for so long that I glanced over at him. His face was stony. I wasn’t getting out of this one with jokes. “Did you really think it was going to go any other way?” I asked him, turning my attention back to the road.

“Holding grudges never did anyone any good,” he muttered.

“This is not about holding a grudge. This is about betrayal. It’s about trust.”

I was almost relieved when he didn’t respond. We’d had this same argument so many times that I could play it out in my head, the things each of us would say, the exact moments our voices would rise, how we’d simmer down into a cold détente that we’d both pretend didn’t exist until it flared up again.

Which it inevitably would.

Inside the townhouse, Finch headed to the kitchen, and I followed him with weary resignation. The fight was not over. And it wouldn’t be over for some time; we argued in the entry hall, in the kitchen, up the stairs—

And that’s as far as we got.

Finch was right in the middle of shouting over his shoulder at me (You know what, Luca, you’re a real fucking—) when there was a screeching of tires, a burst of gunfire, and a resounding crash that shook the entire house.

Near the top of the staircase, Finch toppled forward, and I managed to grab the railing to steady myself. I took the stairs two at a time to get to Finch, who looked dazed when I reached him. “What the fuck—” he began, but I pulled him to his feet before he could finish the thought.

“Move,” I said firmly. He began to turn, to go upstairs, but I grabbed him back. “No, baby bird. Downstairs.”

“But…” Bewildered, he almost began to fight me. From the ground floor, we could hear shouts and more shooting, glass breaking.

But downstairs was our only chance. The only escape route from the higher stories was the fire stairs at the back, and that would make us sitting ducks to any waiting snipers or shooters from below. Because I already knew what was happening: an attack on my home base, just like Teo Vitali had warned me about after the attack on Hillview House in Boston.

There was no time for regret. Not then.

I half-hauled Finch down the stairs and we slipped through the hallway as unnoticeably as possible; the living room was already lit up with flames and the front half of a car had come through the window. Two men dressed in paramilitary outfits stumbled around the room, overturning furniture, dumping out the drinks cabinet, coughing already on the smoke.

What in the hell were they doing?

There was a solid thud on the front door, which shuddered in its frame. I knew the sound; it was a door ram. In another few seconds I knew the locks, if not the hinges themselves, would give.

“Luca, how are we—”

“Move.” I hustled Finch through to the kitchen as fast as I could, and pushed him down behind the end of the counter. I ducked my head around to the left to look down the hallway, to get a handle on where the IFF currently was. I could see flames starting to lick around the edges of the living room, but then the front door gave, bursting open, and demanded my attention. There was an influx of men, boots loud as they crashed immediately up the stairs, shouting at each other.

One of them paused in the hallway at the side table near the entrance and began looking through the drawers.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Finch said next to me, and I turned, startled, to see him peering around the side with me. I pushed him back into hiding.

“Get down and stay down!”

“I’m not letting you take on an army—”

“Of course not,” I snarled, because it had always been my intention to simply find a good place to defend, hole up with Finch, and wait it out. I wasn’t a fool; not only law enforcement but my own men would be on the way already. All we’d have to do would be to wait out the attack.

But the fire complicated things. The smoke was getting denser.

The end of the hallway was glowing orange and I could hear, over the shouting of men invading our home, the roar of the fire as it took hold. Faintly, distantly, the sound of sirens seemed to be getting closer.

And the firefighters, when they got here, would be faced with a paramilitary group with automatic weapons. There was no telling what the IFF would do.

I pushed Finch down behind the end of the island counter again and tried to think.

“Luca—”

“Please, angel. I’m thinking.”

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole before,” he said in a rush. “I’m sorry for every time I called you an asshole, and I’m sorry for fighting with you tonight, because I love you and I’ve always loved you and I—”

I silenced him with a kiss. I wanted to tell him how he had changed my life, how he had ignited my soul, had given me an existence I had never dared to dream about—but there was no time. “I love you, too,” I whispered. “Now please, please, keep quiet.”

Finch would make it out of here alive. I was determined to make it so; I just had to come up with a plan. Throughout the townhouse I could hear the IFF agents calling to each other.

Nothing here.

Clear!

Nothing.

Check down there.

Running feet, coming down the hallway towards the kitchen—

I ducked around the side of the counter and took out the first man in line with a well-aimed shot to the face. The men behind him slapped up against the walls for cover as I ducked back. Finch was staring at me, but when I glanced his way, I saw no fear in him.

“How many bullets do you have?” he asked.

Not enough for all of the intruders. But enough to keep Finch alive until the cops arrived, or my men did. “Get over to the pantry and wait in there, close to the ground,” I said, instead of answering his question. “I’ll cover you.”

“I’m not going in there without—”

“I’ll join you in a moment.”

It was a lie, but I sold it well enough that he scrambled up to a crouching position. “Three, two, one,” I counted him down, and then leaned out again to fire at the men who were still there in the hallway outside the kitchen.

Finch made it across the floor to the walk-in pantry, and crouched in the doorway, waiting for me.

But my quick glance down the hallway had shown me what I feared even more than the IFF. The fire had taken hold. If we waited much longer, there would be no way out.

I gave Finch one last look and thought about the night we met, the way he’d appeared suddenly in the strobing light of the dance floor, offered to suck my dick, and then saved my life instead. Thought about his pink hair and his wild laugh and his green-gold eyes shining as he walked down the aisle towards me.

“I’m just going to clear a few of them out,” I called to him, low and steady. “I’ll come back for you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I’ll come back,” I insisted.

It was as much a lie as when I’d promised to back off, let others protect him. I really didn’t think I would live through the night, not this time.

But I wasn’t going to let these motherfuckers harm Finch, no matter the cost. If I could keep them occupied until backup arrived, or even until the cops got here, that would do. Finch was safe from guns in that tiny room for now, and if I could buy some time, eliminate some of these trigger-happy assholes so the fire department could do its job, Finch would survive the fire as well.

His safety was all that mattered.

I came out firing and managed to drive the men in the hallway back, grabbing a handgun from the body on the floor as I went. I wanted to draw their attention, to keep them focused on me and down the front of the townhouse, away from the kitchen and from Finch. But the smoke was already black and thick, treacherous to breathe.

An IFF agent stumbled out of the TV room to my right, coughing and choking too much to register who I was. I grabbed him and shoved him in front of me as I continued down the hallway, using his body as protection. He seemed to think I was helping him until we came to the next doorway, where his buddy gave a shout and opened fire. I ducked down behind my human shield, waiting for my chance, and then shot back several times over his shoulder. My eyes were streaming, my lungs closing up, and the now-dead body was too heavy to lug around. So when the next terrorist appeared out of the haze, I threw the corpse towards him as a distraction and then killed him as well with a shot through the heart.

I knew I had taken bullets, too; the familiar thud and burn had radiated through my thigh, and then my side, but the pain of it was blunted by the immediate danger from fire and smoke. I lunged forward instinctively, chasing what seemed like clean air, and realized my mistake too late.

I’d come way too far down the hallway, way too far from Finch, and the fresh air was coming in through the burst-open front door. I turned back at once, but there were three men coming down the internal staircase, and I had to dive out the front door to avoid their hail of bullets. I cracked my head on the concrete side of the stoop, hard enough to stun me for a moment.

I’d managed to hold onto my Sig Sauer, at least, though I’d lost the other gun. My blurry vision focused and I identified more enemy targets in the street. Through sheer willpower I forced myself to my feet and took out three of them, but I was running out of bullets and I was running out of blood, my hands slipping off the stoop as I tried to pull myself up. I gave up trying to get to my feet and fell down the steps instead, where I crawled into the middle of Fifth Avenue, hoping that any men still in the townhouse would follow me out.

Sirens were screaming in my ears like dance music. Lights were flashing, strobing in my eyes, and for a moment I saw Finch again as he had been that first night, his pink hair and silver outfit, an angel appearing before me in the middle of the dance floor.

I know you. You’re Lucifer fuckin’ Morningstar, cast out of heaven and landed here in the greatest city on earth.

He’d been right, that night. I was a man forged in hellfire and I would not surrender. Not like this.

Not when Finch was still in danger.

I wrenched my body up, got back onto my feet, and stumbled back toward the townhouse, back toward the inferno. I caught sight of two more paramilitary assholes running out the front door, covering their mouths with their arms, too busy choking to worry about checking the street. I pulled all my focus together, held my breath, and shot them dead with my last two bullets.

And then my heart lifted as I heard familiar voices behind me—Carlucci, Vitali, their arms holding me up.

“Boss, you alright?”

“Leave me,” I croaked out. “Finch. Get Finch.” I shoved them away, pointing to the townhouse, and thanked all the saints that they jumped right away to follow orders; they’d always been good men, reliable…

The world was wheeling around me as I kept stumbling back toward the townhouse, watching Vitali and Carlucci fight their way into the flames. I fell forward to my knees, tilted to the side, and rolled onto my back, staring up not at the night sky, but into a red and orange glow.

Finch.

Someone leaned over me, shaking me, and I grabbed their wrist, held up my gun to their head automatically, though I was out of bullets. I struggled to open my eyes but I was glad when I did.

“Nick.”

“Help’s coming,” he said grimly.

But I didn’t care what happened to me. There was only one person I cared about right then. “Finch,” I said, trying to sit up. “Finch.”

“I’ll get him,” Nick promised. “You just make sure you stay alive for him.”

I wanted to. Oh, God, did I want to. I had to, I reminded myself. I had to stay alive for Finch.

He’d be so mad if I…

Chapter Ten

FINCH

“…so it was Nick Fontana who pulled me out of the house before it burned up completely,” I wind up to Frank.

“First useful thing that fuck’s done,” Frank grunts. “Georgie shoulda killed him months ago for going behind his back with that rat-faced lawyer.”

I ignore that, although I wonder how he knows about it. I can’t imagine Luca would have said anything, wanting to keep Frank well out of Morelli business. We’re in the hospital café and Frank is eating a salad and cheese sandwich because it was the only thing left available in self-serve. He said it still tasted better than plane food. It’s the middle of the night and the café is quiet, only a few other miserable people sitting around staring into their coffees and not drinking them.

I know how they feel.

Aidan is staying with Luca while I fill Frank in on all the details that were making him shouty in the ward, and poor old Carlucci is sitting a few tables away from Frank and me, pretending not to listen in.

“I got in the ambulance with Luca,” I continue, “and that’s when he told me—” I break off to clear my throat and give the sudden urge to cry enough time to die down.

I could hardly hear Luca even before we were bundled into the ambulance, and then they put an oxygen mask over his face. He’d pushed it off weakly, and as one paramedic checked the IV, the other kept trying to put the mask back on, until I begged, “Please, he’s trying to say something.” I had to lean in so close my ear was against his lips, and his voice was harsh but faint.

Love you, baby bird.

I had to hold back my sob, because he was still trying to speak, and still so faint. He only had strength for one more word.

Nick.

I sat up a little, looked him in the face, and he blinked at me, tried to take my hand—no, not take my hand, but to show me something on his. I saw his meaning, and when I drew the heavy Morelli ring off his finger, those clouded blue eyes closed in relief.

“You want me to give this to Nick,” I said, to show him I understood.

He gave one shallow nod and allowed the paramedic to jam the oxygen mask back on his face. His hand went limp in mine and the medics pushed me away. I watched them battle to keep my husband alive as I sat there, and I felt another presence leaning in. Someone—something—interested in the fight. Trying to get a better view.

Clutching the Morelli ring in my hand, Luca’s blood making the metal slippery, I began to bargain with Death.

Frank’s ornery complaints break into my reverie. “—for Georgie? And why the fuck did Vitali not have extra protection on you? And why the fuck—”

“Frank,” I say wearily. “Believe me. Vitali did everything he could, but Luca…” I give an exhausted shrug, unable to explain.

But Frank gives an understanding snort. “He went all Don Morelli about it, huh? Said it’d make him look like weak shit if he holed up too much?”

I nod. “He said he wasn’t going to let the Irish or any other Italian Family think they were getting to him. And I did have extra protection whenever I was away from him—but when Luca was with me, he always…he took care of me himself. Because the truth was, he was scared, Frankie.”

Frank’s face scrunches up in what I think must be his frown these days. There’s so much scar tissue it’s hard to tell. “Bullshit. My little bro’s never been scared a day in his life.”

“Not for himself. He was scared—”

“For you,” Frank finishes for me, his voice soft. “Okay. Yeah. That, I get. I’m fucking terrified right now for Cee and Marcy, and I know they’ve got the best protection. Picked the men myself.” He reaches over to put his hand on mine. “But that’s why I came back, Principessa. For you. Because I knew Luca would want you protected.”

I stare at his hand on mine and try, once more, not to get teary. “I’m so happy you’re here, Brother Frank,” I say at last. “So happy.” I even smile at him, as much as I can. “But I am protected, you know.” I nod over at Carlucci. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You think I should worry about Georgie instead?” He squeezes my hand. “I can do both. Got extra space for worrying in this head since that Irish fucker blew my eyeball out.”

Despite everything, I do laugh at that.

* * *

When we get back to the hallway that leads to Luca’s room, I spot the now-familiar face of Conor O’Hara standing with the guards at the door. “Tara must be here,” I tell Frank as we walk. “She’s come in a few times the last few days. You remember her?”

“I do,” Frank says. “I remember her standing up for us in Boston that time we went to your dad’s…” He trails off.

Funeral, he was going to say. Frank is a little superstitious sometimes, and I bet he doesn’t want to invite trouble. “Yeah,” I say. “She’s been coming in for a half-hour every day. That’s her man down there, Conor O’Hara. He’s…I don’t know, I guess he’s her 2IC?”

“Two-eye what now?”

“Second in command, 2IC. That’s what the Donovans call it.”

“Underboss?”

I’m not sure I like the thoughtful way he says that word. The position of Underboss was a sore point for Frank when he was last in New York. “Something like that,” I say cautiously, and then I remember I never concluded our discussion about Nick Fontana back in the café. “Hey, Frank, I meant to let you know—” but Frank pulls away to walk in front of me, eyes on Conor, who looks over to greet me with a sympathetic smile.

“Holding up?” he asks as we come to a stop in front of him.

“Yeah.” Although I’m not sure I am holding up. Still, seeing his warm eyes does make me feel a little better. Plus Frank’s here, and my sister must be with Aidan inside the room with Luca…

Sometimes I forget how many friends I actually have these days. How much my family has grown.

“This is Frank,” I say, gesturing. Frank and Conor can size each other up. Frank does so unashamedly, literally puffing out his chest as his shoulders go back. “Frank, this is Conor. He’s with the Donov—with my sister.”

“Call me O’Hara,” Conor says, putting out a hand. “These guys do.” He jerks his head towards the Morelli guards standing behind him.

“O’Hara.” Frank shoves his prosthetic right hand into Conor’s, giving him a head-to-toe stare. Conor just smiles his easygoing smile and shakes without even blinking. “And who’s that?” Frank pulls his hand away and stares past Conor. If it were any other day, I’d try to smooth over Brother Frank’s lack of social graces. But it’s not any other day, and I was just as suspicious as he is the first time I saw the new faces.

Conor crooks his finger at the other two, who come forward. “Byrne and Murphy,” Conor tells Frank. “They’re with me. Ms. Donovan’s security detail.”

“Tara trusts them?” Frank asks.

Rory Byrne sucks in his cheeks like he’s trying not to speak out of turn.

“Well, they’ve both saved her life more than once,” Conor says.

Frank gives a grunt and extends his left hand this time. I think he likes the way it makes people second-guess their own impulse to shake with the right, likes to put them off-kilter right away. He stays slightly in front of me as I nod to the Donovans, and it reminds me of the way Luca does the same. Frank really does feel like a big brother right now, and I’m fragile enough to appreciate his overprotective stance right now.

“You all in town for a while?” Frank asks. At Conor’s nod, he says, “Then maybe we need to have a talk about a few things.”

At that, I push past everyone to go back into Luca’s room. I hate being away from him for too long and I have limited interest in Frank peacocking to the Donovans.

Inside, Tara and Aidan are talking in hushed voices, and Tara turns to give me a sad smile when I enter. She comes over to put her arms around me gently, just like she’s been doing since she first arrived in New York. It’s like she thinks I’ll break if she hugs any harder.

I don’t know. Maybe I will.

“How are you today, Howie? Aidan says they brought in a better mattress for the camp bed, to help you sleep.”

“I’m fine,” I say into her hair, breathing her in. It’s been a weird relief to have Tara here. I grew up so estranged from my family after Mom’s death that I never knew what I was missing. Even after we reconnected, things have been awkward sometimes. We’ve had more than one disagreement, even about the workings of the charity we’ve set up together. But Luca’s situation has swept away any tension between us, and I’m as grateful for her as I am for Aidan, and now Frank.

“Brother Frank!” she says over my shoulder as I hear the door open again, and I wonder how Frank will take seeing Tara again, after everything that went down last time he was mixed up with the Donovans. I should have known, though—Tara, like our mother, can charm anyone when she puts her mind to it. And in this case, she is determined. Within thirty seconds, Frank is grinning and chatting away with her like old friends.

Aidan comes up to me while they talk. “The doctor came in while you were out,” he says. “She’ll come back later to fill you in, but she did say that Luca was doing better. His pupils are responsive, and he’s still reacting to the needle.”

Every so often they stick a needle into Luca just to see if he flinches. This place is like a torture chamber. And when I look at Luca lying there, I see no difference. He still has a pallor to his face, his lips colorless. His black eyebrows and those long, thick lashes are like ink stains on paper. I really hope this doctor isn’t just blowing smoke up my ass to keep the cash coming in.

It’s not unlikely; in memory of Connie Taylor, we donated enough money to this long-term care ward that they renamed it after her. It’s come in useful now, being so generous, and I bet Luca thought about that at the time, too.

It’s the kind of thing he would have seen coming, would have prepared for in advance.

“Okay,” I say, without really knowing what I mean, because Aidan seems to expect a reply. He puts an arm around my shoulders.

“Do you want to come pray again?”

In the corner, the darkest corner of the room, beyond Luca’s bed, I can almost—if I stare hard enough, make my eyes blur just a little—I can almost make out a shadow.

A hungry shadow with a patient smile.

“You go,” I tell Aidan. “I don’t want to miss the doctor again.”

“We should let you get some sleep, anyway,” Aidan says, indicating the camp bed on the other side of Luca’s bed. I like that they’ve moved it there. It means I can guard him from that shadow in the corner, like a guard dog lying across a doorway.

I’ll be damned if I let Death have its way here today.

Aidan, Tara and Frank leave me there after more hugs, and I can hear Frank asking Tara to fill him in on everything that happened in Boston, so he “can find where Vitali failed,” and his doggedness to find someone to blame is so exhausting right now that I actually fall face-first onto the camp bed as soon as the door closes behind them.

I wave a warning hand at the corner. “You stay right fucking there,” I mumble into the pillow, and then I pass out.

* * *

I wake who knows when, but the noise that wakes me is weirdly familiar: loud argumentative voices in the hallway just outside. One, I recognize, is Frank’s. I roll my ass off the bed, glance at Luca to reassure myself that there’s no change—there’s not—and then I grouchily stomp over to the door and tug it open.

“—this motherfucker ain’t getting anywhere near my brother!” Frank is shouting from the waiting room down the hall. Luca’s two guards are holding him back with difficulty.

“You tell ’im, Frankie.” That, I think, is Al Vollero. Not my favorite Morelli Capo. I come out a few steps and look down the hall to see who Frank so strenuously objects to—

Shit.

“We’ll come back later,” Nick Fontana says to me, his hands up as if in surrender, and Carlo Bianchi is standing behind him, nervous but resolute.

“We need to get this done,” Carlo insists.

“Neither of you motherfuckers is getting in here,” Frank spits.

“The Boss don’t need no slimy ambulance chasers, Bianchi,” Vollero adds, like he’s Frank’s fucking backup singer.

Frank doesn’t even glance his way, though. He’s too busy screaming at Nick. “You think just ’cause I’m out of the country, I don’t know what’s been going on back here? Vollero told me everything. He kept me in the loop, Fontana, and that loop’s going round your neck when I get my hands on you!”

It’s an impressively muddled metaphor, and Nick looks weary of the whole exchange. He addresses me rather than Frank, calling down the hallway: “Carlo needs you to sign some papers, but it can wait.”

“No, it can’t wait,” Carlo says, trying to get around Nick, who holds him back with ease. “Nicky, I’m serious, this legal shit needs to get done today.”

Tara is nowhere around that I can see, but Conor O’Hara and his men are here, standing to the side in the waiting room, watchful as the scene unfolds. “Carlo, come on through,” I say, waving him towards me. Nick sighs, but lets Carlo go past him, while I stand myself in front of Frank and put a hand on his chest. “Cut it out, Frank. Things have changed, no matter what Vollero might have told you.”

Carlo slides by and makes his way to Luca’s door.

“The Boss never said it himself, about Fontana,” Vollero pipes up. “I never heard it from his lips that he wanted Fontana in charge.” He’s looking straight at me when he says it.

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him. Vollero should know better than to talk so openly about Family business, especially with an Irishman in earshot. I glance over at O’Hara and his crew. At Murph, hanging on every word he hears.

And when Luca hears that Vollero’s been sharing Family news with Frank…

“This asshole’s a traitor and he should be dead already,” Frank spits out, his finger stabbing towards Nick in that aggressive way he has. The room guards are still holding him back, thankfully, as he pulls against them. “And what the hell could’ve changed so much—”

“Keep it down,” I snap at him, jerking my head towards the three Donovans standing there like peanut crunchers. Conor gives me a slight smile, a small tip of the head, and then he shrugs, turns, and Rory and Murph fall in instantly behind him as he walks away. “Everything’s changed,” I say in a low voice to Frank, and then I look at Nick. “Show him.” Nick’s expression is clear to read; he doesn’t want to escalate. But: “He has a right to know, Nick. Show him.”

Even the three Donovan men can’t help pausing to glance back around as dead silence falls over everyone standing there. Nick holds up his hand slowly, looking Frank straight in the eye as he does, and Frank looks confused for a second until he realizes exactly what he’s seeing.

The Morelli ring.

The Morelli ring on Nick Fontana’s finger.

Frank’s neck suffuses with red. “You son of a bitch!” he screams, and throws himself forward at Nick.

Chapter Eleven

FINCH

I flatten myself against the wall as Frank, with two room guards flapping off his arms like clothes on a washing line, flies down the hallway at Nick. Conor, Rory and Murph dart into the fray as well, but not before Frank’s hard fist crashes into Nick’s face. Vollero, standing well clear of the action, gives a shout of laughter.

The Donovans, along with the Morelli guards, crash-tackle Frank to the ground, and Nick, rubbing his jaw, watches with hard eyes.

“Nicky!” Carlo starts towards him, but I grab him back, hustle him with me into Luca’s room.

“Trust me,” I mutter. “Guys like you and me, we should just stay out of the way when guys like them are throwing down. They’ll figure it out.” Luca’s told me that enough times now that it’s stuck.

“They’re not animals, for fuck’s sake,” Carlo says, scowling, but he stays with me and we both peer around the doorway together.

“Aren’t they?” I ask, as we watch the men get Frank to his feet. It still takes all five of them—two Morellis and three Donovans—to keep Frank under control, and hospital security has arrived as well, which is just going to make things worse. “Come on,” I sigh, withdrawing into the room and pulling Carlo with me. “You can go kiss your boyfriend all better after they’ve explained themselves to security. In the meantime, what do I need to sign?”

Carlo takes one more glance at the door, and then he turns his mind to business. Since Luca has been in the hospital, I’ve had to sign paper after paper, document after document from insurance, from the bank, and of course, from the Bianchi and Associates law firm as our representative to law enforcement. Carlo has been working his ass off to keep the cops away from me and from Luca—from the Morelli Family as a whole—and I’m very grateful, of course.

But I’m also exhausted and sick with worry and all these papers are meaningless in the end if Luca is not okay.

“Lay them on me,” I yawn, and Carlo starts putting down page after page for me to check and sign. Or rather, I don’t check; I just sign.

“You need to read these,” he says after the third one. His voice is gentle, but still business-like. “At least to understand what you’re signing.”

“Are you fucking me over?” I cock an eyebrow at him. “No? Then I don’t care. Tell me what to sign and I’ll sign. I gotta trust someone, Carlo, and right now, you’re it.”

He tightens his mouth, but keeps feeding me papers. I sign them as fast as I can, my signature becoming an illiterate scrawl by the end, and then I throw the pen back at Carlo, even though this whole mess isn’t his fault.

Or so I keep reminding myself. Because there’s a dark part of my heart that sometimes follows a particular chain of cause and effect, in which us being caught by surprise at the townhouse is linked back in an arrow-straight line to Luca being so pissed off at Nick Fontana…

And Carlo Bianchi.

Carlo sees the hint of it in my face, I think, because he shuffles the papers together and shoves them back in his briefcase. “Listen,” he says, and hesitates, glancing at Luca. “I wanted to tell you, Nicky and I are so sorry about the Boss. I mean—about Luca.”

“Are you?”

It comes out savagely, a challenge, and I expect Carlo to scuttle out of the room, back to the hard protective shell of his boyfriend, the man who took over the Morelli Family from the man lying there in the bed. I can understand why Frank took a swing at Nick. I can even endorse it on some level.

But Carlo’s expression softens, and he reaches out his hand to put it on my shoulder. “Yeah,” he says simply. “We are.”

I pull away and sit up on the bed next to Luca, taking his cool, dry hand in mine again. But Carlo just doesn’t take the hint.

“I want you to know, Finch, you can trust me. And Nicky, too. I know he regrets everything that went down with Luca—”

“Not everything, surely,” I say coldly, without looking at him. I squeeze Luca’s fingers tight, fighting to keep my emotions under control. “You can’t regret his decision to keep you both alive.”

“Obviously we’re both very glad to still be breathing,” Carlo says, and that does make me look at him. He’s wearing a pained half-smirk and I give a surprised laugh.

“I guess you would be,” I say. With the hand not holding Luca’s I rub my fingers across my eyelids. My eyeballs feel scratchy and dry. The air in the hospital is almost arid, despite the small humidifier Aidan set up in a corner after I complained about it. “I’m sorry if I’m…not myself.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Carlo says at once, and now he sounds surprised.

“Yeah, I do. I made you stay in here with me when you must be worried about Nick.”

“Nicky’s a big boy. A very big boy, just as big as Frank D’Amato. He can look after himself, like you said. I’m just sorry we rolled up at the wrong time. Frank seemed to think…” He trails off.

“I should’ve told Frank about Nick taking over. It just wasn’t…” I squeeze Luca’s fingers again, fighting down the bubbling waters of fear and regret and anguish that I’ve been negotiating these last few days. “It wasn’t the first thing on my mind, to talk to him about who was leading the Family. I was more worried about, well, our family.”

“Yeah. You’ve had a shitty run, these last few years.”

Coming from anyone else, it would lack tact. It could sound brutal, even, given my state of mind. I can’t imagine Aidan ever saying something like that. But from Carlo, it’s just a statement of fact, and it’s exactly what I need to hear. It’s just…acknowledgment.

“I sure have,” I say. “I sure fucking have.”

Carlo comes closer and puts a warm hand on my shoulder again. “And on top of all that, you had to play kingmaker while your husband was in emergency surgery. I’m so sorry, Finch. About all of it.”

“Me, too.”

He steps back then, and I’m relieved, because no matter how hard I’m squeezing Luca’s fingers, I’m going to cry. I thought I was done with that, a dried-up husk who was more likely to bleed from my eyeballs than tear up again, but no.

No, I still have more tears.

I lean over Luca, pretending that I’m just observing him, but I’m crying. I can’t help it. The tears are dripping down my face, off my chin, splatting onto Luca’s pale white skin.

I hear the door close behind Carlo. It’s safe to let go, and I tighten my grip on Luca’s hand, suck in a deep breath in preparation for the coming storm—and hold it. My heart stops too, just for a second.

Because Luca is squeezing back, his fingers curling around mine.

Weak. But unmissable.

I lean over and hit the call button, bashing it several times with my fist, before I turn my attention back to Luca and see his lashes stirring, the unmistakable flash of ice blue as his eyes crack open.

Chapter Twelve

LUCA

There is a hard pressure on my hand.

I grab back at it, hopeful for the comforting weight of my gun. As long as I have my gun, as long as I can hold it, as long as I can use it, I will be alright.

Finch will be alright.

But it’s not my gun—it’s something warm and moving, gripping me back—I try to open my eyes—there’s something wet on my face, something dripping on me—

“Luca.”

It’s coming from a long way away, barely a sound, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I try to speak, but my lips are too dry, they won’t move…

* * *

I am standing in the doorway of Don Augustino Morelli’s conservatory, the great glass room filled with greenery, the place he likes to take his breakfast. On the humid air I get a faint whiff of black coffee.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Angelo Messina waiting there, Tino’s faithful bodyguard, watching me with sharp, knowing eyes. But it’s not Angelo. It’s Marco, Marco Rossetti.

Why isn’t he with Finch? He’s supposed to be guarding Finch.

But Marco just gives me a nod and I turn back to the entrance. The scent of good coffee wafts out from among the plants. Tino is in there somewhere.

Tino has summoned me. I can’t keep him waiting.

I step into the conservatory, but it’s so much bigger than I remember, the path disappearing into a riot of plants and flowers and herbs, the pungency of the basil and mint tickling my nose…it’s overgrown, but not yet out of control. The path, at least, is clear, though fronds and leaves stretch over it and brush my face. They’re heavy and damp, leaving wet trails on my face as I walk by.

I know I need to find Tino, but the walk itself is so pleasant, I take my time. The coffee scent comes and goes, and as I get closer to the center, I can hear snatches of a woman humming.

It’s a wild, overgrown garden, not a conservatory at all; there’s no glass overhead, only blue skies that I see peeping through tall treetops. Here and there along the walk I can see flashes of color—flowers, yes, but birds, too, magnificent parrots and even a peacock tail disappearing around one of the forks in the path I choose not to take. Butterflies erupt in a great cloud and they carry with them a scent, fresh and grassy, a smell familiar to me, though I can’t place it.

“You are dawdling, Luciano!”

That voice. I haven’t heard it for several years, and to hear it now makes me catch my breath. “Don Morelli?”

“Hurry up, my boy. I don’t have all day. I’m a busy man, you know that.”

I’ve been jogging along the path as he speaks, until the trees open out into a clearing, and there he is: Tino Morelli, sitting at the small table I know from the conservatory in his New York mansion. He has a steaming black coffee by his elbow, biscotti before him on a small china dish, and a still-wrapped cigar placed just-so on a silk napkin, resting in turn on a silver serving platter.

I stop dead and gape at him. “Don Morelli?”

He stands and beckons me over, but I’m rooted to the ground. He moves to meet me instead, embracing me, kissing me on each cheek, and then offering his hand.

The large black stone of his ring is so deep and dark as I stare at it that it could almost be a pool for me to fall into. It seems so familiar—and so out of reach. I bend low over his hand and kiss the ring, and then he pulls his fingers from mine, even as I try to grasp them more tightly.

“Sit down, Luciano,” he says gravely, though his eyes are still twinkling at me. “We have much to discuss, you and I.” He beckons me with his head, and I follow him back to the table.

“It’s been so long…” I take a seat opposite him and try to remember when I saw him last. Try to seal into my memory the lines of his face, the inflection of his voice.

“Tell me—Finch. What is he like?” Tino is leaning forward, eager to hear my answer.

An overwhelming sense of déjà vu comes over me, and I put a hand to my forehead, almost dizzy with it. “Finch?” I’m breathing harder, my heart beating fast, and I take a moment before responding. “He is—he is—”

“Are you making him happy? You promised me, Luciano. You promised me. You said he would be happy.” Tino’s face fills my view, his glowering brows drawn and heavy.

I can hear someone calling me, calling my name.

Luca.

“Well?” Tino prompts.

I pull myself together, sitting up straight in the chair. “Everything I do is designed to make him happy, sir. Happy and safe. I’m keeping him safe.”

Tino is smiling again. “Has he tried to run?”

“No. Not again. Not since…” I frown. “Not since you…”

“And have you told him you love him?”

This, at least, I can answer without hesitation. “Every day. Every moment, every opportunity, I tell him. I show him. I don’t hold back anything from him. He has my heart, fully and completely.”

With a slow movement, Tino reaches for his cigar. “He has lost much, that boy. He needs to know, always, how much he is loved.”

“We are in complete agreement, Don Morelli.” I look around again—at the conservatory. The glass ceiling has returned, the sky hazy above it. “And you, sir? How are you?”

He laughs at that, the same wheezing chuckle that I used to take for granted I would hear for years to come. “Oh, I’m very well. Very well. And my other child, Luciano? How is she?”

“Like your son Finch, your daughter Marcella is safe and protected and loved, Don Morelli.”

The paternalistic sparkle has come back into his eyes. “You call me by that title so freely, Luciano. But it is not mine.”

The light is getting brighter. I can hear someone calling me again, far away but carrying, like someone shouting over a great stretch of water. There’s something heavy on my hand, and when I look down, I see the black onyx of the Morelli ring settled on my finger. “No,” I say, glancing back up at Tino. “It’s mine. Isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

I clench my hand shut, the edges of the ring pressing into my palm. “You gave it to me.”

“No.” He reaches over, puts his hand on mine, squeezes it hard. “You earned it, Luciano.”

At any other time, I might agree with him. But it’s coming back to me now, all the problems the title has brought with it. As Don Morelli I command hundreds of men. I have wealth beyond my wildest dreams. Most importantly, I can keep Finch safe.

But I only have to worry so much about Finch because I am Don Morelli.

If I were some lowly soldier still—or even a Capo—we wouldn’t be in such constant danger. Finch wouldn’t be a target that others aim at to get to me. “It should have been Angelo,” I tell Tino bitterly. “He would have been a better choice. More acceptable to The Commission. To the other New York Families.”

Tino is squeezing my hand again, almost too hard this time, my fingers crushed together in his grip. “Luciano, listen to me. I did not make my choice with the intention of it being acceptable to the Commission. To the other Families. The only Family that matters to me is my own. You understand?”

“No, I do not understand, sir. I never have.”

“Perhaps you will come to understand in time. And as for Angelo…” He lets my hand go and picks up his cigar, turning it around in his fingers. “Tell him to live his life, the life he could not live with me. Now you must leave me to enjoy my breakfast, Luciano.”

I can’t go, not yet. There’s something in me that knows we will never meet again. “There’s still so much I have to learn from you.”

“Then learn from those who taught me. And look to the foundations, Luciano.” He stamps his foot twice on the paved floor. “Take care of the foundations, and everything else will come to you. Now go on, my boy.” He stands, and so I have to stand as well, or risk offending. He takes my hand, bends over it, kisses the ring. “Run along, little Don Morelli.” His smile is so kind that my eyes sting and prickle.

“Goodbye, sir.”

He waves me off, chuckling, finished with me, and as I turn away I hear a woman’s voice humming again, closer this time, calling out for him. I know the voice now—it’s Connie Taylor, his lover—no wonder he wants to get rid of me. With a private smirk, I make my way to the door. Marco is still waiting there, patient, alert, dependable.

“All good, Boss?” he asks.

“All good.” He begins to walk with me through Tino’s house, escorting me out. “Marco,” I say, stopping in the hallway. I turn to face him. “I think…”

“Boss?”

But I can’t get the words out. There’s something sprinkling over my face, something wet and cool, and the light is too bright, the room too noisy.

I can hear him. I can hear Finch, calling me, pulling me back to him from a universe away.

“Luca.”

Chapter Thirteen

FINCH

The entire time Luca has been in this hospital—my least favorite place in the whole of New York City, and that includes at least two warehouses where I was beaten to within an inch of my life—I have been expecting to lose my argument with Death. And in the back of my mind I’ve been preparing for that the most sensible way I knew how: by planning my own death as well.

There was no way in hell I was letting Luca leave this world without me.

I think Aidan had an inkling. He’s stuck so close to my side this whole time it’s almost been irritating, and getting rid of that limpet clinging to me tended to involve ordering Teo to take him the hell home. I spent a lot of time considering my options, and I came up with several brilliant plans, if I do say so myself.

Just in case it became necessary.

I had to ignore Luca’s voice in my head telling me to knock it off with the death-wish bullshit and just get some sleep. It wore me down—arguing with Imaginary Luca, with Death, with myself. But now my whole world has come back into focus, my lust for living is flooding back into me.

His eyes opened.

It’s been over an hour since his eyes first opened. I’m standing in a corner of the room, the lightest and brightest corner I could find, while for sixty minutes the doctors and nurses have been leaning over Luca, testing his heart rate, asking him simple yes/no questions that I know he’d prefer to give long and complex answers to, and generally keeping me away from my one true love.

I’m beyond grateful, don’t get me wrong. But I still see Death waiting there in the other corner, the dark corner. He hasn’t quit. Not yet.

So I wait in my corner and glare at Death in his, two boxers getting ready to go into round ten. I might be bloodied and bruised, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him win.

“Finch.”

It’s a croak, a husky, dry rasp, the rusty razorblades lacking the treacle that usually coats his words when he speaks to me, but it still makes my heart lift to hear it. “I’m here, Luca. I’m right here, baby, I promise.”

I hear his sigh of relief although it’s quiet and subsumed by the chatter of the medical staff. I put my arms around myself and pretend they’re his.

Soon. Soon I’ll be able to feel his warmth, his fire. His eyes might be ice chips, but his heart is the furnace that keeps me going.

And now I will keep going.

* * *

It’s forever before I’m allowed to be alone with Luca again, before the doctors and nurses have finished all their tests, asked all their questions. I know I should have gone out to tell the waiting Family that their Boss was awake, but I didn’t want to leave my husband for one second, even to share good news. Darla took one look at me huddled up in the corner and said she’d go tell everyone on my behalf.

I know they’ll be relieved, happy, ecstatic even, and Frank might finally listen to reason about Nick Fontana—although I don’t know if Frank has been allowed back into the hospital yet, after he was escorted out by a number of hospital security guards. But I’m not thinking about the Morellis or even Brother Frank at the moment.

All I care about is Luca.

He’s been propped up very slightly in the bed, and when the door closes on the last nurse, he turns his face to me, squinting across the room. “Baby bird…” He reaches for me, his hand too weak to stay in the air, flopping onto the bed, his fingers crawling across the bedspread.

I’ve been in one position so long, my fingers stiff and sore where I’ve been clutching at my own arms, that discomfort shoots through me as I move towards him. I can’t speak, my tongue stumbling in my mouth like my teeth are trip hazards. “Luca,” I get out thickly, and I fall to my knees on the camp bed Darla moved back into position, grabbing his hand, kissing it, crying over it.

“Please…” he says at last. “Angel, please, let me see you.”

I’m snotting all over his hand, so I wipe it down with a Kleenex from the nightstand, mop up my face, blow my nose, and look up at him.

His lips move, just tipping up at each corner, and I start blubbering again right away. He finds the strength to close a hand on my wrist, tugging at me weakly until I stand, lean over, press my lips onto his. His lips are too dry, and I try to be as gentle as possible, pulling away when he tries to deepen the kiss, tipping his face up to mine.

“Don’t you dare try to slip me the tongue,” I say, my voice wavering.

“My mouth…does taste…bad…” he murmurs, sinking back against the pillows with a grunt.

“It shouldn’t. Darla and I took turns cleaning your teeth for you,” I tell him. I’m still weepy, but I’m starting to pull myself together now.

“Who’s…Darla?”

“Oh, my God, Luca. Seriously? She’s the nurse who looked after Connie Taylor when she was in here. She freaking loves me, so she took really great care of you, too.”

Luca frowns at that, thinking. “Connie,” he rumbles, and then he coughs. He coughs again, so I take the water bottle Darla left with the bendy straw and let Luca have a very small sip.

“No,” I scold, pulling it away when he tries to suck down another mouthful. “Small sips, no big gulps. Darla said.”

“I don’t…think I like…this Darla.”

“She’s awesome. You’ll love her. Plus she’s the one who took out your catheter; you should definitely be thanking her for that. Well, except she did get Frank kicked out of the hospital earlier today. She called security on him.”

Luca looks puzzled. “Frank?”

“Shit.” I put the bottle down and put a hand on his. I wish I could throw myself down on top of him, even curl up next to him, but I’ve been told to put no pressure on his torso at all. “Yeah. Brother Frank reappeared.”

Luca’s eyes darken. “That damned idiot,” he growls, and then coughs again until I let him have another sip. “What the hell…is he…doing here?” he gasps out when he can talk again.

“Well, gee, his little brother got all shot up to hell, so he figured maybe he’d look in, pay a friendly visit, you know?” My sarcasm is returning to me.

Luca has noted it too, his mouth quirking up at one side. His lips are pinking up again. He keeps licking them, so I take some of the Darla-approved lip balm and pat it over his mouth while I add, “Your brother came to see you because we all thought you were going to die.”

I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice even until the very last word, when it trembles. But maybe Luca won’t have noticed.

“Baby bird,” he murmurs, and reaches up to take my hand again. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

My throat closes up on a sob. I swallow hard. “You will never. And I mean never, ever. Do something that stupid again, running out to take on a fucking army on your own. You hear me?”

His fingers tighten around my wrist. “I can’t…promise that.”

All my terror and anguish and relief coalesce into a flaming ball of anger. “What the fuck,” I start, and he coughs again, shaking me out of it for long enough that I let him speak again when he’s able.

“I was…protecting you, angel.” He coughs again. “I won’t ever stop protecting you. Don’t—ah, shit—” He winces in pain as he shifts in the bed. “Don’t ask me to stop. I won’t. Can’t.” He slumps back on the pillows, exhausted again. “Love you,” he mumbles again, his eyes closing…and just like that, he’s asleep.

For a moment, fear seizes me. What if he’s slipped back into a coma? But no—Darla explained to me before she left that he would sleep again, and very soon. That I should let him. That I would know the difference between sleep and coma.

And what do you know, Darla’s dead right. This sleep is more natural somehow, less deep. He’s floating on the surface of the waters, not swallowed up at the bottom of the ocean.

I look down at him, a kaleidoscope of emotions jumbling around inside me. Part of me wants to whip the pillow out from behind his head and smother him, just to remind him exactly who, between the two of us, needs protection.

But instead of committing murder, I just let out a soft snort of disbelief, shake my head, and kiss his forehead.

Stupid, stubborn son of a bitch. I think it, but I don’t chance saying it out loud. I don’t want to wake him. I thought I would be able to sleep when he did, but I’m wired, my brain buzzing and alert. The blinking lights of the machines around him are distracting, almost painful at the edge of my vision.

His color is coming back. His cheeks are flushed rather than marble-white.

The first time I saw his face, there in the nightclub in the middle of a crowd of dancers, I pictured it hanging on the wall of some European gallery. He’s still a Renaissance masterpiece to me.

He is everything to me.

Yet he speaks of protecting me, as though he’s indestructible. The fact that his first thought was for me instead of himself was very telling. I love this man, and I need to protect him from himself.

Frank floats into my mind. I should go to him, let him know that Luca is alright. That his little brother had a near miss, and that between the two of us, we have to make him see sense, get Luca to safety.

I know what to do, now. But I’ll need Frank’s help to do it.

Chapter Fourteen

FINCH

I go into the bathroom and wash my face, then I slide out of the room, shutting the door as quietly as I can. At the end of the hallway I can see the Morelli guards hovering, looking down towards me, perking up when they see me. They’re joined by a little crush of people. Aidan, Teo, Nick and Carlo. Snapper Marino—one of the older, grizzled Morelli Capos, and Teo’s cousin—is there as well, and even Al Vollero is waiting. I can see my sister and her men, too, but…

Frank is not with the group. He really must have fucked up.

I raise my hand in acknowledgment and make my way down, walking as slowly as I can. I don’t want to be around anyone right now—except Luca, of course—and that isn’t like me. I usually thrive in front of an audience. But from the looks on some of the faces there, I can see I’m walking right back into trouble.

Nick is anxious; Carlo concerned. Aidan looks hopeful. Teo seems grim. But whatever is going on, the Morelli bodyguards don’t seem to know about it. Nor do the Donovans, if I’m reading the scene right. And Vollero seems completely oblivious.

All that evidence means the problem is likely to be…

Frank.

I reach them and explain how Luca is doing, the prognosis from the medical staff, reassure them all that he was conscious, very conscious, and talking to me. The relief is palpable, and I’m glad I made the effort to come out here. Darla told them as much as she could, but hearing it from me makes it official.

“You need to eat,” Tara says, once the joy and the chatter has died down, and I’ve answered as many questions as I can, although to most of them the only answer I can give is, I don’t know. “You haven’t had anything for, oh, ages. Will you come to my hotel, Howie, just for an hour? You can shower, we can get room service—”

“Not tonight, Tara. Or today, I mean. Whatever time it is right now.” But I smile at her, hug her to show her I appreciate the thought. “Right now I just want to go back in with Luca. And I think all of you could do with some rest as well, am I right?”

None of them want to admit it, but the collective exhaustion is clear. They disperse. Tara and her men leave first with promises to return tomorrow; Aidan and Teo head out with Snapper and Vollero; the guards return to their usual position near Luca’s door with my blessing; and then it’s just Carlo and Nick left there with me.

“Okay,” I sigh. “What’s the next crisis?”

They exchange a glance.

“Frank,” I say.

“He’s cutting up rough,” Nick says. “Making a lot of noise he shouldn’t be making. Saying things he shouldn’t be saying, real loud, in places where walls have ears, you know what I mean?”

I rub my hands across my face. “I’ll speak to him.”

“Problem is,” Nick says, and hesitates, looking again at Carlo. Carlo gives a nod, and Nick goes on. “Problem is, he’s trying to stir up the troops to get rid of me—so I hear.”

“So you hear?” I ask sharply. “Frank’s not a Morelli anymore, and you’re the fucking Acting Boss, Nick. The only one who should be stirring the troops—”

“Is me,” he agrees. “Believe me, I am not unaware. But Frank…” Nick spreads his hands. “His absence has made hearts grow fonder, and he’s still got a lot of pull in the Family. Plus that old shithead Vollero is backing him up, and you know he’s got his own problems with me. Is there any chance I can speak to Luca about it? If it was anyone else but Frank and Vollero, I wouldn’t hesitate to pull them into line. But…”

“As it happens,” I sigh, “I think I might have a solution to your Frank problem—tomorrow, though. In the meantime…”

I don’t want to bother Luca with this, but I know, too, that Frank will only listen to his brother about something like this. I know Frank, and I know the way he holds a grudge. “I haven’t spoken to Luca about any Family business,” I hedge. “It’s not really…my place.” This stupid arrangement that Luca and I have, where I keep my nose clean, and he does wicked things in the shadows, is something I agreed to only in the aftermath of killing my own sister, Maggie, to save Luca.

But I was shellshocked back then, and some days I feel like Luca took advantage of that to reposition me, keep me at arm’s length from the Family.

“Then what about Nicky?” Carlo, who has said nothing so far, finally speaks up, eyes narrowed. “It’s definitely his place to talk Family business to Luca.”

Maybe, but I’m not going to let it happen right now. “Luca is still very weak. We only spoke for a few minutes before he fell asleep again.” And I’m getting antsy that he might wake up and not have me there by his side. “All I’m saying is, he might not even remember what went down right before or after he was sh-shot.” My mouth struggles over the word. I still can’t believe it myself, what happened that night. “And I don’t want to bother him with this kind of thing until he’s stronger.”

Nick looks like he wants to object, but he can’t see another way to handle the matter. “Alright,” he says at last.

Carlo looks doubtful. “Can’t we just quickly ask—”

“No, you fucking can’t,” I snarl. “Luca is in recovery. I think he’s earned a few goddamn days off, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Carlo murmurs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He shrugs.

“It’ll hold a few days, Harvard,” Nick says. “I can’t stomp Frank without a blessing from the Boss—and I don’t particularly want to, either. But I can give a tug on Vollero’s choke chain. The Boss needs to focus on his recovery, not this infighting bullshit. And if anyone should talk to Luca first, it’s his brother. Not—not me.” He looks away at the last words, and I hope again that Luca and Nick will be able to make it up, really make it up. Hopefully Luca’s brush with the afterlife has given him a new perspective.

“Thank you for understanding,” I tell them.

Nick gives a nod, and they turn to leave, but then Nick turns back. “Please tell him, when he wakes up again, tell him I…” His gaze flickers from side to side as he hesitates.

“I’ll tell him,” I say. “I will.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, and this time when they turn to go, he puts an arm around Carlo’s shoulders and pulls him close. I bet every Morelli man is holding his loved ones a little closer these days. And it’s time for me to get back to mine.

Tomorrow I’ll deal with Frank, one way or the other. That’ll be the easy job.

The much harder thing on the To Do list for tomorrow will be persuading Luca that we need to leave New York City in the dust.

Chapter Fifteen

LUCA

This next time I wake, it feels like much less effort, and instead of someone shining a light right into my eyes, I’m staring into Finch’s lovely face. I smile, then wince as my lips crack. Finch disappears for a second, and when he comes back into view, he also smears something on my mouth.

“Hold still,” he says, when I try to turn my face away. “This is for your own good.”

“Doubt that,” I say, my voice hoarse, but I let him daub me with gunk. “Thirsty.”

He lets me have a few more measly sips of water. I watch him while I suck on the straw. If I felt a little better I’d make some joke about preferring to suck him—but everything hurts and my head is still fuzzy. But our previous conversation comes back to me. “You said…Frank?”

Finch sighs. “Brother Frank is here in New York, and already got himself banned from the hospital once, but he’s been allowed back in after I promised another sizable donation to the hospital.”

I can’t help but grin at that news. It’s so Frankie.

“I’ll bring him in as soon as I can,” Finch goes on. “But I want to talk to you about something before I do.”

I stop grinning. Finch has his serious face on. That never ends well. “What?” I cough out, suspicious. He lets me have a little more water.

“We need to get out of here.”

“Yeah, we do. I hate it here, and it’s too hard to keep secure; we found that out when Connie Taylor was in here.” I pause. Mentioning Tino’s lover has triggered a faint memory, but it won’t quite come into my consciousness. “I’m asking to be released as soon as I can walk, baby bird. Don’t you worry about that.”

“No,” he says, and he touches my face. “No, Luca. I don’t mean from the hospital. I mean—from the city.”

I take it in, frowning. “Has someone threatened you?”

“Are you kidding me right now? This is about you, Luca. You need protection.”

I can see the sense in his words. If I’m in danger, he is, too. Last time things got this tight I took him to Vegas…which didn’t turn out all that well. “Boston?” I croak. At least we have allies there, and they’ll have learned from the last attack.

“I was thinking a little further away.”

“Hm. Miami?”

“Further.”

“Hawaii?”

With a pained expression, he gives me another sip of water, and says, “I’m talking out of the country.” He watches me closely as though he expects me to choke.

I swallow down carefully, deliberately, and then say, “Last time I suggested disappearing into the wilds of Canada, you hated the idea.” He hesitates, trying to hide it by setting the water down on the nightstand. “We’re not going to Mexico, angel,” I warn him. “Far too complicated.”

He lifts my hand and nestles his cheek into my palm. I can feel the prickling of what must be about a two-day growth. It doesn’t suit him. I prefer him smooth-shaven, personally. But we can discuss that, and his obvious lack of sleep, once I can stay awake for longer than a half-hour at a time. I’m already feeling my eyelids droop.

But then Finch says something that makes them snap wide open again.

“I’m thinking Italy,” he says, completely casual. But I can tell from the way he’s watching me from beneath his lashes that he’s worried about how I’ll take it.

He should be.

“Absolutely not,” I snap, pulling my hand away from his face, and trying to swallow my involuntary grunt of pain at the sudden movement. Now I see what Finch was doing—trying to seduce me with those gold-green eyes before getting me to agree to outlandish suggestions.

“Listen to me,” he begs, trying to take my hand again. I yank it away, and agony shoots through me, making me gasp.

Finch freezes, his eyes wide and afraid.

“Baby, please,” he says, and I realize the reason his eyes look so much like deep limpid pools: he’s tearing up. “Please,” he says again, his lips trembling. “You’re not safe here, not right now. And Frank thinks it’s a great idea that we go stay with him and Cee and Marcy for a while.”

“Frank thinks so, does he? Well, no one ever accused my brother of being intelligent,” I snarl. The discomfort is still rippling through me. Finch reaches over to get the pain relief button, placing it into my hand, but I let it drop out of my fingers.

Finch’s lips pull back from his teeth in frustration. “Will you stop being such a macho asshole and just take your damn medicine?”

“No. And we’re not going to Italy.”

“Luca—”

“No. And that is my final decision on the matter.” He opens his mouth, but I talk over him. “Do not speak to me of Italy again.”

His face goes pale. “Do not speak to me like that again, Luca. I’m not your fucking underling. And right now, I still get to make decisions about your medical care. So fucking push the button and stop lying there panting and sweating because of the pain. You look like shit.”

We’re both pissed off, devolving into petty bickering. But I can’t stop the twitching of my mouth. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

I let him put the pain relief button into my palm.

“If you don’t want the drugs, baby, I’ll take them instead,” he says, his eyes still intense.

I know when I’m beaten. I hit the button, and a moment later, relief floods through me. “Mother Mary, that’s good,” I murmur, relaxing back into the pillows. I try to keep my eyes open. I want Finch to understand. “Angel.”

“What is it?” He’s back to playing nursemaid, tucking my sheets in around me where I’ve pulled them free.

“If I leave New York, it’s an abdication. Don’t you understand?”

“If you leave New York, you can recover, come back stronger. You can make allies in Italy—God knows the Morellis could use a few more.”

“If I leave, the Clemenzas will tear this place apart. Don’t you see that? I can’t turn tail and run. I can’t—I can’t retreat. Augustus never retreated. Julius Caesar never retreated. Alexander the Great—”

“I don’t care about dead fucking Romans!” he shouts. “I care about you, you obstinate asshole! And you are goddamn retreating, Luca.”

I’m too tired for this, to explain it all to him. Too tired to even point out that Alexander the Great was no Roman. I’m slipping back into sleep again, and for the moment, at least, I think Finch is right about retreating.

I will retreat to the safety of sleep and continue this battle with him when I wake again.

* * *

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—we are not alone the next time I wake.

“Eyyyy, Georgie!” Something out of a nightmare looms over me, and a hand claps against my cheek.

I squint up at the craggy face in front of me and, despite the fact that he’s a stupid fool who should have stayed in Italy where I sent him, I’ve never been so happy to see my big brother as I am right now.

“Frankie,” I choke out, and he leans in to kiss my forehead and pinch my cheek.

“Careful,” says an amused Finch from the other side of the bed. “He’s still in a lot of pain.”

“No way,” Frank says, glancing at Finch. “Us D’Amatos don’t feel pain like other men. We’re way too tough.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Finch myself,” I murmur, and they both laugh. Apparently Finch is in a better mood now. Good. Because after my rest, I’m looking forward to explaining to Finch exactly why this Italian getaway idea is such a bad one.

But Finch forestalls me, shoving the goddamn straw back in my mouth. I suck up the water greedily, and he lets me have more this time, but I am very much over being treated like an invalid. I feel much stronger now.

I push the bottle away and try to sit up, swallowing down a bark of pain.

“What the hell are you doing?” Finch snaps.

“Sitting up,” I snap back.

He rolls his eyes and picks up another button, which raises the head of the bed a few inches. I’m not anywhere near sitting, but I’m not lying down so flat that they both have to lean over me. “I can do that,” I say, trying to reach for the button, but Finch ignores me, and my hand, somehow, is just too heavy to move right now. I sigh and turn my attention to Frank, who’s grinning at me. “Frankie, what the hell are you doing back here?” I ask.

His grin only gets bigger. “Aw, you can’t boss me around no more, Georgie. You kicked me out of the Family yourself, eh? Bet you regret it now.”

I would never tell anyone this—not even Finch—but there are times when I do regret giving Frank permission to leave. Not even permission: I ordered him gone. He had sacrificed too much for me. Looking at his ravaged face, the eye patch, the scars, the missing hand, I know again that I did the right thing.

But I still miss him, much more than I thought I would.

“I regret nothing,” I tell him, but he knows me well enough to know when I’m bullshitting.

“You had to grow some balls without me around to stick up for you, eh?” Frank pulls one of the chairs close to the bed, Finch and I both wincing at the scrape of the legs across the floor. “How you feeling, Georgie?”

“Like cutting your tongue out if you call me that again,” I sigh, but I let it go. “I feel fine.” Finch’s snort is drowned out by Frank’s shout of laughter.

“See, Principessa?” he says, looking at Finch. “Takes more than a few bullets to stop a Damn D’Amato. Ain’t that so?”

“That’s so,” I say, looking at Finch myself. He’s giving Frank a meaning-filled stare, and I know then that Frank was supposed to come in here and convince me into this crazy Italy plan—but he’s gone off message.

“Uh, I mean,” Frank stammers, “I mean, you did take an awful lot of them, Geor—little bro. You gotta admit, you’re all shredded up inside.”

“The surgeon did her work well,” I retort, “and I’m recovering quickly. They all say so, all these doctors and nurses tramping through my room. Now, enough about me. How are you, Frank? And Celia? And the baby?”

“Oh, she ain’t a baby no more.” Frank leans back in his chair to brag. “She wanders around after her dad all day, my little shadow. Celia gets real mad sometimes when Marcy wants to hang with me and do cool shit.”

“What cool shit?”

“I started tinkering with some motors,” Frank says, his one good eye lighting up. “And then I got kind of a rep among the locals, that I was good with cars. So now all the locals come to me when they got a problem. I just do it for fun, you know. Not like we need the money or anything. You set us up real good, little bro.” He gives me an affectionate smile.

“Luca,” Finch says firmly, “Frank and I need to talk to you about going to Italy for a while.”

“No, you don’t,” I say.

“Well, Georgie, you gotta admit, Finch has a point,” Frank wheedles. “It’s a real hot scene in New York right now, and it’s not like they’re gonna stop coming for you any time soon.”

I’m tired of being treated like some half-wit just because I got shot a few times. Frank would never presume to talk to me like this if I wasn’t lying here in a hospital bed. “I am not going to run away like a whipped cur and let our allies get slaughtered by a bunch of goddamn Irish terrorists!” I shout, and only succeed in giving myself a coughing fit.

Finch calmly brings the straw to my lips again, and when I cough back up some of the water, he just as calmly wipes up the spit on my chin with a washcloth.

It’s infuriating.

“That is not what we’re suggesting,” he says severely. “You can still give orders from Italy, you know. It’s not like the Morellis will be out of the fight altogether.”

I find the strength to push his hand away, and even hide my wince at the discomfort when I do so. Or I think I have; I see Finch looking at the pain relief button again and make up my mind. “Listen to me, both of you. I am not leaving this city. That is my final word.” I reach out a hand to each of them, and they take them. Frank looks surprised. Finch looks furious, so I address my next words to him. “It doesn’t matter where we go, angel. Our enemies are everywhere. And God knows, we won’t have the protections in Italy that we have here. So, no, we are not going to Italy.”

“But—” Frank begins, and thankfully we’re interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Whoever it is doesn’t wait for a response, the door opening before any one of us can call out.

“Mr. D’Amato. How lovely to see you again.” The woman in the doorway gives a broad smile.

“Detective Garcia,” I say. “I wish I could say the same.”

Chapter Sixteen

LUCA

Detective Gina Garcia has been snapping at my heels for some time, and now she seems to have persuaded her overlords to grant an arrest warrant against me. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. She was part of the Operation Safe Center Task Force during the Central Park killings, which focused on Angelo Messina. When he ran off with one of their own, FBI Special Agent Baxter Flynn, the task force—and Garcia in particular—turned her attention to other senior Family members. Fontana’s been in her crosshairs for months.

Now, it seems, it’s my turn.

She’s followed into the room by two uniformed police officers, one of them already swinging the handcuffs from a finger and giving me an insolent smirk.

“You can’t be in here,” Finch snaps. “Only immediate family.”

Garcia laughs. “Can’t be in here,” she repeats. “You’re funny, Howie.”

“Fuck you,” Finch retorts, but I can tell he’s unsettled. Garcia knows which buttons to push. Only the Donovans ever call Finch by his given name.

Frank stands tall, making himself wide and imposing. “What the hell is going on here? Luca’s just come outta surgery. He needs his rest. Can’t be moved. Doctor’s orders.”

Garcia stares at him for a few moments before recognition dawns on her face. “Well, fuck me,” she says. “The brother. So you’re still alive, huh, Frank? We had a pool running at the office. I really thought D’Amato here had taken you out. Guess I’m gonna be out fifty bucks when I get back to the precinct.”

“What do you want?” Finch demands. He moves around the bed to stand at the foot, like he’s going to physically protect me from the law if he has to.

Garcia gives him a sweet smile. “I’m here to place your husband under arrest, Howie, after dispersing the rag-tag gang of criminals that have been loitering throughout the hospital these last few days, intimidating people.”

“No one’s been intimidating anyone,” Finch snarls.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, still smiling. “You’re sure trying your best right now.”

She reminds me of a cat toying with her prey. I give a cough, just to make Finch hurry back to my side, and then I push away the water he offers. “Get on with it,” I say to the detective.

She drops the amused act and begins to recite my rights. I motion Finch closer, and he leans in. “Call Bianchi,” I murmur into his ear, “then Fontana, if they’re not together. And tell Vitali to get Frank to a safe house.” I don’t like the cops knowing my brother is here. They’ll follow him out of the country when he goes, unless we shake them early, and then our enemies will follow the cops.

“Got it,” Finch whispers.

Garcia has finished and is motioning one of the uniforms forward to cuff one of my wrists to the bed. Finch makes a jerky movement, as though he’s about to fling himself over the bed when the cop touches me, but I put up my other hand to hold my husband back. “It’s just a misunderstanding,” I tell him. “Bianchi will get it cleared up in no time.”

Garcia snorts, opens her mouth to say something as the uniform rattles the cuffs to make sure they’re secure, but the door opens behind her again and a nurse rushes in, eyes so wide I can see the whites around her irises.

“Darla?” Finch asks. “What—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says—to Finch, I notice, not to me or Garcia “—but there’s been a threat called in.”

Chapter Seventeen

LUCA

All three cops drop their hands to their guns. It would be funny in other circumstances. Synchronized suspicion.

“What’s the threat?” Garcia and I ask together. Darla looks between us, nervous, and then addresses Finch again.

“Well, it was a warning to clear out the long-term care ward because—”

At that moment, an alarm starts going off, deafening and urgent. Darla shouts something over it, but I can’t hear her.

Garcia narrows her eyes at me and I know what she’s thinking: that this is my doing, to distract her from her mission today. But I shake my head at her and shrug, even though it sends another whine of pain through my torso.

My ears have adjusted to the long whoop-whoop-whoop of the alarm and I can hear her faintly when she shouts at her men. “Give me the key and go check it out. I’ll stay here with the perp.”

Perp? It’s almost offensive. The guy who handcuffed me hands her the keys, and then the two uniforms disappear out the door. Darla and Finch are still in deep conversation, and Frank has gone out to check the hallway. He’s reliable in a bad situation, as long as he doesn’t take it into his head to act on his own.

Garcia comes closer to me.

“You’re really telling me this isn’t your doing, D’Amato?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to chance shouting. It still hurts, and it might make me start coughing again. The last thing I want with Garcia in the room is to have my husband mopping the spit off my chin again, especially if we need to make a fast exit.

“Then who?” She leans in close, ignoring my snarl as she does. “Come on, D’Amato, give me some idea. I can’t protect you if I don’t know who’s coming for you.”

“You can’t protect me, period.”

“You’re just gonna lie there and let them take you out?” she challenges.

“Not much choice with this on my wrist.” I shake the cuff.

She looks at it, glances over her shoulder, then back to me. “You’re in no condition to run, I guess.” She unlocks the cuff then stands back, watching me with critical eyes. “I’ll move you until the threat is cleared.”

“I’ll move myself.”

Finch is still occupied with Darla. I tug at my blankets, trying to pull them off my legs, but the sheets are too tightly tucked. Garcia yanks them out and I try to swing one leg out of the bed first, but I have to collapse back for a moment, gasping at the unwelcome agony.

Darla catches sight of me over Finch’s shoulder. “Oh, no, Mr. D’Amato, sir, you really can’t—”

“What are you doing?” Finch shrieks, running over and trying to push me back on the bed.

“Getting you out of here,” I tell him, trying to shove his hands aside. “We need to go.”

Garcia walks around Finch to my legs, lifts both my ankles, and walks around to swivel me so my legs swing over the side of the bed, ignoring both Finch’s protests and my nudity under the hospital gown as it hikes up. She reaches out and I grab her hand, let her pull me upright. It’s torturous and humiliating, but it works; I’m sitting up on the side of the bed, my toes just touching the cold linoleum floor. Finch is beside me, keeping me more upright than I care to admit.

“You can’t walk,” Garcia says dispassionately.

“Of course he fucking can’t!” Finch snaps, rearranging my hospital gown, and I know he’ll try to put me back in the bed.

“You,” I say, looking at the nurse. I fix her with the same stare I use on my Capos. “Go get a wheelchair.”

She flies from the room, and I can only hope she’ll actually return with what I want. Frank just about collides with her in the doorway, contorting his body so he doesn’t hit her. “Clear down there,” he says. “And I mean it’s quiet like the fuckin’ grave, Georgie. Staff gone, patients gone. Guards, too.” He gives me a significant look.

I know the guards would never have left of their own volition, would have run in here as soon as the alarm went off, and I think again of what Garcia said when she first came in. I look at her, raise an eyebrow. “Your people cleared them out?”

She gives a single, irritated nod. She’s nervous, but she’s not afraid. I can’t help but feel a grudging respect for her. Still, she’s fucked up today, and it’s a pleasure to be able to point it out. “Whoever this is, whoever’s coming for me,” I say, clearly and distinctly over the alarm, “they were just waiting for you clowns to clear my friends away from the waiting area. They knew they’d never get past them, not head-on. You’ve killed me yourself, Garcia. I won’t get my day in court, and you’ll get your nice silk blouse soaked with your own blood, instead of that promotion you were hoping for.”

Her mouth scrunches up and she turns aside to talk into her radio. “Officer Kleiner, come in.” No response. “Peretsky. You there?”

“They ain’t answering,” Frank says, pointing out the obvious.

“Perhaps your men are already dead,” I tell her. “Or perhaps your comms are being disrupted. Either way, I’d say we have less than a minute to get out of here or we’re going to die, too.”

“You sure know a lot about it for someone who doesn’t have a clue who’s coming for him,” she snaps, but she’s already moving to check the hallway. “Fucking finally,” she sighs, as the alarm cuts down in volume. “Move it,” she shouts down the hall to someone, and a moment later the nurse arrives back, breathless and flustered, with a wheelchair.

Frank pushes Finch and Garcia aside and helps me himself. Even all torn up like he is, he’s still stronger than the two of them—and he’s had years of experience dragging my almost-lifeless body around.

“Just like the old days,” I say to him, and he chuckles, then hooks my arm around his neck, grabbing onto my hand. With his damaged arm, he hoists me clumsily by the waist. I get to my feet and we stagger towards the wheelchair.

I black out for a few seconds from the pain, but when my head stops spinning and the nausea abates, I’m in the chair, and the nurse is propping my bare feet up on the footrest.

“Frank,” I gasp out, trying to ignore the pain, and point. “Drawer.”

“He wants his gun,” Finch says, running over to the nightstand.

“Hell, no,” Garcia says at once, pulling out her own sidearm and taking aim at me. “Freeze!”

Everyone else in the room, including Darla, ignores her. Finch pulls out my Sig Sauer, checks that the mag is full, and hands it to me before taking his own, small-caliber gun out of the drawer as well.

“I’ll take that,” Frank says, and Finch hands it over gratefully. I’m grateful, too. My husband is a better shot these days, but he’s not trained for this kind of thing.

And then I realize that, of course, Frank will be shooting with his surviving left hand these days instead of his right. That thought doesn’t fill me with confidence.

Darla says nothing about our sudden weaponizing. “What now?” is all she asks.

Garcia is aiming her firearm at Frank now, as though she doesn’t think I’m much of a threat. She’s not wrong. I can barely keep the gun in my hand. At least Frank has a hold on his.

“Detective Garcia?” I ask. “Are you running this show, or not?”

She gives me a contemptuous, annoyed glare, but lowers her gun. “We hole up in some lockable room here in the ward,” she says shortly. “Can’t risk moving around the hospital. We don’t know where these people are—if they even exist.”

“No,” Finch says, and I’m so damn proud to hear him so cool, calm and collected. “They know the room number. They have to. And even if they don’t, there’s not that many private rooms. We stay here, we might as well all shoot each other right now.”

Darla gives a little squeak. Garcia looks at her and seems to be regretfully remembering her duty of public care. “Is there any other way out of here, through to the main hospital, apart from the entrance by the desk?” she asks.

Darla’s attention snaps back. She shakes her head. “N-no…but if we take the elevator down to the basement area, there’s a long service tunnel that the cleaning staff and caterers used to use sometimes. It leads back up to the road. Hasn’t been in operation since the extensions to the hospital twenty years ago, but it’s still there.”

“They’ll be waiting for us,” Frank says.

“I’m not sure about that, sir,” Darla says. “The doors at the end to get out need a high-level pass to open, and, well, I think Mr. D’Amato’s security people have been watching it, along with our own hospital security.” Darla looks Frank right in the face when she replies. I like that about her, that she never treats him as less than a person, despite what he looks like. “Plus there are rooms that come off the tunnel. We could find somewhere to hide.”

She’s smart, too. Vitali will have men watching the doors. They might already be dead, of course. But hiding down there is the best chance we have.

“Let’s go,” I say, and Finch gets behind me to push.

“If this is some setup to get me alone in a fucking basement—” Garcia starts, cutting off when I snort.

Frank walks right past her to scan the hall outside again. “We’re good to go. Darla, honey, you come up here with me, tell me which way.” Darla scurries to his side, peering fearfully around him.

Finch starts pushing me forward. As we pass Garcia, I say, “If you want to stay here, Detective, you’re more than welcome. But if you come with us, we’ll protect you if you protect us. You have my word.”

I don’t have the energy to turn around and watch her make up her mind, but I do hear her muttered curse, and her footsteps bringing up the rear. I’m glad she’s decided to join us. She seems well-trained if nothing else.

And I’m really not sure how accurate my shooting will be right now.

“It’s left and then right at the corner,” Darla is saying to Frank. “The old elevators are around there.” Frank puts her against the wall, and goes ahead to check the corner. Garcia pushes past Finch and me to stand guard in the hallway facing the other way. On the way through the door, Finch bangs the wheelchair into the doorframe and I hiss with pain.

“I’m sorry, oh God, sorry, baby,” he gasps, kneeling down next to me.

I manage to smile at him. “Don’t be sorry, angel. Just try to drive straight, eh?”

“Let’s move it,” Garcia warns. Finch backs the wheelchair up a little and makes it through the door. We make it to the corner, then into the elevator. It takes me that long to get my vision clear. I’m shivering, the pain making me cold, but I clench my teeth together and force myself to keep still.

If we’re going to get out of this alive, I will need to shoot straight and true.

The elevator goes down slowly, and when it opens up there’s a blank cement wall opposite, with a cool, shadowy corridor stretching either side. Without speaking, Darla points the direction she wants us to go, and Frank crouches and ducks his head around the side to check it out, while Garcia takes the other view.

“Clear,” she murmurs.

“Let’s do this,” Frank says, standing up again.

Finch is extra careful wheeling me out of the elevator and into the hallway, although I’d rather he went for speed rather than worrying about my pain. But I say nothing. It’s not the time to bicker.

At the end of the long tunnel, which slopes gently upwards the whole way, we can see that it gets lighter. The overhead lights are mostly off, though every now and then one is still flickering—enough to light the way. There are enough doors set in both sides of the wall that it slows us down, having to stop and check each one. I can hear Finch panting a little as he has to push harder at the wheelchair up the sloping floor.

I have my pain under control—as much as I possibly can, anyway—and I’m confident that I’ll be able to defend Finch if we run into any undesirables. Darla is moving briskly now, and I can see she wants to run, but is smart enough to stay behind Frank instead of making a break for it. Garcia is still on edge, no doubt imagining some ambush for her. But so far, so good.

We get about halfway before it all goes to hell.

Chapter Eighteen

FINCH

I’m leaning over Luca’s shoulder to check on him, wheezing in his ear like some decrepit—pushing the weight of a wheelchair plus Luca up a slope is quite a fucking work out—when there’s an explosion up ahead, the blast waves strong enough to flatten even Frank against the wall, and Luca and I go skidding backward into Garcia. If I hadn’t been leaning over him, I think I would have tumbled head over ass. As it is, I just slam into Garcia, and both of us are pinned against the wall for a moment with Luca’s wheelchair, which has careened sideways. Luca is slumped to the side.

“Shit,” Garcia spits. I have to agree. We can hear yelling and screaming from up ahead, running feet, gunfire.

Someone is trying to force their way into the tunnel, and I don’t think they’re friendly.

But my first focus is Luca. I manage to shove the wheelchair forward and slide out from behind it, coming around to crouch down and look at his face. He’s gone dead white again, as pale as he ever was while he was in that godawful coma, but his eyes crack open when I shake him. I can see the agony written clearly on his face, and his eyes can’t focus on mine.

I’m worried he hit his head on the wall. And worse, there’s a red stain on his hospital gown. If his blood has soaked through all those bandages, it means he’s bleeding really badly. They fucking mummified him.

“Luca,” I say urgently, pressing against the wound as hard as I dare.

His head rolls on his shoulders until he’s staring straight up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Gun,” he says.

Garcia is already picking it up. “He’s in no condition to use this,” she says, eyeing my husband like he’s just a specimen in a jar. I feel like punching her.

But she’s right.

“Give it…” Luca insists, trying to hold out a hand.

Garcia passes the gun to me instead. “Hope your Mob Boss husband taught you to shoot in between all those crimes and murders he was committing.”

“For your sake, I hope I remember those lessons,” I clap back. “I’ll try not to wing you, huh?”

Frank and Darla have found an open door and are waving us into a room off the side. We manage to get in there before the invading army—that’s what it sounds like, echoing down the tunnel—makes it down far enough to spot us. I leave a long smudge of Luca’s blood against the door as I push it open to get the wheelchair through, but there’s no time to clean it off.

And once we’re in the room, there’s not much more protection that I can see. The doors swing open both ways, in and out, and have no lock. It’s an old abandoned kitchen area, I think, although most of the kitchen equipment has been ripped out, and all that’s left is an old oven and the open pipes and spigots sticking out of the floor. Once the doors close, all we have for light are our cellphone flashlights.

“Can’t protect a goddamn thing in here,” Frank says, echoing my thoughts.

Outside, the noise has died away, but the silence is more terrifying than the shouting.

“Over here,” Garcia whispers, motioning to Darla, who runs over quickly to the doorway the detective is holding open.

But I pause. “Hang on—that’s a fucking walk-in freezer. Like that one in The Shining. Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s not working,” Darla murmurs. “And it opens from the inside—in case anyone gets shut in.”

“I’m not going in there to asphyxiate with my husband,” I say. “And there’s a lock on the outside. If people are coming for us, they could just lock us in there and leave us to die.”

I might be very slightly claustrophobic sometimes. Like whenever some unknown enemy is trying to kill me.

Like now.

“Move it, Principessa,” Frank says, seizing me with his good hand. “We don’t got a choice. Best we can hope is that they don’t even notice us and go straight past that outer door.”

I look to Luca. I know he’ll see what a terrible idea it is—

Luca is slumped in his wheelchair again. I run over to him, shaking his shoulders. “Luca, wake up!”

Darla comes over and Frank pulls me away, despite my protests. “Keep it down,” he whispers harshly. “Let the nurse do her thing.”

Darla feels at his neck for a pulse and I freeze in place for a horrible three seconds, maybe the worst of my life so far. Then she thumbs up one of his eyelids. “He’s passed out,” she says softly, “and he’s opened up a few of his sutures.” She looks over at me. “He’ll be alright as long as we get him back upstairs as soon as we can.”

“Best way to do that is hole up, hope this shitstorm passes us by,” Frank mutters stubbornly.

It’s so quiet out in the tunnel. Too quiet.

“I don’t want to die in a fucking box,” I whisper. I’m having flashbacks to the nightmares I had after Tino Morelli’s death. More than one night I dreamt of his demise, the invasion of the cellar of his house where he was holed up, trying to reach his escape tunnel.

“You and me both,” Garcia says, holstering her gun and coming over to take the handles of Luca’s chair. “But we have no other choice right now. It’s the best plan we have.” When I still don’t move, she nods at Frank, who suddenly winds an arm around my waist and lifts me bodily, dragging me across the floor to the walk-in freezer.

I don’t fight. I think all the fight has left me, seeing that dark red seeping across Luca’s middle. Garcia wheels Luca in after me and Frank, and Darla comes in last, pulling the door shut. There’s not even a lock on it.

We’re fucked.

I turn my attention away from the door to look at Luca in the shaky light of my cellphone. There’s no reception down here, no way to call for help. I can only hope that the personal alarm on my keyring, which I pressed as soon as the alarm upstairs went off, and then several more times before we got into the elevator, reached Carlucci or Vitali. In the meantime, I concentrate all my concern on Luca.

He’s not quite as pale as he was before he passed out, I decide, although it’s hard to tell one way or the other in the stark light from my phone. And then we hear noises outside, feet shuffling, muffled talk echoing down the tunnel, loud enough to reach us in our hiding place.

I turn off my phone light.

“We should just wait up at the top,” says one. His accent is immediately familiar to me. Boston.

“We got told to search, so we search. The asshole’s not in the ward.”

A new voice, and this one is a rich Irish brogue: “Probably got evacuated.”

“No sightings yet,” says the second man. “We have the other team up there looking, just like we’re supposed to—”

“Hey—”

The voices go silent and I picture them whispering. Something’s caught their attention. The answer occurs to me even though I’d rather not know it: that smear of Luca’s blood that I left on the door when I was pushing it open.

I feel around for Luca’s hand, holding it tight. For the first time, I hope he doesn’t come around, not yet. If he makes any involuntary noise…

There’s a loud bang as they kick the doors of the kitchen area outside open, and all of us jump—except Luca. Darla lets out a soft whimper. I have no idea where I put my gun—Luca’s gun.

I’d probably just shoot the wrong person, anyway.

We hear the footsteps out in the kitchen shuffling around again.

“We should just shoot the place up,” mutters one voice.

“We need him alive,” hisses another, and it’s answered by a dissatisfied grunt.

We wait in the silence, just wait there to be found. I try to calm my breathing, try to match the slow pace of Luca’s, try to think. If they need Luca alive, Garcia and Frank might have a chance to take out the shooters before they kill us instead. I feel my way to Luca’s neck and press shaking fingers against his pulse, reassuring myself that he is still alive. The beat in his neck is steady but not strong, and all I can hope is that he’s not bleeding out.

“Over here,” snaps a voice outside. And there’s a bang on the door of our hiding place, like it’s been kicked. Lights start to flash in the plexiglass window set into the door, but it’s so dusty I can’t tell if they’ve seen us.

I kneel up and press my face into Luca’s neck, into his hair, breathe him in.

“Come on out,” shouts the Irish voice, “and we won’t kill you. We just want the Donovan kid.”

What the fuck?

I raise my head so sharply that my neck cracks painfully, and catch Frank’s good eye in the shaking lights from outside. He’s looking straight back at me, as stunned as I am.

He shakes his head.

“We’re looking for Howard Donovan,” shouts the voice again. “Come out and you won’t be hurt.”

I rise up on my knees. Frank makes furious get down motions with his prosthetic hand, but I ignore him. Garcia is staring at me as though I might suddenly turn on her.

“Come on, now,” coaxes the voice outside. “We all know you’ve got a death wish, Donovan, but what about those folks in there with you? Think of them.”

“My name is D’Amato,” I call out. “Not Donovan.”

After a short silence, the Irishman says, “No disrespect meant, Howard. Come on out, now.”

“I’ll come out,” I call back to the men. “But you need to promise the people in here with me won’t be hurt. They’re hospital staff. They have nothing to do with this.”

There’s a short, whispered conference outside, and I can hear them all coming close to the door. “Sure,” the man says, not shouting this time. He’s right up against the door. “You come with us, Howard, there’ll be no need for further bloodshed.”

I spot Luca’s gun on the floor and pick it up, checking that the safety is off. “One more thing,” I say, and I sound so calm to my own ears it’s like someone else’s voice. I get to my feet. “I know you need me alive. So listen carefully. I’m holding a gun to my head. If any of you start shooting at anyone in this box, I’ll blow my brains out myself.” Silence. “Capisce?” I say, and then add, “If you know me like you think you do, then you know I’ll do it.”

“Sit down and shut up,” Frank hisses behind me, but he’s got Darla curled up in the corner behind him and doesn’t dare move. I point at Garcia and then at Luca. She scrambles over quietly to position herself in front of him, in case these motherfuckers do open fire when I go out the door.

Because I am most definitely going out the door, and I have no other bargaining chips to play except this one: my own life.

The man outside gives a vicious chuckle. “So it’s true, eh? That famous death wish really does exist. Alright, Howard. Come on out. We won’t shoot.”

“I want your word,” I say stubbornly, and I hold the gun up to my head. My hand isn’t even shaking. From behind me, I hear a woman gasp. I don’t know if it’s Garcia or Darla.

“You have it.”

“I want your word as a Catholic and a fellow Irishman.”

He snorts. “Fine, fine. You have my word, as a Catholic and as a fellow Irishman.”

I really hope Garcia understands. If these men do just take me and leave the others alive, I need her to know who they are. Maybe they’re rivals to the Donovans. But they’re much more likely to be the Irish Freedom Fighters, the same ones behind the attack on our townhouse. I assume they want me as a hostage. Maybe to keep Luca in line. Maybe to force Tara to do their bidding, whatever that might be.

That’s fine; alive and kidnapped is better than dead and buried, and I’m used to being held against my will. It’s happened too often to me now to worry about it all that much.

But maybe they’re lying, and they’ll kill me after all when I open the door.

“Move back from the door,” I instruct them. “And stay back.”

I turn again to Garcia and Frank. “Shoot when you’ve got the shot,” I murmur. Garcia gives one sharp nod, her eyes still on the door. Frank still looks furious, but eventually nods his agreement. I turn back to the door, clear my throat, and say loudly, “I’m coming out.”

I slam the handle down and let the door swing open. The gun barrel is pressed painfully hard into my temple, as though the hand holding it is not my own.

Outside, the three men are standing spread out, only one of them directly in front of me, and I’m pretty sure neither Garcia nor Frank have a clear shot. I try to stay in front of Garcia for now so at least they won’t see she’s got a gun on them.

“Put that down now, Howard,” says the man in front of me. “I’d hate for it to go off accidental.”

They haven’t shot me yet, so I guess they really do need me alive. “No,” I say, and take a step forward. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Alright, alright; if it makes you feel safer,” he says jovially. “Come on, now, towards me.”

I’m just outside the doorway of the freezer when it happens. The outer kitchen doors bang open again, and the three men in the room swing around in surprise. A dark, shadowy figure slinks through, low to the ground, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the whole room explodes with the noise of gunfire.

Chapter Nineteen

FINCH

When it stops, I still have the gun to my head, but my hand is definitely shaking now. Somehow, I’m still alive.

“The Boss told me you got over that death wish of yours,” says a familiar voice.

“Still comes in handy from time to time,” I half-whisper. I open one eye, then the other. The kitchen doors are still swinging, and in the occasional light it lets in from the corridor outside, I see three men in paramilitary uniforms on the floor, all lying in pools of dark, spreading liquid.

As for me, I’m not dead, not dreaming, probably not hallucinating. I let out a laugh, my hyena laugh, but it’s muffled by the mingled relief and disbelief in my throat. “Well, shit,” I say, dropping the gun from my head. I turn back to look into the storage room, where Garcia, Darla and Frank are all staring at me in confusion.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, still chuckling, slightly hysterical. “It’s okay. Daddy’s home.”

Frank struggles to his feet, grabbing at me to push me behind him, but I laugh again. “You’ve been away too long, Brother Frank. Don’t you recognize him?”

The man behind me comes forward as Frank and Garcia light up their phones. Walking into their wavering, crossed-over spotlights is a familiar, welcome figure, and when the lights reach his beautiful face, I hear Garcia suck in a breath.

Frank gives a low curse. “Well, fuck me. You sure are a sight for sore eyes—the one I got left, anyways.”

“And you, Frankie,” says Angelo Messina. He smooths back his hair and holsters his gun. “So. I leave town for a while and I come back to this? What exactly is this mess you’ve gotten yourselves into?”

I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him as hard as I can.

“How?” I demand once I step back, unable to vocalize anything further. Frank and Angelo pull out of their own back-slapping hug, and my hands have turned so sweaty with relief that I need to put the gun down again. I go to Luca at once, where Darla is checking him over again, and so I’m right next to Garcia when she speaks.

“Angelo Messina, I am arresting you on suspicion of—of murder,” she quavers. She gets up to her knees, then sits back down on her heels. “Anything you say—”

“Seriously?” I ask her. “He just saved our lives.”

“Yes, seriously!” she snaps back at me. Then her eyes go even wider as I hear further footsteps enter the kitchen area.

“All clear,” says another voice I know. This time Garcia springs to her feet.

“Fuck me,” I hear her say under her breath, and she just about runs out of the freezer room, her gun aiming sure and steady. “Hold it right there, Flynn. Jesus, this must be my lucky day.”

Baxter Flynn does not freeze. He comes forward, a curious look on his face. “Gina Garcia,” he says with a smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Put your gun down!”

He holsters it, holds his hands up in a bored manner, then looks across to Angelo. “Top end’s clear of these assholes,” he says, nodding at the closest corpse, “but it’ll be crawling with cops any second now.”

Darla is still checking over Luca, so I follow Garcia out, trying to reason with her. “Listen, Angelo and Bax aren’t the bad guys.”

“Oh, I’m sure they had real good reasons for all those cop-killings in Central Park.” She tries calling for backup on her radio again, but it’s still out. She pulls out her phone and makes a frustrated noise. No reception, I’m guessing.

Baxter gives an up-nod to me. “Hey, Finch.”

“Hey,” I say. “Um. How’ve you been?”

“So-so,” he drawls.

Baxter Flynn was always built, but now? Boy is swole. He’s jacked up, his muscles bulging; even his once-cute face has hardened a little, and his jawline seems extra-sharp. The whole look gives him a vibe of danger, although I suspect he must have toughened up mentally as well. Going on the run with a man like Angelo Messina would toughen anyone up.

Bax looks to Garcia again. “Gina, just so you know, Angelo and I won’t be going anywhere with you. So can we stop the charade?”

“Keep your hands in the air,” she snaps. She’s too busy concentrating on Bax that she doesn’t notice Angelo sliding up next to her. In a few quick moves, he politely disarms her—of her gun, her phone, and her police radio, too

“My apologies, Detective,” he says afterward, pocketing them. “You can have these back when we’re gone.”

Garcia flattens herself against the wall, her eyes flicking between every person in the room.

“Detective Garcia,” I sigh, “didn’t Luca tell you we would protect you? And haven’t we done that?”

“I have a sworn duty,” she says between her teeth. “I’m not just going to ignore that. Not like—not like Flynn over there.”

Bax, who has dropped his hands and is busy texting something to someone—how the hell does he have reception down here?—glances up at her. “I used to think the same as you, Gina, until I got roundly fucked over by one of our own. We’ll have a conversation, I can promise you that. But not here. Not now. First priority is getting D’Amato back into care.”

“He’s right,” Darla says, speaking up unexpectedly. Fear grips me again. “This man will die if we don’t get him back upstairs now.”

Garcia swallows, her lips tightening, and misses the reassuring wink that Darla gives me. “Fine,” she says. “But I want eyes on these two at all times,” she adds, pointing at Angelo and Baxter.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Bax says sincerely. “I’m looking forward to clearing up any confusion you might have.”

He might look like a dangerous underworld figure after his time on the run, but Baxter Flynn is still the same old Boy Scout, I decide. “Let’s go,” I say, coming around to take over wheelchair duty. I don’t want anyone’s hands on my husband right now other than mine.

“He’ll be okay,” Darla whispers to me, and I give her a nod of thanks.

He’d better be. I want to see his face when he wakes up to see Angelo Messina is back in town.

* * *

Upstairs, the hospital is operating with a skeleton staff as the threat level has still not been officially cleared. Three heavily-armed SWAT team members are waiting in the reception area, but Darla hides us away in a disused staffroom while Luca is looked over by one of the doctors from the ER. We make a strange group waiting there: Frank and me, Angelo and Bax, and Detective Garcia in the corner staring intently at all of us.

Garcia had her chance to contact the SWAT team, to call out for their help in arresting Angelo and Bax, or even to just make herself known to them as a fellow law enforcement officer…and she didn’t. Her drive to take down the Morelli Family seems to override both her instincts for self-preservation and her obedience to police protocols. She wants personal credit for any scalps claimed today. Her mistake, of course, is thinking that things will go her way.

Bax, who’s sitting close to Angelo on the tiny, coffee-stained lounge, puts his hand on his lover’s thigh and leans in to murmur something in his ear. Angelo gives an answering chuckle.

Garcia’s eyes go wide. “You’re—” she starts, and breaks off with a look of contempt. “So what Ethan Villiers told me was really true.”

Bax gives a tight smile. “Anything Villiers said to you was designed to manipulate, Gina. But we’ll have that conversation, like I said.” It’s interesting to me to see how close he and Angelo are now, moving in synchronicity. Once Luca and I go on the run—once I persuade him, because I will, after today’s bullshit—I wonder how much closer we’ll end up.

It’s already scary, sometimes, how well we know each other. How easily we can read each other.

Garcia walks away from us all to another corner of the room, this one further away.

“How did you know to come?” I ask Angelo in a low voice.

“Boss had a protocol in place,” he replies quietly. “If he ever missed a weekly contact, I was to come straight back. Got into town early this morning.”

“And just happened to rock up to the hospital at the same time as the attack? Maybe there really is a God.”

Angelo grins. “I can’t speak to that. But as for why we’re here, now—well, you can pat your own back. Vitali and Carlucci both got your alarm, and I was with them when it came in. Vitali wanted Bax and me in a less visible area, so he sent us down the tunnel. Good thing, too. The guards there were dead when we arrived, and those Irish fucks were blowing open the doors with one of their war toys.”

I feel a stab of guilt. More Morellis sacrificed—and not even just for Luca. For me.

This is all my fault.

None of us speak again until the door opens a few minutes later, and Darla sticks her head into the room. “Um, there’s more of you,” she whispers, and then pushes through two more figures.

The first is Nick Fontana, who looks warily at Frank and Garcia, then stops dead when he sees Angelo. They greet each other warmly while the woman following Nick into the room looks around, her hand on the gun at her waist.

Several pairs of eyes swivel back to her, questioning. “This is Sophia,” Nick introduces her, once he and Angelo are done shaking vigorous hands and slapping shoulders. “She’s, uh, a friend of the Family.”

“A friend of the Family?” Frank asks, bewildered. Bless him, he’s a little more traditional than some of the other Morellis.

“A friend of the Family,” Nick repeats firmly. Apparently Al Vollero hasn’t told Frank about his granddaughter Sophia’s desire to join the Family. He’s only spilled about the things he was sure would get Frank onside, flare his temper against Nick.

The old snake.

Sophia’s had a haircut since last time I saw her. Gone is the silky cloud of raven-black hair. The new pixie cut really suits her, though, making her cheekbones stand out. She nods at Frank, who can’t help returning it. Her dark eyes flash over to Garcia and size her up.

Garcia’s mouth opens, and nothing comes out.

“Hi,” Sophia says.

“Hi,” Garcia says back after a moment, a slight flush staining across her nose and cheeks. “Uh. I mean—” She breaks off, almost as bewildered as Frank.

And speaking of Frank: “I don’t want this asshole anywhere near me,” he growls, glaring at Nick.

“Room’s too crowded, anyway,” Nick says. “I just wanted to check in. Messina, maybe we could have a word?”

“Messina stays right here,” Garcia snaps. “He doesn’t leave my sight.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Bax suggests, before the tension can ratchet up too high. “You know he’s not going to leave town without me, right, Gina?”

“It’s Detective Garcia, asshole. And neither of you are going anywhere. End of story.”

Bax and Angelo exchange looks. “Why don’t we have that conversation now, Gina?” Bax suggests with a smile, turning back to the detective. “You can hear an exciting tale of adventure while Angelo takes a quick walk. He’ll be back, I promise.”

There’s not much Garcia can do to stop Angelo Messina, and she seems to know that. When Darla motions to me as well, and I slip out with Nick and Angelo, Garcia stays quiet. Her eyes stray again to Sophia Vicente, and Sophia gives a decidedly flirty smirk back. That’s something Garcia should nip in the bud, I think, unless she wants to end up like the example right under her nose, former Special Agent Baxter Flynn.

Angelo and Nick fall into a code-worded confab behind Darla and me, and Darla fills me in while we walk. “I wanted to let you know right away that your husband is just fine. He’s conscious and he’s asking for you. And—well, for Mr. Fontana, too.”

I glance over my shoulder at Nick, where he’s walking a few steps behind with Angelo. He looks…almost anxious.

“Okay,” I say, and Darla motions us to follow her down a new corridor. Wherever Luca’s being kept post-checkup, it’s not in this ward. It’s not even in the private wing, I discover, as Darla stops in front of a plain door. There are multiple beds in there, I can see through the glass pane in the door, although only one has a curtain pulled around it and the others are empty. My heart jumps as I think of Luca there, just beyond that pale green curtain.

“Thank you,” I tell Darla sincerely. She smiles. I look to Nick and Angelo, a question in my raised eyebrows.

“Go on in,” Angelo says. “We’ll be here.”

“You go first,” Nick agrees. “You both just went through some shit…again.”

“Okay,” I tell them, because I totally fucking agree that I should be the first to see Luca, but add, “Don’t run away, though, Nick, will you? If Luca wants to see you—”

“I’ll be here,” he promises. “Whatever he wants to say to me, I’ll hear it.”

Chapter Twenty

LUCA

I’m beginning to come around to Finch’s way of thinking: hospitals are to be avoided. Certainly the non-private wards, like this one I’ve been put into now. When Finch rakes the curtain across dramatically, like an actor making an entrance on stage, I almost smile—but after what Darla told me happened downstairs, there’s nothing funny about today at all.

I don’t care if the IFF comes for me. I’ll be delighted to send them all to hell. But if they’re coming for Finch—

“Well?” he demands. “What did the doctors say?”

“I pulled a few stitches, that’s all.”

“Bullshit.” He grabs my chart from the foot of the bed and reads it himself, frowning. I wonder how much of it makes any sense to him—but knowing Finch, he’s educated himself on the ins and outs of my injuries, treatment, and recovery prognosis.

“Baby bird,” I say softly, “come here.”

The one good thing about this room is that they’ve let me move the head of the bed higher, so I’m sitting up more. They’ve also dosed me with a lot of heavy painkillers that are taking the edge off without making me dopey.

So when I take Finch into my arms and hold him tight, it only hurts a lot, not completely.

“Not so tight,” he sniffs. “If you blow those fucking stitches again—”

“I won’t,” I tell him. “Now, tell me what the hell that was downstairs, you threatening to kill yourself?”

He gives a scornful huff. “I didn’t mean it. Who told you about that? Darla? God, what a rat.”

“You didn’t mean it? You didn’t mean to be careless with your life?”

“I wasn’t being careless; I was playing the only card I had. And it worked.”

“Let me look at you.” He sits up and I search his face. “Okay,” I say at last. “I believe you. But I don’t want you ever, ever to put your life on the line like that again. You hear me? That’s not how this works, this thing between you and me.”

He doesn’t give me any assurances, but it’s because he has other things on his mind. “We have to leave,” he says. Begs. “Please, Luca. We can go chill in Italy for a while, visit the Amalfi coast, I can show you around Florence and Milan, and we can get lost in Rome together—we can stay with Frank and Cee at Lake Como, and I can get to know my baby sister—” He breaks off, trembling, and I hug him again.

“We’ll talk about it later.” I might tolerate a different city, but I will certainly not leave the country. There’s no point arguing about it right now, though. “I’m in no state to travel internationally. And, technically, I’m under arrest. For the moment. But we do need to figure out a place to stay when I get discharged from here.”

Finch pulls back to look at me, and I can see he thinks he’s found a tiny advantage, that he is beginning to persuade me. I want him to have that win today. He deserves it.

“And I think it will have to be Boston,” I continue. “So can you do that for me? Talk to your sister. Ask her to prepare for us to stay there for a week or so?”

He nods thoughtfully. “But as soon as you’re better, and as soon as Carlo gets the charges dropped, we get out of the States.”

“We can talk about it,” I reiterate, and then change the subject. “Is Fontana here?”

“He is,” Finch says. Mischief lights up his eyes. “But you have another visitor, too. Someone who might need to leave in kind of a hurry, so you better see him before Nick.”

* * *

Angelo Messina is so bronzed and healthy-looking, his teeth just about glowing when he smiles, that I almost change my mind and decide to head west to the sunshine instead of east to Massachusetts. “Your time away has been productive,” I tell him after he has greeted me respectfully and kissed my hand, even without the Morelli ring on it. Angelo has been keeping an eye on the West Coast outfits for me, all while chasing down his own target—someone he insists can clear Baxter Flynn’s good name for the cop-killings in Central Park. “And you look as though you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

He grins without guardedness. “Can’t lie, Boss; I have.”

“How’s the Fed?”

“He’s learning. Thinks he’s a wolf now, though he’s still a pup.” The rough affection in his voice is unmistakable. “Don’t want to rush you, Boss, but I’ll have to get back to him soon. That detective stalker of yours is trying to put on the hard word.”

“Garcia? She’s all bark. Your wolf pup can probably take her. But you’re right, Angelo. Business first.”

He leans in. “I’m all ears.”

It’s a long story, but he’s heard most of it before. I’ve kept Angelo informed while he’s been out of New York, probably leaned on his wisdom more than I had any right to. “And now Finch wants me to leave the city,” I conclude. “But of course, I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

I open my mouth to reply, but I’m so taken aback that words flee my mind. “Of course I can’t leave New York,” I say again. “Give Clemenza exactly what he wants?”

“Don’t make your decisions based on what Lou Clemenza wants or doesn’t want. He’s a ghost, after all. Isn’t he?”

At that, I give a slow smile. “He doesn’t know it yet. But yes. Once I have the pieces in place, I plan to deal with Lou.”

“Excellent. Let me know if I can help in any way.” Louis Clemenza was one of the architects behind Tino Morelli’s death—one of the last surviving architects, in fact. Angelo hates him as much as I do. Maybe more, if that’s possible.

Clemenza’s death has been a long time coming. But it’s coming.

I shift in the bed, expecting pain, but finding it bearable. I don’t like the heavy feeling in my head from the painkillers, though. “Any advice for the other thorns in my side? It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone I could trust to ask.”

Angelo’s smile dies away. “That’s not exactly true, though, Boss. Is it? You have plenty of advisors. Or you did when I left.”

I stare at the knitted blanket stretched out over my legs and wonder why I feel like I’ve disappointed him. “I thought the same, Angelo. And I really thought Fontana was the guy to replace you as Underboss.” He stays silent until I look over at him. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. That I’m wrong? That I fucked up?”

He gives a small, grim laugh. “You don’t need me to tell you that. Besides, judging by the ring I saw on Fontana’s finger, you still think he’s your guy.”

I twist my wedding ring around on my own finger. I’m not used to feeling it without the Morelli ring over the top of it. It seems almost defenseless there without that big oval onyx overlapping it like armor.

I’m not sure what to say about Nick Fontana that won’t sound stupid now, after everything that’s happened. He was sneaking around behind my back with his boyfriend.

Jesus. Finch was right when he told me to pull my head out of my ass.

“Fontana’s doing a decent job,” Angelo says. “Despite some pushback. Vollero doesn’t seem to like it.”

I give a smirk at that. “Vollero’s nothing if not predictable.”

“Your brother’s giving Fontana some grief as well. Noticed it myself back there. You’ll want to watch out for that, Boss.”

I give a weary sigh. I love Frank dearly, but he does seem to stir up trouble. “He’ll be back with Cee and the kid soon enough.”

Angelo changes the subject. “Vitali’s blossomed.”

“He has. Of course, he’d benefit even more with someone to guide him.”

Angelo looks down at his own hands then, one thumb massaging the other palm. He says nothing.

“You don’t want to come back.” It’s an observation more than a question, but I’m glad I’m not hooked up to any heart monitors. They’d give away how hard mine just dropped.

Angelo looks up, his face troubled. “Boss—”

“Don’t. You don’t need to explain.” I lie back in the bed, exhausted.

“I made vows to this Family, and I’ll keep them. You gave me leave of absence to sort out Bax’s problem, but if you need me—”

“No.” Of course I fucking need him. But I still remember what he told me when he left: that it was time for me to take full control of the Family, to prove my power to the world. He was right to leave me when he did, and coming back—especially now, when I am at my most vulnerable—will only weaken my position further, get our enemies talking about how I need to be shored up. “Have you found the man you’re looking for yet? This magic man who can clear Flynn’s name?”

“We’re close. But no; not yet.”

I wave my hand. “Then get back out there and do what you need to do. The work you’ve done for me out West has been invaluable, and there could be more to come. When the Clemenzas fall, and things destabilize, I don’t need the West Coasters wondering if they can snatch a piece of the pie.”

Angelo says nothing. I can see him struggling, his own wishes versus his duty to the Family. Tino Morelli ground that commitment into his soul from the time he was a child. This visit back to New York has cost Angelo dearly, though not, I think, in the way he expected.

But you can’t step into the same stream twice. Angelo has changed. So has the Family.

“I used to wonder why Tino picked me in those last moments,” I tell him, “when you were the obvious choice to lead the Morellis. And you’ve never once made me feel anything but supported, never made me feel like I was given something that should have been yours. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that.”

“You don’t have to—”

I plow on. “But now, I think I know why Tino made that choice. Maybe what he wanted—what he couldn’t say—was that he wanted you to have choices. To go out and live your life on your own terms. So I would be contradicting his wishes if I dragged you back here and chained you to me. Who am I to disagree with the old man?”

Angelo blinks rapidly and looks down, his hands massaging each other again. “I’d like to…believe that. I’d like to think that Tino…might have seen, at last, that…” He clears his throat and looks up. “Thank you, Don Morelli. And now, I think I’d better get going. Bax might need rescuing. Often does.”

“Thank you for coming. For saving our collective asses.”

“You’re welcome. And I’ll be back again, if you need me.” He stands over me and kisses me on both cheeks, and then adds in Italian, his eyes twinkling: “But please, try to take better care of yourself, Luciano.”

I don’t think he’s ever called me by my first name before.

He gives me one last, warm smile, and then he’s gone. I wait alone for a few minutes, thinking through our conversation, and then I raise my voice. “Baby bird? Can you send Fontana in?”

Finch’s head pops around the door. “Um, so Nick had to go,” he says nervously, and then comes over to me. “Don’t be mad at him. He got a lead on where the IFF might be holed up downtown. Had to go then and there if he was going to catch them.”

I take that in. “Then he made the right call,” I concede. “If he can clean out the dregs, make New York safer…” I trail off as an unwelcome face appears at the window in the door.

“Make New York safer, Mr. D’Amato?” Detective Garcia repeats coldly as she comes in. “That’s my job. And to do that, I have a few questions for you.”

“I imagine you do, detective,” I say, smiling. “Finch, could you give us a moment?”

But he walks very slowly to the door, and I’d bet my entire empire that he’s listening outside it as Garcia starts to grill me.

Chapter Twenty-One

LUCA

“So you’re saying you know nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing—”

“Detective,” I say, with exaggerated politeness, “as you’re well aware yourself, I was unconscious for most of the proceedings.”

Garcia is sitting very close to me. Each question she’s asked has been rapid-fire, demanding, pressing. And I’ve given her nothing.

She taps out a staccato beat on my nightstand with her fingernail. “I’ll pull your husband in for questioning.”

“You can try. But he’ll have our lawyer with him. I could have Bianchi here myself, if I said the word. If that’s what you really want?”

I’m enjoying the back-and-forth enough that I’m disappointed when she sighs, leans in even closer, and gets down to business. “I’ve had a long talk with Baxter Flynn.”

“I see.”

“I found his story…unconvincing.”

I say nothing, but lift an eyebrow. Despite her claims about Flynn, she seems troubled. Obviously she must believe some of it. After a moment, she continues, seemingly changing the subject. “Before we went down below, you made some comment about me not getting the promotion I wanted.”

I shrug.

She bites her lip. “How—how did you know I want a promotion?”

I didn’t. But I know people like Garcia. Ambitious, pragmatic people who are willing to bend the rules to get what they want, and what they always want is advancement. I run across a lot of people like her in my line of work.

“I’ve applied for a role with the FBI,” she goes on when I don’t reply. “And do you know what, Mr. D’Amato? I can see areas in which you and your men—and women—” she adds, with a curious look at me, “—might be useful.”

I let that sit for a second before I say softly, “If I had a rat problem in my house, Detective Garcia, I’d call in an exterminator.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” she says quickly. “It would be a giant headache dealing with an official informant. There are a lot of protocols, procedures…” She shakes her head. “But Baxter Flynn isn’t part of your Family, is he?”

“I’m not related to him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Or Angelo Messina?”

That just makes me laugh.

“Listen,” she snaps. “I’m going to speak plainly to you. I’m willing to let them go today—Flynn and Messina—if they can be useful to me. If they can help me get to the FBI…and help me while I’m there.”

Flynn might talk to her, give her tips here and there. Angelo never would, not without my say-so. Besides, I suspect they’ve already flown, even as she sits here speaking with me. But it does give me a bargaining chip, the ambition of Detective Gina Garcia.

And it could be useful to me to have someone in the FBI.

“I don’t have any sway over what others might choose to do,” I say carefully. “Whatever promises Baxter Flynn has made to you, it has nothing to do with me.”

She smiles, and I can see she understands the game. Any information coming through Flynn will have been approved by Angelo. And anything approved by Angelo will have been approved first by me.

“Alright,” she says with satisfaction.

“But as for your frivolous charges against me,” I continue, “that’s where your real problem is, Detective. Once my lawyer is through with you, you’ll look like such colossal fuck-up, you won’t stand a chance getting into the FBI.”

She flicks her hair back as she stands. “Oh, that whole thing? My mistake,” she says. “Obviously you’re a fine, upstanding member of the community.”

I’m not sure how she’ll pass off a mistake like that to her superiors—but that’s her problem. “You can explain all that to my lawyer.”

She gives an irritated nod. Garcia doesn’t like Carlo Bianchi much, and I can’t blame her. He does take great delight in pissing off the NYPD. I’ll tell him to play nice, just this once. Give Garcia a break. Show her how easy life can be when she’s my friend rather than my enemy.

* * *

Finch is delighted to hear that we’ll be leaving the hospital ASAP. And Teo Vitali, who I’ve asked to come into the conversation as well, is much happier at the idea of providing security in one of my own properties than in a hospital setting.

Finch does point out I’ll still need a lot of recovery time and home care, but I’m prepared for that. “That nurse—Darla?—she seems competent. I’ll triple her current salary to come and take care of me for a few weeks.”

Finch is silent, thinking, until he nods. “I can live with that.”

Vitali clears his throat. “Thing is, Boss, the townhouse…” He gives an apologetic shrug. “It just ain’t habitable right now. It’s fire damaged, smoke damaged, water damaged…”

Damn it. I hadn’t even thought about the damage to the townhouse.

“We have a hundred properties in New York,” Finch snaps. “Pick one and make it safe. And we’ll stay in one of those while the townhouse is renovated.”

Finch is jumpy and irritable, and of course I know why, but it still fills me with rage to think that after all the work I’ve put in, after all the power I’ve gathered to myself, my husband still feels unsafe in the city I rule.

When I turn my attention back to Vitali, ready to support Finch’s suggestion that he just get on and do his damn job, I can see there’s another problem just from the look on his face.

“What is it now?” I ask, trying not to groan. “Come on, Vitali. Out with it.”

“Alright,” Vitali says steadily, and then he goes through every residential property I own in the city and explains why they’re no use. Most are in apartment blocks, which makes them difficult to fit out, or complicates escapes if someone really wants to do us harm. There are some buildings that we own entirely and from which we could, if we were willing to spend the money and be assholes about it, evict everyone—but that would also take time we don’t have.

As for the safe houses, they’re all intended for short-term stays and they have limited comforts. Finch would be miserable in any one of them. Vitali must know it too, because he passes over them with a one-word judgment of “Unsuitable.”

“Okay, Teo,” Finch snarls in the end. “You’ve told us everywhere that won’t work. Now tell us a place that will.”

Vitali’s eyes meet mine, dark and grave, and I understand the problem.

“Let’s leave the discussion for tonight,” I say at once. “Give Vitali time to mull it over, eh? There’s no rush. I can stay in here another few nights.”

Finch turns his irritation onto me. “You’re the one who wanted to get this figured out. So let’s figure it out.” Vitali and I exchange a glance that Finch intercepts this time. “What?” he asks suspiciously. “What is it?”

Vitali clears his throat. “Well, Mr. D, there’s one more property you hold that could be—”

“Enough,” I break in. “We can deal with it tomorrow.”

“No,” Finch insists. “I want to know what Teo was going to say. What the hell is going on between you two? And if you tell me it’s Family business, I’ll fucking end you both, I swear.”

Vitali gives me this shrug that tells me he won’t be any help. So I bite the damn bullet. “He’s thinking of Tino Morelli’s old place. It’s a free-standing house, it can be easily defended with guards around the perimeter, and…well, it’s been renovated. Cleaned up.”

Finch has gone silent, staring at me without expression. “Tino Morelli’s old place,” he repeats.

“We can discuss our options tomorrow,” I try again.

“Tino Morelli’s place, where he died?”

“Baby bird,” I say gently, “let’s do this tomorrow. Please.”

Finch looks as though he’s going to be sick. He swallows hard, several times, then nods. I think he’s agreeing with me that we should pick up the discussion tomorrow, but he looks over to Teo. “Is it even safe? The Clemenzas and Fuscones ran straight through it with no problem.”

Vitali has the sense to look to me before he replies. I give a slight nod and only then does he reply. “It was as safe as the previous Don Morelli allowed it to be at the time. Things were peaceful, or seemed to be. Biggest threats back then came from the Feds. Anyhow—I can make it safer. I can make it a goddamn fortress, set up stuff like the Donovans got over in Boston. But it’ll take a little time.”

“How long?” Finch asks, and then immediately continues, “Stop looking at my husband, Teo. I’m asking you a question. How long would it take?”

“I can’t say for sure without a real look at the place, but…two months, maybe three?”

Finch takes it in, looking down at his feet.

“There are other options,” I say softly. “Better options.” Options where Finch’s biological father’s blood doesn’t metaphorically stain the walls and floors. And possibly not so metaphorical; we’ve had that cellar cleaned and repainted multiple times, but every time they sent me photos to approve the work, I thought I could still see a dark shadow where Tino’s blood spilled.

“It’s okay,” Finch says calmly to me, then looks to Vitali. “You have one month, Teo. Understand?”

Vitali wants to argue, I can see, but he just nods.

“Angel,” I begin, but Finch puts up a hand.

“As for getting you out of here, we’ll spend a few nights at Hudson’s—I mean, Frank’s—brownstone, after they release you. When Darla says you’re well enough to travel, we’ll go to Boston and stay with my sister while Teo renovates. But I don’t want Tara in danger any longer than she has to be, so four weeks, max.”

Vitali looks slightly happier, as though having Finch and me out of the city will make his job easier. I’ll let him get away with it. For all that he’s new to the role, Vitali is very good at it, and he has Angelo’s approval.

“Your sister has a good setup,” Vitali agrees. “And Aidan’s been talking about visiting his folks. I’ll drive you out, make sure things are still solid there, then head back and get the mansion into shape. I wouldn’t mind checking on their new protocols in Boston, the ones they put in place after the IFF attack on Hillview.”

“Then that’s settled,” Finch says, too casually. “Thank you, Teo.”

Vitali recognizes the dismissal for what it is, and I don’t delay him. He nods to me and withdraws from the room, leaving Finch and me alone with each other. It feels like forever since I’ve been alone with him. I reach out my hand and he takes it, but I can tell something’s coming.

“I wish you would stop doing that,” he says.

I don’t bother to pretend I don’t understand what he means. “It’s my job to protect you, baby bird. Body, mind and soul. I didn’t want to spring the idea of Tino’s place on you like that, not in front of Vitali.”

“Teo is my friend,” Finch says firmly, and now he looks at me. “And you’re my husband. If I can’t face a little emotional torment in front of my friends and family…”

I smile at that, just a little. “If you change your mind about staying there, that would be okay.”

He squeezes my hand. “Luca—it’s my job too, you know. Protecting you.”

“Me?” I snort. “I don’t need protection.” Finch’s face goes dark, and I preempt him. “You think my being here, alive, is anything but proof that I don’t need protection? Who else could get shot as many times as me and live through it? The devil knows his own. Men like me, we already have infernal protections in place.”

Finch just shakes his head, refusing to share my cocky smile. “I’m going to speak to Darla, ask her if she’ll come with us. And I’ll find out when they’ll release you. I don’t want to stay in here a second longer than we have to.”

“Okay.”

He pulls his hand out of mine and turns to go. Halfway across the room he looks back at me. “I’m serious, Luca. You need to stop smothering me and start looking out for yourself more. If you don’t…”

The look crossing his face is hard to read. Pain, fear, confusion? I dread to think what it might mean. “If I don’t?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. Or if not light, at least neutral.

I suspect it simply sounds hostile, because Finch turns away.

“I’ll go talk to Darla,” he says over his shoulder.

The door closes behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

FINCH

In the end, we don’t even make it to the next morning in the hospital. We sneak out in the middle of the night like criminals, or something. I don’t mind. I want to get out of the hospital as soon as we can, and Luca wanted to go under cover of dark, to make it harder for our enemies to track us.

There’s some discussion of how to get Luca from the car into the house, since he can’t walk yet. He won’t let anyone carry him, and when Teo Vitali suggests putting a wooden ramp over the stairs at the front to wheel a chair up, you can imagine how fucking well that goes down. In the end, Luca consents to Frank helping him limp up the steps, watchers be damned.

Frank, who has insisted on staying here in the brownstone with us while we’re still in New York, takes his brother up the steps faster than he should have in my opinion, though not as fast as he should in Luca’s, so by the time we get into the house, there are a lot of sore feelings going around. Teo checks in with Gio Carlucci, who’s been hovering in the background like staff, despite being one of the current residents of the place. Frank puts Luca on the sofa and looks around his old house with fond, nostalgic eyes, and then Hudson sweeps into the room like the absolute angel he is, with artisan hot chocolate for everyone.

For a second, I see Frank and Luca thinking they’re too tough for hot chocolate. I legit see the thought chugging through Luca’s brain and into Frank’s like a little steam-engine train, but as soon Hudson presses a mug into their hands and they smell it, they sit there silently and drink it up like good little boys.

I walk after Hudson when he moves to put the tray down on a side table, where I take my mug from the tray. “Nice work,” I murmur to him, and he gives me his familiar, anxious smile. Hudson never seems to look at me fully, always shooting glances or side-eyes. I have no idea why I make him so nervous.

“Thank you, Mr. D.”

“Luca,” I say, going over to him, “you need to take your meds.” Darla gave me a bunch of antibiotics and heavy-duty painkillers to give to Luca before she joins us.

Luca takes the antibiotics without comment and leaves the painkillers. We have a silent argument between us, which I think is noticed by the others because of the nervous chatter that breaks out. In the end, I let it go. For now.

“I’ve made up the main bedroom for your use tonight,” Hudson tells us. “Mr. Frank is just down the hallway in the spare room if you need him overnight. And Gio and I will sleep down here on the sofa bed.”

I turn my shoulders so Luca won’t see the face I make. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to get up the stairs,” I say softly.

“I most certainly will.” Luca’s sharp interruption cracks like a whip.

Hudson attempts to calm the waters. “Gio wanted to stay down here in case there was any trouble,” he says. “And the panic room is in the master bedroom.”

Teo went what Luca called “crazy” with installing safe rooms and panic rooms after the Boston attack on my sister. We even contemplated getting one in the townhouse, down off the kitchen area—and if we had, maybe Luca wouldn’t have been hurt so badly.

“Alright,” I say. “We’ll take the master.” I raise an eyebrow at Frank, who gives me a little nod, an I’ve got it. Luca’s head snaps around to stare at us as though we’re planning treachery right under his nose. “Well, when we finish these drinks,” I say quickly, “let’s get some sleep.”

Luca does make it slowly up to the second floor with Frank’s help. Once we get into bed and I am, for the first time in many days, lying right next to my husband, my hand in his, I feel better than I have for a long time.

“I was so scared,” I say into the dark. We’re both lying on our backs, close together but not snuggled up, for fear I might hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” Luca says, and the gentle, regretful tone in his voice is exactly how he used to sound. But then he ruins it all by adding, “I’ll protect you better from now on, baby bird.”

* * *

I wake after Luca, and I’ve curled into him, though he’s in the same position, flat on his back, and our hands are still linked. I come to consciousness abruptly, all at once. “Luca—”

I rub my eyes, the bad dreams I had flitting away too fast for me to recall them. Not that I want to recall them. They were full of death and darkness.

“I’m here,” he says, turning his head to look back at me, and he actually smiles. “Where else would I be?”

I don’t think I’ve seen him genuinely smile since—actually, since well before the attack on the townhouse. The business with Nick Fontana really affected him for a long time. His sense of humor, never exactly lighthearted, has been pitch-black these last few months.

I reach out gingerly to touch his face, trying not to jostle him. “Did you sleep?”

“Some.”

“Did I disturb you?”

“No,” he says, but I can see that he’s lying.

“Will you take some pain meds this morning?”

“I will not.”

And just like that, the irritation is back between us. “Luca, Darla is only coming with us on the condition that you submit to her regime of care.”

“And I will,” he says. “I will be happy to follow the instructions of a registered medical professional.”

I roll my eyes so hard I flop onto my back on the bed, glaring up at the ceiling. “If there’s one person in your care team who knows as much about drugs as Darla, it’s me.”

“You can help me go take a piss,” Luca concedes, as though I should be grateful. It says a lot about my state of mind right now that I am.

But after that, and once I’ve helped Luca have a sink-bath, during which he stared at his bandaged body in the mirror with contemptuous eyes, and once I’ve showered myself and dressed, he sends me away.

“I’ll dress myself,” he says abruptly, when I try to help.

“Luca—”

“Go downstairs and tell Hudson I want real eggs for breakfast, and some of those pancakes of his. I’m so fucking sick of hospital food; I need something real. Please,” he adds after a moment, seeing my face.

“But you can’t come downstairs on your—”

“I’ll call Frank when I want to come down. I promise.”

Maybe he just wants to have some time alone. He hasn’t had a moment of it since he entered the hospital, and he won’t get much more in Boston. So instead of arguing I bite my tongue—much more biting and the damn thing will fall off—and I leave Luca there and carry his request downstairs like I’m his messenger-boy instead of his husband.

The sofa bed has already been tidied away and Gio is looking semi-alert at his position by the door. He’s guarding his own house. I feel a little guilty about that. But he just gives me a nod and a “Mr. D,” by way of greeting. “How’s the Boss?” he adds, a little uncertain.

“Well, he’s…” I spread my arms. “He’s being pretty Luca about the whole thing, if you know what I mean.”

Gio tries not to smirk and fails. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess I do know what you mean.” But he’s sincere when he adds, “He’ll be okay, Mr. D. Getting out of the city for a while is a good idea.”

I snort. “The problem was convincing him of that.”

In the kitchen, Hudson is already making up pancake batter, and there’s a bowl full of the contents of a dozen cracked eggs, too, ready to be scrambled.

“You read his mind,” I say, relieved.

“All part of the job.” That brief smile again, the sideways glance.

I sit down at the counter and watch Hudson work. When he slides across my morning coffee to me without a word, the guilt cracks me open just like the eggs. “I’m sorry if we’re making life difficult,” I blurt out. “Or, I guess, more difficult than usual.”

Hudson stares at me in genuine surprise, absentmindedly pushing back his sandy hair from his forehead, leaving a dusting of flour in his eyebrows. “It’s no bother at all,” he says. “After everything you and Don Morelli have done for me—for Connie—and for Marcy, too…I’m glad to help. Besides,” he finishes, a shy shade of awkwardness back in his voice, “you’re family, the both of you. Nothing is too much for family.”

I reach over to grab his wrist and give it a squeeze. “Thank you for saying that.” A weird-but-good moment passes between us; Hudson is sympathetic, and I’m grateful all over again for his puppy-dog eagerness to please. I withdraw my hand, and then I swallow down the lump in my throat with a mouthful of his hot, sweet coffee.

* * *

Frank comes down not long after, knuckling at his one good eye, and falls on Hudson’s coffee like a vulture. “How’d Georgie sleep?”

“Okay, I guess. I think he was in more pain than he’ll admit to. Not sure if it helped having me there in the bed with him.”

“Course it did,” Frank says gruffly, and wraps an arm around my neck before ruffling up my hair. “You’re the best medicine for him right now, Principessa.”

I wish I could agree. But there’s something standing between Luca and me, some barrier that has never been there before—not even when we were first married and he was keeping me at arm’s length, refusing to interact. I don’t like this wall between us. I hate it, actually. But I don’t know how to make it go away.

For one crazy moment I almost spill all this to Frank and Hudson, like a goddamn group therapy session or something, but I’m interrupted by the doorbell.

“Must be Nick,” I say. “Bright and early.” He promised he’d come by to let us know about the IFF lead—and to have that private talk with Luca.

Frank peels his lips back, about to say something nasty, but Gio’s sharp, “Heads up!” from the front door carries through to the kitchen and makes us all tense up.

Frank pulls his gun out of the back of his waistband. “What’s the sitch?” he calls back through.

“Gonna need you here,” is Gio’s only reply.

Frank lumbers out of the room with a one-word command to me and Hudson: “Stay.”

A ripple of panic goes through me as I’m transported back to our townhouse on the other side of Central Park, to nighttime instead of day, to the attack that caught us off guard.

“It’ll be okay,” Hudson whispers reassuringly, although his voice wavers. “Gio’s a really good guard. And Mr. Frank’s real tough, too.” He’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

But soon after, Frank reappears in the kitchen doorway. “Better come see,” he says to me, frowning. “Georgie’s got himself a couple of visitors.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

FINCH

“I can stretch the pancake batter if you need,” Hudson peeps.

He’s a sweet kid, but he was really never going to make a gangster.

I follow Frank back through to the door, where Gio Carlucci is blocking it, hands up on the frame, leaning out a little towards the stoop, holding a conversation.

“Boss is fine,” he’s saying. “And I ain’t going to interrupt his beauty sleep.”

“Don’t try to fucking think, Carlucci,” comes the wheezy reply. “Your Boss don’t pay you to think. We’re here to pay our respects to the Capo dei Capi, so get the fuck outta the way and let us inside.”

“No can do,” Gio says back calmly, just as I arrive and peek under his arm.

Just as I thought, based on the croak, it’s Joe Alessi, and Salvatore Rossi is with him. They’re two very powerful men in their own rights, Bosses of their own New York Families, and I’m pretty damn impressed with Gio standing his ground like he is. I wonder how these two sniffed out Luca’s location—but gossip among the New York mobsters is always rife, and Rossi and Alessi are the closest thing we have to friends among the Families.

“Sal,” I say with a nod, “and Joe. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We heard Don Morelli got let out of the hospital,” Sal Rossi says. “We’re here to pay our respects.”

They’re here to see with their own eyes just how close to death Luca really is. And behind them, massing like a mini-army, are their multiple bodyguards. One of them smirks at Gio, who sneers back.

I’m torn.

On the one hand, I don’t want to give these hyenas what they’re looking for. They think the lion’s been brought down and they’ve come to feast on his corpse.

On the other hand, they are important allies to the Morelli Family. Even Frank knows that, which is why he came to get me to deal with them.

“It’s very early,” I point out severely, and they exchange glances. “Luca’s still upstairs. We had a…busy start to the morning, if you know what I mean.”

That gets them. The merest suggestion of what Luca and I might be getting up to tends to turn the old mobsters into pearl-clutchers.

“But,” I go on, “I guess you could come in, and I’ll let Luca know you’re here. If he’s not too busy to see you, and if you can wait on him.” I’m gambling on the idea that they won’t like the thought of hanging around, waiting for Don Morelli to take his sweet time getting ready to see them.

“No, no,” Rossi says, waving his hand around, and my heart lifts as I see my strategy working. “You’re right. We’re intruding far too early. Our apologies.”

“Hold up, now, Sal. The kid’s inviting us in,” Joe Alessi coaxes. “And we came all this way. Why not go in and wait a little?” He gives an appreciative sniff. “Smells like breakfast’s on the table, too, eh?”

I clear my throat. “Sure is,” I say with a bright smile. “Pancakes. Scrambled eggs for those who want it. Maybe some bacon, if Hudson has any in the fridge.”

Rossi and Alessi exchange a look. “Alright,” Rossi says slowly. “If we’re welcome.”

“Of course,” I say, opening my eyes wide. “Family’s family, right? Of course, your men will have to wait outside. Policy,” I add with an apologetic smile. “But I do promise, Don Rossi, Don Alessi: you’re quite safe in here.”

Alessi doesn’t like it. Rossi just shrugs. “I trust your men like my own,” he says, and steps over the threshold. Alessi, after a backward glance and a muttered Italian command to the bodyguards, follows.

Only once they’re inside do they see Frank, skulking behind me in the shadows like something out of a nightmare. “You remember my brother-in-law,” I say to them, “Frank D’Amato?”

He steps forward with a wild grin. “Sure, they remember me,” he says, and I think Frank enjoys the expression of shock on their faces as much as I do.

There’s a long pause, and then Sal Rossi, with a growing grin, extends his left hand to shake Frank’s. “Of course, of course,” he says. “Good to see you again, D’Amato.”

Alessi gives a mumbled greeting and pretends not to see the prosthetic hand Frank extends.

“Gio, maybe you could take their coats and pat them down,” I say, “and then show them into the sitting room. Once Hudson’s finished—”

“Pat us down?” Joe Alessi rasps. “Now, that ain’t no way to treat your guests, Mr. D’Amato.”

“Policy,” I say firmly. There’s no fucking way I’m letting these two get any further into the brownstone with weapons.

“Oh, just let them in, baby bird. I’m sure my two greatest allies aren’t here to do me harm, hm?”

We all turn as one to stare up at the landing of the staircase, where Luca has paused at the head of the stairs. He’s tying his robe shut, the scarlet silk robe I love seeing him in because it’s so damn dramatic, with his initials embroidered in gold thread on the breast pocket.

At least the vibrant red is putting a little color in his cheeks.

I dart to the bottom of the stairs but he pins me with his eyes and I freeze. “I’m sorry if we woke you,” I say, and then I give him a fierce glare. Go back to bed.

“Not at all,” he says, turning his gaze on Rossi and Alessi. “Sal. Joe. How kind of you to come over. But there’s really nothing at all to worry about.”

He begins to descend the staircase, and I hold my breath the entire way. He’s slow, but in a way that reads ambling rather than in agonizing pain, and the silence when he reaches the foot of the stairs tells me I’m not the only one standing there in complete shock.

“Don Morelli,” Rossi says at last, his voice slightly rough with relief. “We heard such terrible things—”

“You should never listen to gossip,” Luca says with a contemptuous smile. “Surely at your age you know better, Sal?”

“I should,” he says sincerely, and turns to Alessi. “We should both know better. Come on, Joe. Don Morelli’s husband was right; it’s too early for visiting. We’re intruding.”

“Not at all,” Luca says, in a way that means exactly the opposite. Alessi seems too taken aback to do much more than mutter a goodbye, and then Gio escorts them to the front door.

Alessi finds his voice at the doorway and turns to call, “We’ll be back to see you soon, Don Morelli. To discuss business, eh?”

Luca waves a hand in part acknowledgment and part impatience. “Of course. Next time give me time to dress, first.”

Rossi just about drags his compatriot out the door, and we all watch through the reinforced glass panel in the door as they disappear down the stoop.

I turn to Luca, about to demand an explanation, but I only just have time to notice the sweat breaking out on his brow before he stumbles forward and collapses into my arms.

Chapter Twenty-Four

LUCA

I have a hazy sensation of being half-carried, half-dragged back up the stairs by my brother on one side and Finch on the other, neither of them saying a word, just breathing heavily until they get me back into bed.

Frank is the first one to speak when I open my eyes again and take in the two of them. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie,” he mutters, shaking his head. Even under the ravages of time and scars, his face bears the same expression it always used to when he cleaned up after me. He spent his whole life doing it, right up until I ordered him out of the city, and he’s still just as disappointed in me. Just as worried.

I want to apologize, but my agony is too intense to do anything except lie there and outlast it. Frank murmurs something to Finch and leaves the room. Finch comes over to sit on the bed next to me.

I lie there for a long time until the tide of torment recedes, until I can grope across the bed for Finch’s hand.

He lets me take it.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a low, steady voice.

“Yeah.” My voice is a croak.

“Okay. Frank’s going to call Darla over here to check on you. In the meantime, you can explain to me, your long-suffering husband, what the actual fuck you thought you were doing, prancing down the stairs like that on your own?” His voice gets louder and louder until he’s just a decibel or two under shouting, and he goes on.

I stay quiet and let him chew me out, not that I have much say in the matter. I’m still woozy from the pills I took after I heard voices from downstairs and realized who was at the door. They knocked off the edge of my pain long enough to drag myself up, pull on a robe, and act as though I was fine while I walked down those stairs. But I think I might have wrongly estimated the dose, because reality is fuzzy around the edges right now, blunted.

“Sorry,” I slur at last, when Finch goes quiet again.

“Why?” he demands. “Why in the hell would you pull a stunt like that?”

I’m floating and comfortable. I don’t see why I shouldn’t let Finch in on my thought process, if he wants to know so badly. “Because the only thing men like Rossi and Alessi understand is strength.”

“You said it yourself, they’re your closest allies.”

I laugh at that, a long giggle. Mother Mary, I think I’m high. “Don’t you believe it, angel. They might look friendly, but I trust them no further than I’d trust Sonny Vegas.” I grope for his hand again. Somehow I seem to have lost it. “And you know it, too. You know it as well as I do.”

After a pause, Finch snuggles down next to me, his warmth glowing next to me. From the corner of my eye he seems all golden-red, a little campfire in the cold darkness of my life. “I do know that,” he acknowledges. “But I don’t want you killing yourself just to prove a point.”

Fondness blooms, chasing away the last of my pain. Finch and I are a team. Have been a team since I pulled my head out of my ass a few months after our marriage—his words—and started taking him seriously. But there are some things we will never agree on. Some things he will never understand. The need for me to appear completely indestructible is one of those things.

We can have different opinions; I remind myself about this constantly. And I’m much happier keeping Finch far away from Family business. It’s safer for him.

Still, I can’t help wishing sometimes that he could understand my actions better than he does. But…there is one time when we always understand each other fully.

The shriek in my nerve endings has faded to a mere ache, and Finch is close, the grassy scent of his cologne tickling my nose. I reach out for him, my hand trailing up his hip, down again, between his thighs…

Where he traps it by squeezing those thighs together.

“Behave,” he murmurs, amused.

I want to tell him I’ve never behaved well when it comes to him, but there’s a knock at the door, and Hudson murmurs something through to us.

“What did he say?” I mumble.

“Darla’s on the way,” Finch tells me. “And don’t groan like that. She’s taking leave of absence from the hospital a day early because of that stunt you pulled this morning, so you have to be nice to her.”

I suppose that seems fair.

* * *

I consult with Darla, who considerably tones down her chirpy side when she’s alone with me. I appreciate that. I think she can see it would only irritate me. All I want from her is her skill, her ability to get my body functioning at peak performance again as fast as possible. She declares that I need a further few days to recuperate before we can make the journey to Boston.

Finch and Frankie seem surprised that I agree, but they certainly don’t argue. I spend the rest of the day resting in bed. My meals are brought up by Hudson on trays, and I even say thank you.

The fact is, I trust expertise, and Darla has it—in this area, anyway. She even seemed to enjoy her work. After she left the room this morning, I overheard Finch apologizing to her that I was such a challenge.

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she replied. “A challenge. It’s why I agreed to take this job.”

I liked that when I heard it. I enjoy a challenge, too.

However, there’s one challenge I am not enjoying at all, and that’s the way Finch heads me off at the pass again that night. I’m propped up on pillows, slightly on my side, and I motion him into the bed with me. Having my arms around him makes me feel more right than I’ve felt for some time, and I let my hands wander a little.

“Luca…honey…” Finch says, gently taking my hands off his body. “We can’t.”

“We can.” I lean in to kiss him, trying not to wince at the sharp stabbing sensation that runs through my side when I do. I don’t mind a little pain with sex, but only when I can control it.

He allows the kiss, but when I move my hands lower again, he grabs them. “Seriously, Luca,” he sighs.

“I am serious. Haven’t I been good today, like you wanted?”

“Sex is not supposed to be a reward between us, honey.”

“But it could be,” I persist.

A slow smirk lifts his mouth sideways. “You’re telling me you expect a reward because you refrained from being a dumbass for six hours?”

This is not how I thought things would go tonight, but I’m willing to play it Finch’s way. “Do you want me to beg? I will, if that’s what you want.”

He threads a gentle hand through my hair. “I mean, sure, that would be hot. But Darla said your dick would still be sore from the catheter, so we should skip the sex for a while.”

I’m glad I catch the gleam in his eye before he replies, because the idea of anyone suggesting what I can or can’t do with my own dick does not sit well with me. But this, it seems, is a test on Finch’s part. “As far as I’m aware,” I tell him, “your dick is still in good working order.”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But I still think we should wait a little. You literally just got out of the hospital, and I…well, my sleep schedule’s all fucked up.” I catch the vulnerability in his tone and think, not for the first time, about how much I’ve put him through over the last few weeks.

Over the last few years, if I’m really honest with myself.

I kiss his forehead. “Okay. I’ll cool it for now.” The way his shoulders relax and his body curls into mine tells me it was the right way to play it.

And the next day, I aim to be the model patient once more. I am obliging and understanding and I don’t complain to Darla about a damn thing, from the sponge bath to the painkillers.

Finch stays with me most of the day, dozing or listening to music, and visitors to my sickbed have to be vetted by him first. I’m pretty sure Frank has been told not to talk any business with me, and I’m happy to let Finch have his way until late in the afternoon, when Gio Carlucci presents himself with news.

“Is it really urgent?” I hear Finch asking him, just outside my door.

“Carlucci?” I call out, and he and Finch fall silent. “Come in.”

There’s a long moment before Carlucci opens the door and steps into the room, followed by a mutinous Finch. “Afternoon, Boss,” Carlucci says, standing at the end of my bed with his hands behind his back, eyes tactfully to the side.

“Baby bird, I’d like some more of that herbal tea,” I tell Finch, who folds his arms. We have a short, wordless battle of wills, and then Finch leaves the room, shutting the door hard behind him.

I’ll have to fix that later. For now, I turn my attention to Carlucci. “What’s the news?”

Carlucci leans forward, resting his hands against the ornately carved foot of the bed, looking more relaxed now that Finch is gone. “Fontana checked out that lead on the IFF, but the roaches had scattered. Word from Boston is, that’s how they work. Big fucking fireworks, then they’re in the wind like dandelion seeds, doing their own thing until they get called in again.”

I think that over for a moment. “Is Fontana here?”

“No, but he can be.”

“Get him. I need to speak to him anyway. And after that, Carlucci, get hold of all the senior members, along with my brother. Tell them all that I want to see them tonight. And you should start packing. We’ll leave for Boston tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Carlucci was a good choice for Capo, and I’ll reward him on our return to New York. But I’ll need him with me—with Finch—in Boston. Vitali will be too busy here with the remodeling of Tino’s old house, and as for the others…

I need them for other purposes.

Chapter Twenty-Five

LUCA

Nick Fontana looks as nervous as I suppose should be expected, given the way we left things just before I got filled with lead. He stands at the foot of my bed, his hands clasped behind his back, and bows his head.

“Don Morelli,” he greets me, standing at the foot of my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hot shit, but don’t tell Finch.” That raises only the faintest of smiles, but at least he looks me in the eye. “Get over here. Let me see my ring, make sure you haven’t scratched it.”

He sits in the chair that Finch pulled up to the side of the bed and holds out his hand so I can see it. I rub my thumb over the stone and sniff. “Doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s for sure.”

“But I’ll need you to wear it a while longer. I’m sorry.” He gives a slow nod. He really doesn’t want it. “Thank you,” I add. “I know what a burden it is.”

“That’s putting it lightly. But of course I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now give it back to me. I’ll need it for the meeting tonight. God knows I suspect some of them are only cowed by the sight of it on my finger.” Nick, raising his eyebrows a little, pulls it off with alacrity and drops it in my palm.

We sit there for a moment, each of us in our own thoughts, until I say, “Sorry about that whole…thing.”

“Trying to kill me and Carlo?”

I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say. “For trying to kill you and Carlo.”

Nick gives a sudden, relieved laugh. “I’m sorry I gave you cause to consider it.”

There’s a lot we could both say, but neither of us are big talkers, and we have business to discuss. “Let’s move on,” I say. “Clean slate?”

“Sure.”

“Carlucci gave me your message about the IFF.”

“Sorry we couldn’t nail them for you.” His hands clench by his sides. He really did want to avenge me.

“We’ll pay them back,” I tell him. “Apart from them, what’s the general situation? With the Family, I mean—and beyond.”

“Not great.”

Nick runs down the state of the other Families: the Rossis are shoring us up, but the Alessis, as always, are trying to stay on the fence. The Giulianos are watching closely what the Clemenzas are doing, and what the Clemenzas are doing is taking advantage of my absence.

“And that’s not all,” Nick continues grimly, and then I hear all about Frank and Vollero making trouble together.

“Frank gets an idea in his head and he has trouble letting it go,” I agree. “But this is my mess to clear up. You’re my man, Nick. You’re Underboss, and I should have made it official a long time ago. I’ll do it tonight, and that’ll pull Vollero into line. As for Frankie, he’s not a member of this Family anymore. I’ll give him a reminder myself.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding at the bedspread. “Good to know.”

“Back to the other Families. What exactly are the Clemenzas up to?”

“Moving in on our territory.”

“That’s to be expected.” When Nick stays quiet, I prompt, “What is it? Ask what you want to ask.”

“Okay, then. Why is Lou Clemenza still breathing? After what he tried with Carlo at that wedding, and planting a source in the law firm, I thought you were going to put him in the ground.”

It’s a blunt question, and I admire that about Nick. Besides, he has a right to know. Clemenza almost got away with a hit on Carlo Bianchi, and his machinations with our law firm could have been much more detrimental to the Family than they were. Apart from all that, Clemenza is an old enemy—of mine and Tino’s.

I have wanted him dead for a long time. But the time has never been right.

“Imagine for a moment that you’re the Boss of a Mob Family,” I say to Nick. “Might not be such a stretch for you to imagine now, eh? You hold some power, thanks to money and influence, but your greatest enemy has you on sheer numbers. Would it be clever to provoke them, knowing that a head-on attack from them would destroy your own forces—and knowing how many innocents would die in the crossfire? Or would it be wiser to build up your friends and your allies until the numbers are more equal, and then find a way to dismantle the enemy from the inside?”

Nick takes it in and thinks about it. “But we have friends,” he says. “We have allies. And if you took out Lou Clemenza, no one would blame you. The New York Commission would give you a free pass, even Big Gee from the Giulianos knows the score. And there are plenty in the Clemenza Family waiting in the wings to take Lou’s place; they’d thank you for it.”

“That’s exactly the problem. Cutting off one head of the hydra won’t rid us of them. When I defeat them, I want to make sure the whole top layer is wiped out—and their resources, too. Which is why getting stock in that company is so important. It’s the bedrock of Clemenza wealth. They’ve been stupid enough to put all their eggs in one basket.”

“And now you’re trying to make an omelet with them?” Nick suggests with a grin.

“Something like that.” The Italian stakeholder is still holding out, and I haven’t been able to move forward with my plans there. The meeting I missed a few months ago could have been a turning point. It wasn’t.

Nick rubs his nose, thinking. “So you’ve been giving Clemenza all the rope he wants—”

“Until I kick the chair out from under him. I will destroy the Clemenzas completely,” I assure him, “when the time comes. But at the moment, they’re backed too strongly by their ties in Italy. So until I can cut those ties, I want Louis Clemenza left alone. I’d rather have him in power than a more intelligent man—or one who’s even more prone to violence. Or worse, a power vacuum. But in the meantime, push back where they’re pushing forward. Do as we would normally do. Rossi will help us if you ask him.”

“Understood.”

We move on to other topics. To the quick and subtle clearing of our fallen soldiers at the hospital before the cops got to them; to Angelo’s reappearance; to Detective Garcia; to the senior members of our own Family.

“They’re all downstairs, by the way,” Nick tells me. “Looking forward to a reunion.”

“So am I.” For the first time in a long time, I really am looking forward to seeing them. “The two of us, Nick—we’re okay?” I hold out my hand.

He clasps it and squeezes. “We’re okay.”

“And you and Carlo—how’s that going?”

The smile he gives then reminds me of my own when I think about Finch. “Great. Carlo…he’s just amazing.”

“I’ve been appreciating his greater involvement in our business,” I say. I cast about for a way to ask what I really want to know. “Do you…find it affecting your home life?”

“Not at all. If anything, it’s a relief to be able to talk about that shit, you know? I don’t have to watch my words quite so much.”

“I see. Well…I’m glad to hear that.” My words sound hollow to my own ears. But it’s not Carlo and Nick I’m thinking about. I shake the mood off. “Let’s get this done; bring up the others.”

After they’ve all trooped by the bed, kissed my ring, muttered prayers for my long life and given blessings, the master bedroom begins to feel a little cramped. Fontana, Carlucci, Vitali on one side on my bed. Al Vollero, glaring at Nick as usual, and Snapper Marino are on the other side, with Frank taking up more of the room than the others seem to, even standing on his own at the foot of the bed.

“Thank you all for coming here,” I begin. “I’m aware of the tempting target we make, all of us here together, so I’ll be brief. First of all, I wanted to say thank you to my brother, Frank, for coming back to me in my time of need.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and Frank grins proudly.

“But Frankie will be leaving us again,” I say, holding Frank’s one good eye. “He has a wife and a child who depend on him. He needs to get back to them. It’s asking far too much to keep him here, and he’s not one of us anymore. He’s his own man.”

No one looks at Frank, and it’s so quiet that I can hear the clock in the hallway outside, ticking and ticking, and the soft creak of the landing floorboards.

At long last, Frank clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s right. I gotta get back to Cee and Marcy.”

I reach out my hand and he comes to me, clasps it in both of his, and leans in to kiss me, three times. “You sure, Georgie?” he murmurs roughly in my ear.

“I’m sure.”

If he wants to talk it through later, we will. But for now I’m just relieved he realized the role he had to play in my theater tonight. He straightens, salutes the room with his prosthetic hand, and gives a grin that’s only a little regretful. “And I’ll say g’night now to all you fuckers. Keep your shit together, eh? And keep my brother alive, or I’ll come back and kick your asses.”

I give them time to bid Frank farewell, and Vollero, in particular, takes a long time hugging him goodbye. He must sense what’s coming once my brother is gone.

When the door shuts behind Frank, I motion them closer to my bed. They huddle up, a little semi-circle, and I wait another moment just to make them squirm. “The second thing I want to say,” I go on at last, “is that we are at war.”

“We’re gonna get those Irish fuckers,” Vollero promises me. “Make ’em regret ever coming into this city.”

“We are,” I agree. “But we can only do that if we pull together. Show loyalty.”

The silence in the room is deep, as though they’re all holding their breath. Outside in the hallway, I hear a very quiet creaking of floorboards again.

“I know not all of you have been happy with the changes I’ve made. I understand that I’ve gone against tradition in many ways, that I’ve made decisions that some of you disagree with. But what I want you to understand tonight is this: I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

That causes a little ripple of movement through the room: some surprised faces, some smirks, some frowns.

“I’m the Boss,” I go on. “My decisions are final. Tino Morelli gave the ring to me.” I wait a moment, allow some time for those who need to remember that. “When I took over, I even gave a grace period. I said whoever wanted out could get out, could leave this Family with no fear of reprisal. You all stood by me then. So I’m giving you one last chance tonight. Whoever wants to leave… Leave.”

I look around at every face in turn.

“Leave now, and I won’t pursue you. Go join the ranks of whichever Family you like. Retire. Move to fucking Hawaii. I don’t care. But after tonight, if anyone here ever questions my authority again—ever questions my decisions again—ever goes behind my back again—I will end that man.”

I wait, but I don’t have to wait long. Fontana is the first to respond. “Understood, Boss.”

“With you. Hundred percent,” Vitali says firmly. Carlucci, Snapper Marino, and even Al Vollero are just as quick to murmur their assent.

“Good,” I say, once I’m satisfied that no one is about to head for the door. “In that case, on to business. Fontana is Underboss. And during my recovery, he will be my representative in all things.”

Nods all around the room. I take off the Morelli ring again and pass it to Nick, who takes it with a murmur of respectful thanks.

“And as for you, Vollero,” I say, “all your bullshit about rats, and you’re flapping your mouth to my goddamn brother?”

“But Frankie, he’s not—I mean, I’d never talk outside the Family…” He trails off, his mouth open and stammering as I stare him down. “Never again, Boss. On my life, never again.”

I keep him pinned with my gaze. “On your life, you’ll follow Fontana’s orders like they’re my own, and you’ll show him the same respect you afford me.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“And one last thing, Al,” I say softly. “If you ever disrespect my husband again, ever question whether he really knows my wishes? I’ll cut your fucking face off.”

That face goes pale. “Never again, Boss,” he repeats.

“Then we understand each other.” I pause another moment just to give Vollero’s blood pressure a chance to go down. “From tomorrow, Finch, Carlucci and I will be in Boston for about a month. Vitali will drive us there, and then come back to renovate and secure Tino Morelli’s old mansion for me. Fontana will run the Family. Snapper, work with the Rossi Family to keep pushing back and reclaiming our territories. As for you, Vollero…” I turn to him with a smile. “I have a very special job for you.”

By the time he hears what I want from him, Vollero is smiling, too. “Ah, those Clemenza motherfuckers. Time they paid the price for every shitty thing they done.”

Soon after that, I call the meeting to a close and send the faithful away from me to spread my word, to issue my decrees, to do deeds good and bad. And before they leave the room, I hear quick, light footsteps hurrying away downstairs.

Finch, it seems, has not lost his penchant for listening at doors.

Chapter Twenty-Six

FINCH

It’s a strange thing to be coming to Boston, of all places, for protection while Luca recovers. Luca and I weren’t here when the IFF stormed Hillview House, but I heard graphic tales about it from Aidan. Aidan was actually against us going to Hillview, and suggested we stay with his folks instead, until I gently reminded him that it would only make them a target, too.

“Tara’s used to this kind of thing,” I pointed out. “And she has reinforced protections now on the house—the whole block, and the surrounds.”

Darla’s not happy about us moving Luca again so soon, but I want to get out of New York as soon as we can. It’s too dangerous in the city, and I trust Tara to keep us safe. But when we arrive, Boston feels not unlike a battleground as well. I don’t know how the hell they’re getting away with it on public roads, but there are Donovan checkpoints on each road leading into the center block where Hillview House is situated.

Teo is driving Aidan and me; Aidan is staying at his parents’ house, so we drop him there first and then drive on. Gio Carlucci is driving Luca in a dark-windowed black van so Luca can lie down during the journey, and so Darla can travel with him. Sophia Vicente is with them as well, and I’ve never seen someone so excited to take a drive to Boston. This is her first trial as backup protection for me and for Luca, and she’s taking it seriously. She’ll relieve Gio a few nights a week, nothing tricky, just to give him some time off, and she’ll learn a few things from Conor O’Hara while we’re in Boston.

I do feel bad about keeping Gio from Hudson for a whole month. But our absence will hopefully give Hudson a chance to shine at Kismet, where I’ve asked him to take over for me while I’m away. That should keep him busy enough, even without running after me or a bunch of houseguests.

As for Darla, I’ve made her payment even more generous than Luca first suggested. He might be pissing me off right now, but of course I still want the best available care for him. And Darla is the best. I know that because I’ve seen her care with my own eyes—and now that I’ve seen her grace under literal fire, too, I decided we had to have her. But she deserves a little extra Danger Pay for what she might have to face in Boston.

I’ve asked Tara to set up separate beds in the same room for Luca and me, with Darla just down the hall. Luca’s going to lose it when he sees the separate beds, and I’m not keen on the idea myself…but I don’t want to be tossing and turning next to him if it causes him pain. And from what I’ve observed during our time at the brownstone, every little jostle is causing him pain. Plus he’s refusing the pain medication two times out of three, and it drives me crazy to watch him suffer.

So, yeah. His macho bullshit is pissing me off.

I advised Darla that she’d probably be better off slipping him a Mickey, and she didn’t say no, exactly. She did say it wouldn’t be in line with the patient-led care that she prefers to give. I asked her if she really thought Luca was going to lead anything but a revolution against having to stay in bed.

She told me we’d figure out the pain meds once we were settled in Boston.

Hillview House, when we finally get to it, is so different now that I get a sense of vertigo trying to figure out where I am in relation to what was versus what’s there now. There’s a new entrance from the street that opens out underneath the house, and I have no idea how much it cost to turn what was the lower-level panic room into a low-ceilinged underground garage instead, with a whole fleet of vehicles lined up like a car showroom, but whatever it cost was worth it; it means Luca doesn’t have to pretend to be strong getting out of the van.

He still does, of course, because Tara rushes down to meet us, her faithful hound Conor at her side. But Luca doesn’t want to appear weak, and refuses any help getting out of the vehicle, glaring even at me when I try to offer him an arm. I eventually insist.

Darla gives me this glance of exasperation when she comes out of the van behind Luca, and I make a mental note to remind her later that Luca is a stubborn asshole and whatever happened during the drive here was only the tip of the iceberg.

When I turn around from helping Luca out of the van, I find myself with a mouthful of red hair that somehow smells like sunshine and rain together, and Tara is hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe.

“It’s so good to have you here!” she exclaims, once she’s allowed me to take breath again.

“It’th good to be here,” I say, spitting out her hair.

“Does Luca need help with his wheelchair?” she asks, looking past me with a bright, welcoming smile. I cringe, hoping he hasn’t heard. “You can take the elevator over there up to the fifth floor where your rooms are—in fact, the elevator goes all the way up to the top now, since the renovations.”

“I do not need help,” comes Luca’s glacial reply. “And I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“Walking slowly,” I amend, turning around to pin him in place with a glare.

He pretends not to hear, and keeps his eyes on Tara.

“I don’t want to hug you in case I hurt you,” Tara says, oblivious to his coolness, “but please consider yourself hugged. Hard.”

“Can confirm strength of hug,” I say lightly, and then turn to Conor. “Good to see you again, man.”

His easy smile matches Tara’s in warmth. “And you. All of you.” I don’t hear any change of inflection in his voice as he sees Sophia hop out from where she was riding shotgun with Carlucci, but his eyes do widen a little. “Please, come up into the house and get settled.”

I take a swift glance at Luca, who is pale, his jaw clenched. “Gio—take up the luggage, will you? Teo and Sophia can help, and Tara will show you which room. Darla, maybe Conor can give you a tour of the lower floor. Luca and I will take a second to have a look at the new garage.”

It’s as flimsy an excuse as any, but it gets everyone out of the way. I hear Teo introducing Sophia on the way up the stairs, and Tara’s delighted interest. Then I turn back to Luca.

“You are making this harder on everyone when you don’t take your fucking pain meds or let people help you.”

“I’m fine,” he growls.

“Yeah, the way you’re clawing yourself up against the van there is real convincing.” I go over to him and slip my shoulder under his arm. “Come on,” I say. “If you’re not going to use the wheelchair and you’re not going to use the crutches, then you’ll have to lean on me.”

He stays there, struggling to stay upright against the van and looking down at me, fury in his eyes. But I know he’s really just angry at himself, at his own body for betraying him.

“Well?” I challenge him. “What’s it going to be?”

“I’ll take the fucking wheelchair,” he mutters sullenly, and I pull it over from where Darla set it up on the other side of the van.

“No one here is going to think any less of you, you know,” I say as he collapses into it with a bitten-off yelp. “In fact, they’re all amazed by you. You took all those bullets and you’re still kicking.”

He doesn’t reply, but I do see a hint of the old cocky satisfaction resurfacing in his eyes. My job stroking his ego done, I wheel him over to the elevator.

* * *

As expected, Luca immediately starts objecting to the single bed squeezed in alongside the usual four-poster king in our bedroom. It’s the same room we stayed in last time we were here, and Tara has even thoughtfully put a plastic stool with rubber feet into the shower, so Luca can sit on it instead of stand, although I keep that nugget of information to myself for now.

“I did not leave the hospital to not sleep in the same damn bed as my husband,” he snaps at me, when I try to point out the benefit of separate beds.

“Honey, it’s been really hard for you to sleep with us sharing a bed. And besides, we’ll only start wanting to fool around,” I remind him patiently.

“So? If I want to fool around with my own damn husband—”

“You can, of course, do so,” I sigh. “No one’s doubting your virility, baby. Least of all that own damn husband of yours. Tell you what: we can start out in the king together, but if you can’t sleep, I’ll move out to the single. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, sounding like the human embodiment of Grumpy Cat. I bite my lip, but he eyes me suspiciously. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing.” I come over to sit by him on the king bed where he deposited himself after struggling out of the wheelchair. “Nothing at all, my love.” I slide my hand into his and lean against his shoulder carefully. “I want you to concentrate on getting better,” I tell him softly. “And you can’t do that if you’re busy pretending there’s nothing wrong with you in the first place.”

He doesn’t reply.

“You need to let me help you,” I press. I sit up, let go of his hand, and turn his face towards mine. “I mean it, Luca.”

“Are you going to leave me?”

It comes out of nowhere, a sharp stab into my gut. His eyes are narrow and glittering, his teeth clenched after he spits the words out.

He’s actually serious.

“Why the fuck would you even ask me something like that? No, of course not!” His eyes bore into mine, two twin lasers frying my brain as he tries to figure out if I’m lying. “I’m not lying,” I tell him, to make it easier for him to read my mind. “Jesus, Luca.”

His gaze drops to his hands and his shoulders round over. “Alright,” he says dully.

I think I’m actually offended. “Hey,” I say, and I have to pull his chin around to make him look at me. “What the hell kind of person do you think I am, if you expect me to run out on you just after you get out of the hospital?”

His chin comes up, and those lasers are back, full strength. “Is that the only reason you’re staying? Because I’m—unwell?”

I don’t bother to hide my rolling eyes this time. “No, you absolute asshole, it is not.” I take a breath, make an effort to stomp down my exasperation, and take his hand again. “Where is all this coming from?”

I mean, I kind of know. I know it must be difficult for a man like Luca D’Amato, who has always been able to count on his body as a tool to carry out his mind’s visions, to suddenly have that tool taken away from him. He doesn’t live in his limbs so much as his brain, but the very fact that his health has been an afterthought for so long must be giving him a new and unwelcome perspective.

On top of that, he was getting real paranoid before the attack. Had been for months. Nick Fontana sneaking around behind his back only compounded it, and then all that paranoia must have seemed confirmed after the attack.

But I don’t want my Lucifer, my daring devil, to be paranoid and watchful and fearful. He’s not built to be that way, and it’s fucking things up between us. I need him to see that.

He looks at me, and I think this could be it, the moment we get all that shit out in the open and start finding a way forward—but then he looks away.

“I’m tired, is all,” he says. “And I need the bathroom.”

Just like that, he’s done with the conversation. I know from past experience that there’s no point arguing or trying to draw him out. He only shuts down more.

“Okay,” I say carefully. “I’ll help you into the bathroom—”

“No,” he snaps, yanking his hand from mine and struggling to his feet. “I don’t need your help.”

I watch him go across the room, clutching at his side as though his incision is in danger of opening up, but he reaches the bathroom alright. He slams the door after himself and locks it.

We never lock doors these days. And fuck him for doing it now, right when he very well might pass out or something, and drown that stupid, beautiful face in the toilet bowl.

I look down at my wedding ring and remind myself again of the vows I made to him that day we married.

For richer, for poorer. We did poorer, right at the start. Now, thank God, we’re living richer.

In sickness and in health. I can do that, too. I’m happy to do it.

I just wish he wouldn’t make it so damn hard.

I wander to the locked door and lean up against it, listening. He’s reduced me to this, some creepy voyeur trying to spy on my husband’s bathroom habits. But I hear nothing. Not even the outrage I expected from him at that seat waiting in the shower.

And somehow that only makes me more worried rather than less.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

LUCA

We settle in and I even have what Darla calls a “restorative nap,” although my mind is too busy for much of it to let me sleep. When I do, I have dreams—nightmares, really. All the anxieties running around in my subconscious coming to the fore.

I feel more tired after my nap than before, and so I decide, on Darla’s insistence for tonight, at least, to dine in my room. Finch looks highly approving when he finds out.

“I’ll stay up here, too,” he says.

“No, baby bird. You go down and enjoy yourself with all those people you like.”

“I like you,” he retorts.

“I want you to relax while we’re here. You do better when you’re around others.”

He folds his arms. “I’m not going to leave you sitting up here brooding on your own.”

“I won’t be alone; I’ve asked Tara to join me. We have things to discuss, angel. Business.” I know Finch like I know myself. I know every expression he has, from delight to distaste to despair. But I can’t quite read the slight frown he gives me now. “What is it?”

“Business,” he says dully.

“We agreed to keep things separate—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He throws up his hands. “I just don’t see why business means my sister gets to spend time with you when I don’t.”

“Because—”

“I know why,” he snaps, despite having just claimed ignorance.

I don’t like these little irritations between us. They’re happening too often, and they’re not like our normal arguments. There’s something deeper underlying Finch’s barbs these days. “Where is this coming from, this sudden urge to…to change things that have been working for us?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Working for us?” He takes a breath, holds it, and then lets it out slowly. “That’s a longer conversation, honey. I’ll go down and tell Tara she’s been summoned.”

“Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I really can say.

But I can tell from the look on Finch’s face it’s the wrong thing to say.

* * *

It takes longer than I’d like that night to steer Tara Donovan off the subject of my health, but she gets the message eventually, when I change the subject for the third time. “What I’m really interested in discussing,” I say, after taking a sip of water—no wine for me, Darla insisted—“is the IFF situation.”

Tara looks down quickly at her meal, set up on a little stand in front of the chair she’s pulled over. “Yes. Well.”

My meal—a very hearty shepherd’s pie—is in on a bed tray set over my lap. In a way, it feels luxurious to be eating in bed. If it weren’t for the circumstances, I think I’d actually enjoy it. “Any further intel on Shanahan’s killing?” I press.

She forks through the mashed potato topping, leaving little tracks in it without eating. “Nothing yet.”

“If you need help with gathering information,” I begin, and she gives a scowl that reminds me so much of Finch that I have to suppress a smile.

“No, thank you,” she says frostily. “My people are just as experienced as yours. If they can’t find anything, it’s not because they’re incompetent.”

“I meant no disrespect,” I say gently.

She sticks the fork firmly through the pie and lifts a forkful to her lips. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just very stressful. But of course it must be even more stressful for you, after the attack in New York.” She takes the mouthful, chews, swallows. “I don’t know what happened to Shanahan, how they got to him. Two of my men were actually with him only moments afterward: Rory Byrne and Craig Murphy. They only recently got out of prison and they’ve been working under Conor. Both say they arrived while Shanahan was still alive, that they tried to get him to give a name before he died, but…” She drops the fork back into her meal. “But the assassin had also cut out his tongue,” she says neutrally.

“These men—Byrne and Murphy. Do you trust them?”

“Murph’s been with the Family for years. Decades. And Rory—he’s saved my life more than once. He’s always talking about how he wants to bring down the IFF. He’s quite fanatical about it.”

Fanatics don’t make good Family men, in my opinion, but I’ve already stood on Tara’s metaphorical toes once this conversation. I won’t offer any more free advice. “Finch is convinced Byrne and O’Hara are…?”

With a laugh, Tara sweeps her hair around to one shoulder, nodding. “Yes, they’re very close. I’m happy for Conor. He works so hard, it’s good to see him have some more fun. And in other good news, we have reclaimed Innisfree.”

“That is good to hear,” I say. Innisfree, the Donovan’s private retreat outside Boston, isn’t exactly strategically significant, but it is symbolically important for the Donovan Family. Rather like my townhouse on Fifth Avenue was symbolically important. “I hope there weren’t too many casualties.”

“Not at all. They must have gotten cocky, the IFF; when my people went in, there was only a skeleton crew guarding the place. I know it’s just one battle,” she says. “But…” She gives me a sheepish smile. “Well, it helped morale.”

The property was important to her, I know, as the place where she and Finch spent their childhoods. And it was also the place where Gus and Maggie Donovan died.

“Unfortunately, the IFF really did a number on the place,” Tara goes on. “I mean, they ripped out floors, blew out all the wall safes, took sledgehammers to the plaster…” She shakes her head in disapproval. “What bothered me most was the pettiness of some of the things they did. Pulling all the books out of the bookshelves. Smashing all the ornaments. I don’t understand that mentality.” She looks up, expecting agreement, but I’m just staring at her thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“It sounds…like they were looking for something.”

“Looking for something?”

“Yes. And the interesting thing is, I thought the same—I mean, when they attacked the townhouse. I remember wondering why they squandered their initial advantage by searching the front room instead of coming straight for me. But now I think they were on a mission, and that mission was not necessarily about killing me. And now, as we found out at the hospital, they actually want Finch for some reason.” I put down my fork as another thought strikes me. “And the fire—I don’t think it was intentional. If they’d planned arson, and wanted to search through the place—why not search before setting it on fire? Or at least take protective equipment? More than one of them died from smoke inhalation.”

Tara studies my face. “So you think there might be more to this vandalism of Innisfree than spite?”

For a moment I hesitate, but then I incline my head slowly. “I do. Yes.”

She pushes her meal aside and leans forward. “It makes sense. When they invaded Hillview, most of them stayed on the lower floors at first, and I never could figure out why. A few worked their way up, but once we’d cleared them out and had a look at the damage—now that you mention it, it does remind me of what happened at Innisfree. Everything overturned. Searched through.”

“And at the hospital, they wanted Finch for some specific reason,” I say, trying to follow the logic. “So—”

The thought strikes us at the same time, and Tara gives it voice. “They think Howie knows where it is, whatever it is they’re looking for.”

“Maybe.”

“But what could it be?” she asks. “What on earth do a bunch of terrorists think the Donovans or the Morellis are keeping from them?”

“I suppose,” I say slowly, “we’ll have to ask Finch.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

LUCA

But Finch, when I ask him later that night, is perplexed. “Looking for something?” he parrots blankly.

“Tara and I thought you might have an idea of what they were looking for.”

“You thought I might have an idea what they were looking for?” His brow wrinkles, and there’s a change in his attitude. “Luca,” he says carefully, “honey. You can’t really think I’ve been working with the IFF?”

I let out a short laugh, although I’m coming to the end of my tether with all these paranoia insinuations. “Of course not,” I say sharply, and then add, “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Then…why do you think I might know something?”

I recount my conversation with Tara. He looks doubtful, but less worried about my mental state when I finish. “Well, I have no idea what they might be looking for, sorry. Money?”

“They always want that,” I allow, “but if that was all they wanted, why target the Donovans—or us, for that matter? Wouldn’t they…rob a bank? Hack someone’s Bitcoin? There are easier ways. Launching a paramilitary assault on three private residences and a hospital seems, well, excessive.”

Finally I’m getting through to Finch, who looks thoughtful. “I mean, good point, husband. But I still can’t think of anything they’d want from me.” He shoots me a look. “I’m not privy to either the Donovan or Morelli dealings, after all.”

“Perhaps they don’t know that.” I ignore the underlying thread of his words. If I can put it off long enough, maybe we can avoid that particular conversation. Because I won’t have Finch any more involved than he currently is, no matter how hard he insists, or how many doors he listens at.

I’m not sure what’s gotten into him lately, anyway. Things were working so well with our separate interests—his club, his charity, quite removed from my…business interests.

“Think about it some more,” I tell him, deciding to end the conversation. “Right now, though, I want to turn my mind to other things.”

“Such as?” He perches on the bed and smiles at me.

“Could I talk you into a very gentle fuck?” He gives a scoff of amusement. “No?”

“Do you ever think of anything else? I bet you were having sex dreams in that coma.”

“Definitely not sex dreams. There was something, but…” Just like it always does, the sense that there’s something I can’t quite remember tugs at the edge of my conscious mind. But I have more important things to worry about right now. “It’s no fun having such a hot husband when I can’t do anything to him. But if you won’t let me touch you, then why not give me a show, angel?”

A wicked look crosses his face. “A show, huh? I guess I could do that. Let me shower, first.”

I wait in horny impatience. One of my most vivid memories of Finch is from our honeymoon, while we were on the Maddalena yacht, sailing the islands; of him waving his ass at me while he was bent over in the bathtub, spreading his cheeks and playing with his hole. Sometimes in the middle of important Commission meetings, I find myself thinking about that moment; I see Finch’s round, perky butt instead of Joe Alessi’s face—which, it must be said, is a vast improvement. Or Rossi will ask my opinion on something and I’ll have to pretend to think about it—when what I’m really doing is trying to remember the conversation we’re having instead of Finch’s fingers knuckle-deep in his own ass.

Finch reappears in the bathroom doorway, leaning up against it, one arm high up on the frame and the other on his cocked hip. He’s wearing a towel and nothing else, and smirks as I let my eyes travel over him, head to toe and back again.

I smile. “You were right, what you said at our wedding.”

“What did I say?” He shifts, one hand toying with the towel at his waist, the other running over his chest.

“That I am one lucky motherfucker to have you.”

He chuckles at that. “You better believe it. Now watch.”

I obey, helpless not because of my injuries but because it would be impossible for me not to be mesmerized by the sight of my husband as he performs a slow striptease, hips swiveling, ass shaking, dick swelling. Finch loves to be the center of attention—especially my attention. And when he’s in this mood, it’s impossible not to give it to him.

He turns to the wall, puts his hands on it and arches his back, spreading his legs. With a swoop, he bends lower, lets his asscheeks flare open, and then reaches between his legs to run his fingers down his crack. I have to swallow the flood of spit in my mouth as I think about eating him, about opening up that tasty, trembling knot of his with my tongue, making him squeal and beg for more.

I shove the bedding down impatiently, ignoring Finch’s over-the-shoulder frown at my sudden movement, and ignoring the sting of pain in my side, too. I want him to see the effect he has on me, the way he makes me ache for him. But he’s over by my side in a flash when I try to fish my dick out, swatting my hands away.

“Cut it out. I really don’t need to be explaining to Darla how you opened up all your incisions again via vigorous masturbation.”

I compromise and reach for him instead of my cock, but he evades my hands, eyes sparkling. “You wanted a show,” he says. “And I’m not done giving you a show.”

“You’re a gorgeous tease, baby bird, but I want more. Take pity on an invalid, eh?”

“Ah, now you’re getting it,” he smirks. “You need to milk that invalid status while you can, babe. Won’t be long before you’re back to full strength.”

I hope so. God, I hope so. But Finch is already distracting me from any dark thoughts by mounting the bed, swinging one leg slowly and carefully over my lap so that he’s kneeling over me, his perfectly proportioned, pink-tipped cock and neat little nuts in line with my chest until he settles back on his heels, his ass balancing on my thighs.

“Is that okay?” he asks, anxiety twisting his brows. “I’m not hurting you?”

“I’m in agony,” I say, and then grab his hips when he tries to move off me. “My dick needs your immediate attention.”

His worried face falls into deadpan. “Scare me like that again and I’ll shove a catheter back in it.”

I cup his face. “I’ll be good. So very good, angel, I promise, if you’ll just—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he sighs, sliding his fingers around my shaft. A slight smile breaks through as I hum in contentment. “I know exactly what you want.”

He leans in to kiss me while he works my cock, his tongue lashing at mine while his hand is leisurely, exploratory, fingers sliding up my length in a long, twisting grip, or traveling down to pet my ballsack, tugging at the hairs on it, reminding me who’s in charge. But I’m already so aroused, so ready, that even the unhurried pace can’t keep me on edge for long; I buck up into his fist with a long, quiet moan around his tongue in my mouth, and the blast of pain in my side at my sudden movement is overtaken by pleasure as I spill out my frustrations in pulse after pulse, my balls squeezing themselves dry over what feels like hours, but can only be seconds.

It’s one of those relieving orgasms that feels great while it lasts, but leaves the base of my skull throbbing out a dull headache in time with my heartbeat. But I shake it off, focus on Finch using my cum as lubricant to jack off over me, his lips parted and wet, eyes glazed… He comes, whispering to me about how much he loves me, and I watch every movement of his face, of his hand, of his clenching abs as he works out the last drops. He’s been careful to shoot his load over my lap, avoiding my bandages, and I watch with dirty pleasure as the gleaming strands turn pearly. There’s one last long string stretching from the tip of his dick to my upper thigh, and he lets me wind my finger around it, break it, and suck his taste while he breathes heavily, sitting back on his heels.

Afterward, Finch insists on wiping me down and I stretch my arms up behind my head with only mild discomfort now as I watch him with a sense of almost-satisfaction. Things are always good between us in bed, and in the afterglow. For me, sex is a vital part of our relationship, because it’s where I can really bare my soul to Finch, when I fall so deep inside him that we almost become one person.

But that’s the problem. I haven’t been deep inside him, not physically, not for so long.

I can’t help missing that connection.

* * *

The next morning, I feel so much better than I have for the last few days that I sweet-talk Finch into letting me go downstairs for breakfast. He really doesn’t like the idea, but I compromise by agreeing to the wheelchair after he points out that I should preserve as much strength as I can for sex.

I kiss him breathless to show him just how much I agree with him. After that, he’s even prepared to plead my case to Darla, who is disinclined to let me get out of bed for more than bathroom and shower needs. But then I suggest she go back to bed herself for a while, have breakfast sent up, relax for a while…and I win her over.

Teo Vitali left yesterday, but Carlucci and Vicente are downstairs in the breakfast room, at the lounging area in one corner. They’re talking with O’Hara and his sidekick, Rory Byrne, about security protocols. Byrne has his arm casually slung along the back of the small sofa they’re sharing, and I suspect his finger is tracing circles on O’Hara’s shoulder.

At the large round table in the main part of the room, Tara is reading something on a propped-up iPad, sipping tea while she waits for the staff to serve up. She looks up with a smile when Finch wheels me into the room, her eyes going first to him. “Good morning,” she says, and then adds, “Good morning, Luca. I hope you slept well.”

He’s her brother, and naturally she’d greet him first. But I don’t like how much of an afterthought I appear to be, just because I’m not walking on my own two feet. Still, I’m not going to let something like that spoil my mood. I hold up my hand for Finch to stop the chair, and reply, “We both slept very well,” before I kick the footpads aside and get out of the chair.

“You promised,” Finch says, throwing up his hands.

“I am perfectly capable of walking to a table and sitting at it.”

The chatter at the other end of the room pauses.

Tara sets her teacup back in its saucer and waves a hand to the table. “Please,” she says graciously, “join me.”

The security crew start talking again as I take a place at the round table. “Finch has been talking about taking on staff,” I say, as he noisily clatters himself into the seat next to mine. “Perhaps you can give us some hiring tips.”

“Oh,” Tara says vaguely. “Conor takes care of all that, usually. I think.” She raises her voice. “Is that right, Conor, you do the staff security checks? Or is it Rory?”

“Rory’s on comms,” O’Hara calls back. “Murph does the background checks these days.”

Finch gives a snort. “I haven’t mentioned getting staff for months,” he says. “And besides, no one would pass Teo’s checks. He’s way too harsh.”

“Not without reason,” I point out.

After an awkward pause, Tara says, “Of course, yours is a very different situation in New York, Howie.”

“I don’t want fucking staff, okay?” Finch groans. “I just think Hudson should get a morning off now and then. Gio agrees, don’t you Gio?” he calls across the room.

Gio, who has evidently been keeping one ear trained on our conversation, grins. “Would be nice to sleep in now and then, Mr. D, can’t deny.”

His remark brings smiles, and I try to push the conversation back into safer territory. “What did you have planned for the week, Tara?”

“I’m glad you asked,” she says, as the security team returns to their own concerns. “Since Aidan is in town, he’s asked us over to his parents’ place for dinner later in the week.”

“He has?” I ask blankly.

Two of the house staff members have wheeled in a tempting-smelling trolley and are laying out silver trays and covered dishes along the buffet table at the side of the room. “I’ll get a plate for you,” Finch says, and shoots off before I can demur.

“Alright,” I say to his back, and turn my attention to Tara again. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

The smile she gives seems slightly tighter, although I’m not sure why. “I was saying, we’ve all been invited over to Aidan’s parents’ house for dinner on Friday night.”

I frown a little as I think that over. Aidan O’Leary is one of Finch’s favorite people, and I like the calming influence he has on Finch. But I’m not sure if we should really be paying visits while I’m in town. It just gives more opportunity for the IFF to strike when we’re out in the open.

Finch has come back with a plate piled high with food I wouldn’t get through in three breakfasts, and slaps it before me with silverware.

“What does Carlucci say?” I ask, and call over to him myself before Tara can speak. “Carlucci? You heard about this dinner on Friday?”

He stands up and comes over to the table. “I did, Boss. O’Hara’s just been filling me in on it. Looks like they got everything covered security-wise.”

“I don’t want the priest and his family put in any danger.”

“He won’t be,” Tara says sharply, and this time I can’t mistake the irritation in her voice for anything else. “Conor has given the green light himself, and I trust his judgment.”

“Of course,” I say, and then I give a nod of assent to Carlucci.

“Eat your breakfast,” Finch tells me, returning again with a high-piled plate of his own, “and stop trying to boss everyone else around. This is Tara’s town, baby. She knows what she’s doing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I reply. But there’s something about the way Tara sends an annoyed glance my way that suggests she doesn’t believe me.

I wonder if I’ll ever stop having issues with recalcitrant Donovans.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

LUCA

After breakfast, and with Darla’s permission, Tara invites me to walk in the yard with her. “It’s quite safe,” she adds, a hint of acerbity in her tone, “and I have something I’d like to discuss.”

“Business this early?” Finch groans.

“Not exactly,” Tara says. “And you can come too, Howie.”

I crook a finger at Carlucci once I’m standing, which I do without Finch’s help and only slightly regret as far as the pain goes, and he shadows us from a distance.

Tara waves us out before her into the walled yard, and then I hear her say, “Stay here, please, Mr. Carlucci.”

I turn to see Carlucci looking uncertainly at me.

“We have the entire block under guard,” Tara tells me. “I’d like to speak with you in private. We’re quite safe out here, unless the IFF decides to send a plane over and parachute in.”

“Drone strike?” Finch ponders.

“Then your bodyguard wouldn’t be able to protect you anyway,” Tara tells him, “and even if there was a drone strike, my guards would warn us well beforehand; they have radar and remote radio interception. Nor can anyone eavesdrop on our conversation, because we have disruptors in place. Any other problems I can address for you?”

“Alright,” I say, because I can see she means to have her way. Under the leafy, abundant trees, we’ll make a difficult target anyway, and I’m enjoying the warm morning sun on my back. “Stay there, Carlucci.”

The yard is not enormous by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s large enough to do an ambling circuit, and that’s what I do. Darla might have warned me to take it easy, but I know my body, and I know what it needs right now is to move.

Finch stops by one of the sturdier trees, looking up into its branches. “Remember when Róisín got stuck up here?” he asks Tara, naming their remaining sister, the one who went off chasing God and redemption in a closed order of nuns.

Personally, I’ve always found Róisín a fascinating character in the Donovan family.

“Mom made us all leave her up there until she figured out a way down,” Tara says with a grin. “In retrospect, a little cruel, perhaps.”

“Róisín figured it out, though,” Finch says.

“And never went up there again,” Tara continues, “which I’m not sure was actually the point of Mom’s lesson.”

“Maybe,” Finch says, still looking up. He tests his weight on the lowest branch and then, before I can call out to stop him, swings up onto it.

“Get down!” I snap, but Finch just laughs and turns around to sit on the branch.

“I used to live up here, honey,” he says, kicking his legs. “Didn’t I, Tara?”

“Howie was very adept at climbing up and down,” she assures me, although she adds, “When he was six, of course.”

“Age ain’t nothing but a number,” Finch retorts, and begins to climb higher. “Talk among yourselves,” he calls down as the plush foliage covers him. The shaking of the leaves is the only clue I have about his location.

“Finch!” I call again, but Tara puts a hand on my arm.

“He’ll be fine,” she says with a smile. “He really did spend a lot of time in that tree growing up. Perhaps, of all of us, he was the one who learned the lesson Mom really was trying to teach us.”

If there’s one thing I don’t like much about the Irish, it’s their propensity to talk in metaphor and myth. “If he falls out of that tree—”

“He won’t. Besides, Luca, he’s giving us space.”

I look away from the tree and down into her in surprise. “Space?”

“Space,” she says confirms. “You and I need to have a talk.” She leads me slowly away from the tree, although I can’t help looking back anxiously. A glimpse of Finch’s gilded hair among the green leaves reassures me, so I give her my attention. She puts her arm through mine, and walks me slowly across the path towards the back wall. “You’re a very powerful man,” she says, smiling up at me. “It makes me happy to know that Howie is so safe with you.”

“I wish I shared your confidence.”

“You should. How many times now have you saved him? And not only from would-be assassins, either. You saved Howie from himself. For that, you will always have my gratitude.” Her smile dies away, replaced by a serious stare. “However,” she says.

Shit. I know that tone. Finch gets it sometimes when he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.

“As Howie reminded you at the breakfast table, this is my town, Don Morelli. My home. My Family.”

I give a little shrug, unsure what she means, unsure why she’s addressing me with my title instead of my name. I can’t recall a time she’s ever not used my given name.

“You need to stop throwing your weight around,” she says bluntly. “Acting like—like some emperor visiting the far-flung regions of his own lands. I’m your ally, not your vassal. I have responsibilities and I have difficult choices to make, just like you. Your attitude is particularly unhelpful at the moment and, frankly, it’s rude.”

I let out a surprised laugh, but she remains unmoved. “Tara,” I say at last, “that’s not at all what I’ve—”

“Oh, yes it is. At least do me the courtesy of recognizing your own behavior.”

I want to deny it, to demand examples, to laugh it off, but the truth is…

The truth is, I do know what she means. And Tara Donovan is not some innocent young girl these days, for all her charm. She’s the matriarch of a Family much larger and older than my own, with even more complex politics, I have no doubt.

So I nod, and I look across to the shaking tree, where my darling husband is risking life and limb just so his sister can give me a dressing-down. “I apologize if you feel I’ve undermined you, or if you think I’ve been disrespectful.”

“It’s not a matter of my feeling that way. You have done both those things.”

She’s really not going to let me get away with anything less than a real apology. And nor should she. I give a rueful smile. “I apologize for undermining you and disrespecting you.”

“Thank you.”

She stands against the wall, leaning her back up against it, and I do the same, letting the already-warming bricks comfort my back and ease some of my aches. “We do things a little differently in my world,” I say after a few moments, “but I’ll try to remember that your ways are not ours.”

“Honor and respect are just as important to us,” she says, but then concedes, “It must be difficult dealing with the prejudices you face.”

“Less so these days. If anything, it helped me when I first ascended to have my enemies make foolish assumptions about me. They underestimate me less these days, unfortunately. Finch couldn’t think of anything the IFF might be looking for, by the way,” I add.

Judging by the shivering of the tree branches, Finch is making his way down. By the time we get there, he’s hanging by his knees from the lowest branch, grinning at me upside down as his face gradually turns redder.

“See?” he says proudly. “Up and down. No broken bones.” He swings off the branch in a somersault, landing with a solid thump. “Ta-da!”

“Very entertaining,” I say.

“Mom would be proud,” Tara says, and she and Finch share a soft, slightly-painful smile.

“I hope so,” he says to her. “She’d definitely be proud of you. You remind me a lot of her, sometimes.”

Tara’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” she says, as she mulls it over. “Thank you,” she says at last. “I think.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Finch assures her as we wander back to the house. “Promise.”

Tara slings an arm around his waist and they give each other a side-hug.

“Okay,” he says, turning to me once we get inside. “Now it’s time to get you clean, baby.”

The wicked look in his eye is a promise I intend to make sure he keeps.

Chapter Thirty

FINCH

I couldn’t hear much from up in the tree, but the more relaxed atmosphere between Luca and Tara when I descend tells me that Tara’s said her piece. She seems to be able to deal with Luca in her own way, and what I said about her reminding me of Mom was very true.

Mom was a complicated person, I’m coming to realize. For a long time I couldn’t even think about her without seeing that last moment. She had some sixth sense about it, I think. Some parental instinct kicked in when she shoved me away from her across the limo’s back seat.

In the last few years I’ve been back to Boston more regularly than I ever did as a kid. I’ve gotten to know Tara all over again as an adult. I’ve started to make peace with the past.

Now if only Luca and I could find peace in the present.

He lets me take him up in the elevator—the new one, so it doesn’t just stop on the third floor, but goes all the way up. I study him as we ascend, wondering exactly how much pain he really is in. He’s not so pale today, at least. Maybe the wander around the yard did him some good.

He glances over at me. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” I tell him truthfully.

His smile is devilish. “Same,” he says huskily.

“Good.” The elevator comes to a halt, and Luca steps out gingerly. “Then let’s go and get your meds from Darla, and I’ll give you a nice, sexy sponge bath.”

Luca sighs, but doesn’t argue. He’s not yet allowed to get his dressings wet, and we have a hospital appointment later today to check them out. We stop by Darla’s room, where she gives him his medication and he takes it without complaint. That’s Luca being good. But I wish he’d stop trying to do everything like he used to do; he tries to stride down the hallway to our room instead of taking his time. The wheelchair has been replaced in our room when we get there, and Luca sends it a dark look.

“I hate that thing,” he announces. “From now on, I’m not using it.”

“Okay, honey,” I say easily. It’s not the time to have that particular argument. “Let’s get you undressed.”

* * *

The shower spans the whole of the wall, thankfully, because it means there’s space for Luca’s seat to be out of the spray—he’s under strict orders from Darla not to get those bandages wet—while I can stand under the water myself.

But once I’ve slicked myself down, I kneel before him on a towel, looking up into his beautiful, proud face. It never fails to amaze me when I think about how Luca dragged himself up through the ranks of his Family. I am happy to kneel before him because he’s worthy of it. He’s a god among men, worthy of my worship.

We have all the time in the world if we want it, and I think the combination of pleasure and his meds can only be a good thing for his pain, so I take it slowly. I tongue around the head of that beautiful cock of his, caressing under his ridge over and over again until I get a moan out of him.

“Suck it,” he says, looking down at me. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to.”

I wriggle my tongue into his slit while I keep hard eye contact, and the flavor of him spreads across my tongue, smooth and alkaline. “I want to take my time with you,” I say, between pressing soft kisses to the sides of his dick, up and down.

“You know how much I need this?” he growls. “I’ve been aching for you all morning.”

I smile against his hot flesh, humming happily at the idea. “That’s hot, baby. Doesn’t make me wanna rush any, though.”

He reaches down to grab a handful of my hair and tips my head back. “We do it my way. Open up.”

I let him jam his dick into my willing mouth, try to make my throat relax, swallowing him down until my nose is pressed hard into his damp curls. He keeps me there, and he’s breathing hard while I can’t at all, my nose squished up against him. The taste of him has filled up my senses and I’m drooling all over him, my throat working helplessly as I try not to choke. It’s only when I give a jerk, start to splutter, that he pulls me back off him. I cough and clear my throat, my eyes watering.

“You’re right,” he says softly, thoughtfully, as I catch my breath. “Why shouldn’t I take my time with that filthy mouth of yours?”

I open it to answer and find it crammed full of cock again, his hand hard at the back of my neck as he pushes me down inexorably to the base once more. This time I can breathe through my nose at least, can even bob my head a little when he allows it, and I moan when his foot feels between my thighs and finds my ballsack, nudging it with his toes.

This time when he pulls me off, his eyes are glazed. Either the sex or the meds are working their magic. It’s working for me, too, my dick wagging between my legs. It’s dripping onto Luca’s ankle, and between my spit and my spunk, we’re going to have to sponge him down again afterward.

But it’ll be so worth it.

He pushes my hands away and takes his dick up himself, gives a few cursory strokes. My husband’s cock is fucking majestic and he knows it, because I tell him often enough. Now, though, he wants my attention elsewhere. “Suck on my balls, angel,” he tells me. “No hands. Show me how talented that tongue of yours really is.”

I nuzzle between his spread thighs, nosing my way down to my goal, and breathe him in. Under the floral soap—the same soap I used in childhood all the way up until I was cast out from my family home—I can smell the more welcome, now more familiar scent of Luca D’Amato. It’s the same smell he left behind on my sheets that first night we met, and I buried my face into it to huff him up for night after night, the same way I’m doing now.

I refused to let the hotel change those sheets until weeks after, until his scent faded and they only stank of myself. It wasn’t long after that that I gave in, crawled back to my father, told him I’d go to Harvard if that was what he really fucking wanted.

I push that memory aside and lavish attention on Luca’s pillowy nuts with my tongue, cradling them in my wide-open mouth until my jaw hurts, drooling all over them, moaning with pleasure. By the time he pulls me up again with a hand in my hair, his cock is rock-hard, spilling at the tip, a long string of pre-cum making a bridge from his slit to his belly.

I’m leaking a river myself, dripping into the already-damp towel. I lick along the large vein running up Luca’s dick, keeping my eyes on him, and I see his eye twitch—but that’s the only indication he’s at all affected by the cock-worship from his gorgeous husband, on his knees, whimpering as I slide the underside of my tongue over the sticky promise welling from his cock. I reach up to take his shaft, to really start working on him, but he grabs my wrist, his other hand tightening in my hair.

“No,” he says, his voice rough. “No hands. You get me off with your mouth or you don’t get me off at all.”

My eyes feel heavy-lidded as I look up at him, licking my lips, seeking out every atom of flavor he’s painted onto my mouth. He lets go of my arm and I slide my hand up his thigh instead, over the rough bandages, all the way up to his chest. He doesn’t stop me, even when I pinch his nipple into a tight bud, toying with it.

No hands applies to junk only. Got it.

He releases my hair when he sees I understand the game, and I lower my head to his cock, biting blunt, lip-protected kisses up the underside of his shaft, until I get back to that delicious, heavy cockhead. It’s so thick, flaring out, feels so perfect in my ass, in my mouth, that I’ve suggested before that we take a plaster cast and get a toy made from it. He liked the idea, I could tell. Maybe for our next anniversary.

In the meantime, I curl my tongue around it, lift its weight into my mouth, and close my lips around the ridge. I let his flavor fill my mouth again, the scent of his desire wafting into my nose, and I take in a deep, satisfied breath of him.

His thighs tremble, and when I slide my hand over his chest to the other, lonely nipple, I feel his heart banging hard against the cage of his ribs, and I know why he’s told me no hands. He’s already right there on the edge, his balls heavy and tight, his orgasm right there waiting to burst out of him…and into me.

I suck him down slowly, letting the slick tip of his cock find its own way past my tonsils, into my throat. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to Luca’s length and girth, but he’s always a challenge at first. Sometimes he likes to shove my head down, make me take him fast so he can feel me half-choking on him, but not right now. Right now, if he did that, he’d shoot much sooner than he wanted.

Always a master of self-control.

But I like to pick my man apart, unravel him slowly, and that’s what I set about doing. I blow him with a languid and leisurely pace that gets him panting, and then I leave his nipples alone, screwed up tight and sensitive like they are, and use my well-manicured nails to scratch blunt tracks down the inside of his spread thighs. He jerks at that; Luca’s always had unexpected erogenous zones all over his body, and I’ve made it my business to find every single one of them in the time we’ve been married so far.

By the time we die, it’s my ambition to have made every square inch of him light up under my touch.

I let his dick slip from my lips and slap back to his belly, wet and shining in the bathroom light, and we both watch another bead of excitement well from the tip and drip onto him. I nudge his cock aside with my nose to lick up the spill, then look into his face.

I know what I must look like. My lips all puffy and pink, spit running down my chin, my cheeks flushed with arousal.

His lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them in an unconscious display. He wants me, want to taste me, to eat me all up. And he can, after I’ve had my fill of him. I’ve been edging him for a while now, and my knees are getting sore despite the fluffy towel over the bathroom tiles, so this time when I suck him back down, it’s with a mission. I bob my head on him, gaining speed, sucking so hard my cheeks ache, until I’m rewarded with his hand on my head, pushing me down, his hips thrusting up with an involuntary shove. I hear his yelp of pain transform into a long moan of satisfaction as his spunk floods across my tongue.

He hisses as I suck up and off him, then lick the still-spilling pearls from his slit. “You okay?” I ask softly, running my eyes over his bandages. They’re still white. No stains. Part of my hesitancy to do anything too strenuous is the memory of those white bandages soaked red when we were in that dark underbelly of the hospital.

But he catches me looking and irritation flashes over his face. “Get up,” he snaps, and I get to my feet, trying not to lean too heavily on his thighs as I do. My dick bounces around, still dripping, and I twist to keep it away from his bandages. The last thing he needs is dick-drizzle on his bandages.

“Don’t.” He grabs my hips and makes me face him. “Don’t you fucking take that pretty little cock away from me. I’m going to suck your soul out through it, and you’re going to let me.” His hands slide around to my ass, and he pulls me forward so that I have to plant my hands on the back wall of the shower or risk stabbing him with my dick. But he’s already swallowed it down, his tongue lashing around me, and the strength of his sucking makes me think he’s going to drag my cum out of me by force.

His fingers drive into the meat of my ass, setting the rhythm and pace for me, and the encouraging grunts he gives echo in the shower stall over the noise of the water. I rock against him, cursing him out in breathless, wicked, meaningless words, and when his fingers caress my asshole, teasing, probing, I let the ecstasy overwhelm me. I’m driven up onto my toes with the bliss of it, my back arching, my raw throat aching as I shout out how good it feels, how much I fucking love him, how hard he’s making me come…

The second sponge bath is less sexy than the first, but much more relaxed.

“We could do this every day,” I suggest.

The smile falls from his face, and he grumps, “You’ll get tired of it.”

“You mean you’ll get tired of it,” I correct him. “I would never get tired of your dick in my mouth.”

He frowns, but he nods. “Alright. It’s better than nothing.”

“Excuse the fuck out of me, but that was one intense, amazing, awesome orgasm you just had, husband. But hey, if you don’t want—”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I mean, yes. It was amazing. It always is with you, you know that. But I…” He takes the washcloth from me and throws it over his shoulder, then takes my hand and brings me closer, between his legs. His hands slide around to my ass again and he leans in slightly to kiss my damp belly. “I like to fuck,” he murmurs into my skin.

I card my fingers through his hair. “We will,” I promise him. “When you’re better, it’ll be just like it was.”

But he doesn’t reply. He just puts his arms around my waist and presses his face against me, holding me for a long time.

Chapter Thirty-One

FINCH

I’m a little nervous about meeting Aidan’s parents on Friday night.

I blame Teo Vitali. Teo gets this hundred-mile stare whenever his boyfriend’s parents are brought up in conversation. I know most of what went down during the IFF attack on Hillview House because Aidan told me about it, but also because I eavesdropped when Teo gave his debriefing to Luca after they’d returned from Boston. So I heard all about how Aidan’s dad was an honest-to-fuck bank robber in a former life, and how his brother went bad, though Aidan’s dad switched gears and went straight. It was very dramatic, and I had to smother more than one gasp when I was listening outside Luca’s study door.

That night before bed, I found out I hadn’t been quite as quiet as I should, because Luca stopped me while I was undressing, frowned at me, and said, “We agreed, baby bird: no more listening at doors.”

“Aidan’s my best friend,” I retorted. “And I knew you wouldn’t tell me what Teo said.”

“Because I don’t want you mixed up in the unsavory side of the business,” Luca had sighed, like he’d said it a million times before…

Because he has.

Look, after I shot my own sister, Maggie, without hesitation—to save Luca, but still—I was a little shaken up. You would be too, even if your sister was a megabitch who’d tried to kill you a few times already, like mine.

But I scared myself that night.

I scared myself with my capacity to do what needed to be done. I’d never thought of myself as particularly pragmatic, let alone a killer. And I knew that I’d do it again, no matter who was standing there. Anyone threatening Luca—if it was Tara, if it was Aidan, if it was Brother Frank—I’d take them out just like I did Maggie.

That was what scared me the most.

Tonight, though, I’m just nervous. Not about having dinner with a former bank robber, since I know Aidan’s father is a good man—he’d have to be, to raise a son like Aidan, and he and Aidan are very close—but because I want to make a good impression. I’ve never really had a friend like Aidan, and the way he stuck with me when Luca was in the hospital was amazing. I don’t want to fuck up and embarrass him.

I make sure Luca doesn’t wear the damn Armani suit he tried to struggle into—God, I love the man, but he would wear Armani to a fucking pool party, I sometimes think—and dress him in more appropriate loungewear with an elastic waist that doesn’t cause him agony like the suit pants would have, cutting into his bandaged middle, but I choose a pair that didn’t look too casual either. I allow him the plain long-sleeved tee with the Armani insignia stitched on the breast, just to keep his Giorgio obsession under control.

When we come down to rendezvous with Tara, she looks just as nervous as I feel. “What’s this, sister?” I ask, surprised. “You, of all people, worried about making an impression?”

“I’ve already made one,” she says miserably. “And it wasn’t stellar. The last time I saw Aidan’s parents…” She fades out, even though no one else is listening to us. Luca’s in the corner being briefed by Gio, Conor and Rory on the location. We’re all six of us going tonight, but taking two separate, nondescript cars.

Make that separate, nondescript, bullet-resistant cars.

Plus another carful of Donovan guards, who will span the street, keeping watch.

“The last time you saw Aidan’s parents?” I prompt Tara.

“Well, I shot a few IFF soldiers in front of them,” she says in a low voice. “In front of Aidan’s father, anyway. And I didn’t get much chance to apologize for the whole…” She waves a hand around. “Utter destruction of the house while they were staying here, supposedly under my protection.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say after a momentary pause. I sound unconvincing to my own ears.

“I don’t know,” Tara says, her mouth still turning down at the corners. “Mr. O’Leary was pretty down on me from the start. On the Donovans as a whole, really.”

“Yeah.” There’s a lot of complicated history there, to say the least. “Well,” I say, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, “we’ll just have to prove to him how fucking amazing the Donovans actually are, won’t we?”

“I thought you were a D’Amato these days,” Tara says.

“I am,” I retort. “But, well. I guess I’m still part-Donovan.”

Tara’s deep blue eyes are finally twinkling again as she grins at me. But as we head out the door, my anxiety spikes once more.

* * *

We arrive right on time, both cars pulling up from opposite ends of the street, having followed different routes. Gio wanted us to arrive at different times, too, but Tara and I were more worried about being late.

Aidan’s parents’ place is not exactly squalid, but it’s not far off what I would have considered a shack in my asshole younger years. I mean, it’s fine. It’s a house. It’s a squat, fat house with a roof that looks like it could do with some repairs, a porch running all the way around, and lace curtains in the windows at the front.

We knock on the door. Tara and I are right at the front of the group, and I feel exactly like we did when we were kids and Mom made us go knock on the neighbor’s door to apologize for hitting a baseball through their window. Next to me, Tara is twisting her fingers together in front of her, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

The door swings open faster than I was expecting, and I jump a little, feeling Tara do the same next to me. But the woman in the doorway has a wide, delighted smile on her face and reminds me so much of Aidan that I immediately feel my nerves draining away. “Well, hello there!” she says, as though she’s never been so happy to see anyone in her life. “Tara, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you!” She gives Tara a hug and then turns to me. “And Finch! Aidan just talks about you all the time, when he’s not talking about Teo, of course. I’m so sorry Teo couldn’t be here tonight, too. My goodness, there’s a crowd of you! And that must be Luca, of course—I see you there, don’t think you’re escaping a hug—”

We start filing in, and Luca actually smiles as he leans down to accept a hug from Mrs. O’Leary, although I see a wince of pain as he does. “Come in, come in, let’s get you into a chair,” she says, shepherding Luca through to the front sitting room.

Aidan’s in there as well when we go in, and looks so genuinely delighted to see us all that I relax about another fifty percent.

“How is he really?” Aidan whispers to me at the table, halfway through dinner. Luca is caught up in conversation with Aidan’s parents, and everyone else is listening to them.

“He’s…” I give a little sigh. “I don’t even know, A.”

Aidan pats my knee under the table comfortingly, and tactfully changes the subject when Luca, across the table from me, glances at us. But the warmth in Luca’s eyes makes me smile back at him. I’m glad we came tonight. Luca is completely at ease in this homey environment, much more than I am. Our Donovan family dinners were never so full of laughter or chatter, not when I was a kid. But Luca, who grew up with only his loving older brother and his doting Nonna, must have had a lot of meals like this. Aidan’s mother fusses over him all through dinner, making sure he has double helpings of everything, and Luca accepts, even welcomes her motherly care.

At the end of the meal, Mr. O’Leary is the one who stands to clear the plates, and I’m struck with the desire to contribute to the family feel of the evening. “Let me help clear up,” I say, springing up as well. “I can stack the dishwasher, too. Aidan’s taught me well.”

“You certainly haven’t learned well,” Aidan says stoutly, but his father laughs.

“By all means, come on and help,” Mr. O’Leary says. “But I prefer to wash the dishes by hand. Gives me time to think. Come on through, boys. Yep, you too, Aidan.”

There’s something about the way Aidan’s dad called us boys that puts a lump in my throat. But when I see the mass of dishes in the kitchen all my warm-heartedness flies away in an instant. “What have I gotten myself into?” I mutter to Aidan, my eyes wide as I take it all in.

“Won’t take long,” Mr. O’Leary says. “Not once we get started.”

“I’ll dry,” I say quickly. “I just had my manicure the other day. Don’t wanna ruin all that good work.”

Mr. O’Leary looks slightly puzzled, but Aidan just laughs. “Finch is less dangerous on drying duty, anyway,” he assures his father. “Trust me.”

“How long have you lived here?” I ask as we work, because there’s only so long I can talk baseball before I get picked as a faker. I’ve never even watched a game, but Aidan and his father are pretty…invested in the Red Sox.

“Oh, a long time,” Mr. O’Leary says, glancing around the room as though seeing it for the first time. “Nancy and I have been talking about downsizing, but we had a lot of moments in this house, and I’m not sure I’m ready to let that go. Aidan, go check around the place, would you? Any stray mugs that haven’t found their way back here. Might as well do the lot while we’re at it.”

“It’s a nice place,” I say, after Aidan leaves the room. And I mean it.

“Not really,” Mr. O’Leary says with a smile. “But it’s home.”

“It feels nice,” I substitute. “It feels…warm.”

The sloshing and clunking of plates in the soapy water is almost soothing, and I try to pick up the pace in my drying. It takes a second before I realize Mr. O’Leary has been studying me. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s death, Finch,” he says after another smile. “I know it’s never easy to lose family, no matter how estranged they may be.”

I dry the plate in my hands for a few more swipes than it really needs. “No,” I agree at last. “It’s not. Pops and I…we weren’t close—not like you and Aidan. But that just made it worse in a way.” I clear my throat. “And I’m sorry about your brother, Mr. O’Leary. I knew him a little, when I was younger. He was—he was always decent to me.”

“Not so decent by the end,” Aidan’s father says, steel in his voice. “Jim made his choices. I can’t forgive him for some of them. Not when he put my son and my wife in danger.” I give a non-committal murmur. What is there to say, after all? I think we’ve finished bonding over our familial losses, but it turns out Mr. O’Leary isn’t quite done. “Were you…” he starts.

“Was I what?”

“Were you closer with your mother than your father?” He’s stopped washing the dishes now and is looking at me curiously.

“Yeah,” I say. The lump in my throat is back and I have to give a little cough. “Yeah, I was closer to my Mom.”

“Now she was an interesting woman,” Mr. O’Leary says, and starts washing dishes again with vigor. “From New York, originally, isn’t that right?” Surprised, I nod. She grew up next door to Tino Morelli, which is how they knew each other and, later on, made me. Mr. O’Leary goes on, “But she made Boston so much her home that I bet you could ask anyone else where she was born, and they’d say right here.”

“How…” I frown, confused. “How come you know about my Mom?”

“Ah, Finch. Everyone in town knew your mother back in the day. She was a force to be reckoned with, even before she married your father. And she was greatly admired for the way she turned her life around.”

I put down the plate I’m drying on the kitchen table and give him my full attention. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. O’Leary?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

FINCH

He hesitates. “Oh—well. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

At that moment, Aidan comes back into the room with three mugs dangling from his fingers. “Found these, Dad.” He sets them on the sink and picks up his abandoned dish towel. Only then does he sense the tension in the room. “Uh,” he says doubtfully, looking between his father and me. “Is everything okay?”

“Your dad was just filling me in on my Mom’s reputation,” I say. “When she first came to Boston.”

Behind his glasses, Aidan’s eyes go wide, but he says nothing.

Mr. O’Leary drops the sponge and puts out a hand for Aidan’s dish towel to dry his hands. “It’s not my place. I’m sorry, Finch, if I’ve overstepped—”

“No, you haven’t. I’d just like to know exactly what you mean. Please,” I add, as he still seems reticent. “I don’t know all that much about my Mom’s early life. It’d actually be real nice to hear something about it.”

Mr. O’Leary still seems troubled. “Well…I only know the bare bones of the story, but the gossip was, her parents wanted her out of New York after she…” He clears his throat. “They thought she’d made an unsuitable match. They wanted her here to get her away from a particular man. Older than her, and, well.” He coughs. “Italian.”

“Tino Morelli,” I supply.

He hesitates, but nods. “That was the rumor. But when she arrived here, she got swept up with some even nastier crowds.”

“The Donovans?”

“Not the Donovans.” Mr. O’Leary looks like he wishes he’d never started this line of conversation, but I’m desperate to know.

“Please,” I murmur. “Just tell me.”

The information comes out of him in a quiet rush, while he’s glancing towards the dining room. The crowd in there is still talking and laughing, but Aidan and I hang on every soft word his father speaks. “The story was, she was working with the Irish Freedom Fighters. She married Howard Donovan on their say-so, a strategic match to strengthen ties between the IFF and the Donovan Family, and word on the street was, they thought Orla would keep your dad Howard in line. He was crazy for her. Worshipped the ground she walked on.”

“At first, maybe,” I say bitterly. “But then later, she rekindled her relationship with…” With Tino Morelli. And made me. “So you’re saying my mother…was a terrorist.”

I know in my heart that what Aidan’s father has said is all true. It makes too much sense in too many ways. My memories of Mom have been colored my whole life by what happened in the last moments of hers—and only recently have I started to come back to the better memories, the less blood-soaked ones. But the truth is, even the worst of my memories are still biased towards my mother. Pops was never a good father, even before he found out I was really the son of another man. Naturally I preferred my mother, who always showered me with love and affection.

Others in the family hadn’t felt the same. Maggie, for one. Maybe her resentment and hatred for our mother wasn’t just built on her affair with Tino Morelli. Maybe there were childhood wounds there that were only exacerbated as time went on.

My mother was a charming woman, and she was manipulative.

My mother was dedicated to her family, and she had an affair with one of the Donovans’ greatest enemies.

My mother insisted that we give to the poor, that we show charity, think about the less fortunate…but she never showed the kind of genuine empathy I see in Aidan. No, for my mother it was a sense of noblesse oblige. The notion that we were better than other people, and therefore had a duty to bring sparks of joy into their otherwise dull lives.

Frankly, my mother had a few twisted ideas. And it doesn’t shock me when I consider that some of those twisted ideas might have been in line with the philosophy of the IFF.

“I didn’t know your mother personally,” Mr. O’Leary says gently. “Everything I heard was secondhand from my brother, and from a long time ago. But…well. In time, she was able to pull away from the more radical ideals of her youth. She and your father both; they worked to move the Donovan Family away from the IFF.”

It’s not much to say about either of them—that they preferred organized crime to terrorism—but I guess it’s something.

* * *

I’m quiet on the way back to Hillview House, quiet enough that Luca takes my hand and squeezes it to get my attention. “What’s wrong, angel?”

I can’t talk about it right now. Not sitting in the backseat of a car with someone I love. It reminds me too much of those last moments with Mom, and I’m too jumbled up to think straight. “Later,” I mutter.

Later turns out to be sooner than I thought—as soon as Luca gets me alone in the bedroom, in fact. “Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” he demands, pulling me into his arms.

“No. Well, yes, kinda.” His face darkens and I can’t help smiling a little. “Calm down, honey. You don’t need to send out Gio and his gun, it wasn’t anything…” I sigh, my smile dropping. “Aidan’s father just told me some stuff about my Mom that I didn’t know. Or maybe I did know, and I just didn’t want to put the clues together.”

“I think you’ll need to explain more clearly,” Luca says, and glances over his shoulder. “In bed?”

“In bed.”

Not everything can be solved with sex, but it sure makes problems seem lighter. But once we’re snuggled under the covers and I fully expect a sexy hand job—or something—Luca just turns gingerly onto his side, and pulls the sheet up over our heads, making a white cocoon for us.

“Okay,” he says, tracing my cheek with one finger. “Spill.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

LUCA

I file Finch’s account away in my mind and reassure him with kisses. He falls asleep even before I manage to turn the kisses into something more, but I believe he needs sleep more than sex tonight, and so I do my damnedest not to rouse him while I lie there with a hard cock and a busy brain.

Finch’s mother has always been a touchy subject for him, and I generally try to avoid bringing her up. I avoid bringing up his father, too, for that matter—either one of his fathers. But what if the IFF thinks that Finch knows something about his mother—knows something from his mother—that they don’t? Something that they desperately want to know?

But if Finch doesn’t even know what it is that he knows…

We need more information.

* * *

The next morning, I rise early, sliding out of the bed as quietly as I can and limp down the hallway to get checked over by Darla. I take my medicine from her like a good little boy. When I creep back into the bedroom, Finch is still so deeply asleep that I don’t want to wake him. He’s had far less sleep than I’ve had recently, if an induced coma counts.

I think it does. It will have to count, because I have a mission today. I can’t crawl back into bed, despite how tempting Finch looks lying there.

Tara is in the yard, reading, legs crossed underneath her in the large basket chair and her brow knit in concentration. She looks up in surprise when I come out into the enclosed space. “Good morning, Luca.”

“Good morning. What is it that you’re—oh,” I say, reading the cover. “The Prince. How are you finding it?”

She gives a rueful smirk. “Hard going, if I’m honest. You recommended Machiavelli to me some time ago, and I realized, when you were due to arrive, that I hadn’t read it.” She smacks the back of one hand lightly with the other.

I sit on the outdoor sofa opposite her. The morning is clear, but the sun is losing its power as the year begins to die. “It wasn’t meant as homework.”

“No, but…” She grins, ducks her head. “I always remember what you said when you recommended it. ‘Learn from the best.’ I figured that included you.”

I tip my face back to the weak morning sunshine. “Learn from my mistakes if you can,” I say. “And don’t get shot. Apart from that, I’m not sure I’m any kind of role model.” She laughs at that, and I laugh with her. “You know, Cicero said that if you had a garden and a library, you had everything you needed.”

“I like that,” she says, still smiling. “I think it’s true.”

But my mood has sobered. “Tara, I need information.”

She regards me with those lovely, large, deep blue eyes. “Yes?”

“I’m wondering if this IFF business has something to do with your mother.”

“With Mom?” She cocks her head, thinking, the same frown she wore when I caught her reading. But for her, unlike Finch, the suggestion has immediate possibilities. “She certainly had her secrets. But what makes you think…?” I repeat the story I heard second-hand from Finch, and as I go through it, Tara leans forward, puts her book aside, and focuses on what I’m saying.

“Do you know more about your mother’s past?” I ask. “Anything that would suggest—”

“I have only my memories. But...” She takes a breath. “Well, there were times when we were young… If she had some ties to the IFF, some of the things I have early memories of, the kind of memories I’d half convinced myself never happened, they would make more sense.”

“Finch said the same, that some things he remembered would be more easily explained.”

She chews her lip, auburn brows pulling together. “I’ll put out some feelers. Over the years, my mother built up a great deal of influence in this city. She could have covered up anything she didn’t want widely known. But there are so many factions in this city that someone must know something.”

* * *

The weeks drag on, and I just about write-off Tara’s so-called feelers.

Every day I feel a little stronger, but I find myself actually enjoying Finch’s daily sponge-bath-and-suck so much that I even look forward to it. Better him washing me than Darla, after all. And the happy ending is always welcome. At the end of the third week, Darla goes with me to an appointment at a private hospital in town, where they check my progress.

One morning, Finch and I have just finished what has become our regular morning routine—breakfast in bed (because why waste my strength going downstairs when I could anoint his lovely pink nipples with butter along with my croissant), then a slow and careful sponging of my entire body, after which we let our imaginations run wild. Or as wild as they can in a shower while I’m sitting down. He still won’t let me stand for longer than ten minutes at a time, on Darla’s orders.

Now Finch is taking his own shower, while I’m half-dozing again in the bed. A soft knock at the door rouses me, and I command, “Come,” loudly, assuming it must be either the nurse or Carlucci.

I regret the imperious tone when red hair appears through the cracked-open door, followed by Tara’s anxious face. “Hi,” she says.

“Tara! Come in, please.” I push myself to sit up in the bed, and try not to be irritated when she hurries over to help me rearrange the pillows behind my back. I’m much better these days; I don’t even wince when I twist or turn.

She sits on the bed, perching on the side. I can see she has news, but is looking for a way to begin.

“Finch is still showering,” I warn her. “You might end up seeing a little more of your brother than you bargained for.”

She nods, distracted enough by whatever she has to tell me that she doesn’t even smile. “I won’t be long. I just wanted to let you know, that information about Mom being an IFF recruit during her first years in Boston—well, it’s true. I’ve been told it was a rebellion against her parents, a protest at them moving her out here, cutting off her contact with Tino Morelli, and maybe it was. But…” She shakes her head, lost for words.

It’s not a surprise. And yet…it’s still shocking to hear. “I don’t know how Finch will take this.” I give her a closer look. “And you, of course. I’m sorry if this has—”

“It is what it is,” she says, but her pale cheeks show she, too, has found the news difficult to take. “Besides, what Mr. O’Leary said about her breaking away from the IFF, that was true, too. Still, I wonder now if those ties made it easier for my father to approve of my sister Maggie’s assassination idea.” Disgust creases her forehead, but she moves on. “So,” she says firmly, “now we know that, at least.”

But we’re still none the wiser about what information the IFF is looking for. “I’ll let Finch know,” I say. “Unless you’d prefer to speak to him about it yourself?”

In the bathroom, the shower stops running, and Tara stands. “It probably makes me a coward,” she says quietly, “but I’d prefer to leave it up to you. I don’t think I could bear to hurt him yet again.”

No more can I. But I understand what she means: that the blow will land more softly coming from me than from her. And I happen to agree.

* * *

But Finch, when I tell him, takes it squarely on the chin. He even wriggles out of my arms when I try to hug him, and paces the room instead. He’s still naked from the shower, so I don’t object to the view.

At last he stops, hands on his hips, and stares at me. “We need to know more.”

I do my very best to keep my eyes above his waist. “I’m not sure how much more we can know, baby bird. And whatever it is that the IFF is looking for, it must be something they think only you know, or—” I stop abruptly as a thought occurs to me that should have occurred to me quite some time ago. I can’t even blame the drugs; Darla has tailed them off considerably this week.

“Or what?” Finch demands. “Something only I know, or—?”

“Or something only you have.”

“But I don’t have…” He trails off, the same thought occurring to him. “Shit. Mom’s diary.” His hands fly up to his hair, clutching at it. “Shit,” he says again, and then with mounting despair in his inflection, “Shit, shit, shit.”

This time he lets me hug him. “It might be alright,” I say softly.

“No,” he tells me despondently. “Those stupid fucks.”

I can’t help but agree. Because if it’s Orla Fincher Donovan’s diary that they wanted, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that the IFF destroyed it themselves when they set our Fifth Avenue townhouse on fire.

Still…we can’t be sure it’s the diary. And we can’t be certain it was destroyed in the fire. I push Finch back gently, holding his shoulders, and look down at him. “We need to check. We need to be sure. We can’t allow any possibility of it falling into their hands.”

Determination replaces the discouragement in his eyes. “Damn straight.” He bounces up to kiss me, a quick peck on the lips. “Well? Say the word, husband.”

I pull him closer for a real, lingering kiss, and then I tell him what he wants to hear. “We’ll return to New York tomorrow.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

FINCH

I’ve had a lot of tragic shit happen to me in my life. Hell, I’ve caused more than my fair share of it, at least according to my dead sister Maggie. But seeing my home on Fifth Avenue, the one place I’d come to feel safe and secure in, now a fire-blackened, open-fronted mess of a construction site? It really hits below the belt.

Gio pulls the car up in front of it and tries to avoid my eyes in the rear-view mirror. I know my face has to look bad, because when Luca leans forward and says, “Give us a minute, Carlucci,” and Gio shoots out of the car like a fucking cannonball.

Luca takes my hand and squeezes it. “We shouldn’t have come here ourselves,” he says. “I should have sent someone—”

“No,” I choke out. “No, I…I wanted to see it for myself.”

I just never thought it would hit me so hard to see the ruined bones of a building. I didn’t even feel this bad at Pops’ wake. It’s just that even after I became an orphan in the truest sense of the word, I still felt like I had a place I belonged: my townhouse. Our townhouse.

I’d gone out of my way to invite people over. By day it was a hive of activity for the Morellis, for Aidan and me to go over our charity stuff, for card games and conversations. At night it was a place where I could find solace in Luca’s arms.

And now it’s just a goddamn wreck.

It’s like seeing someone I loved flayed alive. And even worse, everyone walking by on Fifth slows down to stare in mingled horror and interest, that creeping joy that comes with seeing misfortune hit others and not oneself.

I turn sharply from the view, thankful for the dark windows that hide my grief from the gawkers, and Luca pulls me into his shoulder. “We’ll rebuild, baby bird,” he murmurs into my hair. “It’ll be just the same as before. Better.”

I don’t believe him. I don’t believe him because there’s a small, horrible part of me that blames him for this.

If he hadn’t been so arrogant…

If he hadn’t been so paranoid…

It’s not fair on Luca, and I know the only people to blame are the ones who actually attacked us, but…

Luca senses the stiffness in my back and pushes me away a little to see my face again. “We should have gone straight to the brownstone instead of stopping here on the way,” he says. “This was a bad idea.”

“No,” I say, sniffing and wiping my eyes. “No, I want to see. I want to see exactly what those assholes did. And we have to try, Luca. Maybe…maybe by some miracle, the diary survived.”

But when I get to the sidewalk right in front of the townhouse, it’s even worse up close. Half the facade is completely gone, covered up with tarpaulins and scaffolding. There are public safety warnings posted on every available space, and the remains of crime scene tape flutter from the front door. I walk straight past the guards, who have been posted around the clock and are now all standing at attention, their eyes wide and worried since no one told them we were coming. They’re all Morelli men, of course; Gio sends one to wait by the car in case anyone tries to plant something on it while we’re inside, and he follows us in.

The interior of the townhouse is almost unrecognizable to me. It’s as though all the vital organs have been removed from the body. All our furniture is already gone, either removed and put in storage, or burned up in the fire, or too water or smoke-damaged to be salvaged, and therefore dumped. The staircase is now a few stumpy steps leading up to nowhere, the yawning holes of the floors above completely burned out.

“There’s no way…” I murmur. Gio is waiting at the door, and I’m glad, because I can’t stop the tears that come to my eyes again. Luca puts his arms around me, and I let myself cry, not just for the lost journal, or the lost townhouse, or nearly losing him, but for every bad fucking thing that keeps kicking us down.

Without the diary, we have no leverage at all.

But we have to find some way to deal with the IFF, before they destroy us completely.

* * *

Luca whisks me away very quickly after that, back to the Upper West Side brownstone where Hudson has prepared the main bedroom for us again. I’d feel bad about continuously taking his and Gio’s bed if it weren’t for my still-touchy emotional state. Luca and I retire up there quickly, and I shower to take off the grime and the stench and the snot.

Luca, when I come out, has stripped naked apart from his bandages, which I’m so used to seeing on him these days that I barely even notice them. I concentrate instead on the movement of the muscles in his ass and thighs as he prowls the bedroom.

Luca has been thinking, based on his bunched-up brows and tight lips. “Everything okay?” I ask casually, dropping my towel.

He glances up, then does a double take at the sight of my ass as I look over my shoulder at him. Good to know I’m still a distraction for him. There was a time when I worried he might tire of this particular ass, glorious though it is. Luca had quite the reputation in his younger years. Brother Frank doesn’t call him Georgie for nothing—kissing boys and making them cry, that was Luciano D’Amato in his early twenties, running around town, taking tail for a night and then disappearing in the morning.

He did the same to me, after all, that first night.

But during our marriage, even in the rockiest parts of it, our desire for each other has only grown. Developed. Never waned. Our sexual interludes might not occur two or three times a night like in the early days, but they’ve only become more intense. Every time we make love, we become more connected. More one. Maybe that’s why I’m so determined to revisit my place in the Family.

“What are you thinking about?” Luca asks.

“Us.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where we’ve come from,” I add. “And…where we’re going.”

With a smile, Luca holds out his hand and I cross the room to take it. “Where do you want to go?”

I stretch up to kiss his cheek. “Wherever you are, that’s where I am, too.”

He hugs me carefully, a faint ashy fug still caught in his hair as it falls across my face. It’s longer than he normally wears it, and I kind of like the look it gives him. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says. “So once we get Tino’s mansion into shape, you’ll be happy to stay there?”

“I don’t mind, but that’s not exactly what I meant.”

He cocks his head. “No?”

I take a breath, think about how best to explain, and then realize it’s not only my words that I need to choose carefully. “Let me take your bandages off and wash you. Please?”

Before we left Boston, Darla confirmed it was safe now for Luca to take off the bandages, to get the wounds wet, as long as we dried them gently and covered them up again after. “In fact, it’ll help,” she said with a bright smile. She left us with a huge stash of hydrocolloidal bandages and strict instructions. And we, having agreed privately that New York would be too dangerous to have Darla so close to us, paid her out her private contract, with a sizable bonus, and said our goodbyes. I really think she was sad to leave us.

But Luca refused to let me remove the bandages this morning. We stuck to our normal routine in the shower and I didn’t push him.

Up until now.

His blue eyes are as warm as I’ve ever seen them as he tips my chin up to search my face. After a moment, he says, “If I let you take these bandages off, you’ll tell me exactly what you meant, baby bird? What’s ticking over in that always-interesting mind of yours?”

“I will.”

“Alright, then.”

I begin to remove the bandages, starting with the soft cotton wraps first. I work methodically and wind them up, and then I go to work on the Band-Aids underneath, inching them off little by little. Eventually, I get down to skin.

I worried I’d cry when I saw the damage. I don’t, though. The jagged pink scars that run up and down Luca’s body don’t upset me. They don’t appall me. They only remind me exactly how much this man loves me.

“They’ll fade,” he says, after I’ve stared at them in silence for several moments. “They said they’d fade.” The nervous lilt to his tone hits me right in the chest.

“You think I care about that?” I put my hand on his cheek and look him straight in the eye. “I hope they don’t fade. Every single one of them is a symbol to me—to the whole damn world—of your strength. Your resilience.” Keeping his eyes, I kneel down in front of him and press my lips gently to the river of scarred flesh running up the side of his belly. His hand threads through my hair, petting me. I run my tongue all the way up to the tip of the scar and then look up at him again. “You wear these proudly. Show those motherfuckers they can try to take you down—but they never will.”

We had a lot of creative sponge baths during our time in Boston, but I know Luca’s been getting tired of having me take care of him so intimately. He would never say, because he’s trying, with every fiber of his being, to be grateful, but I don’t want him grateful or compliant or docile. I want him to be who he is.

And I want him to remember, for once and for all, who I am.

Chapter Thirty-Five

FINCH

I take Luca’s hand and lead him into the bathroom. No more seated showers. He’s much stronger these days and both Darla and the doctor in Boston have told him to make sure he gets adequate time out of bed. He’s rested enough, this devil man of mine. So I turn the showerhead to a warm, soft setting, like a summer rain, and kiss him while I wait for the water to heat up.

Inside the shower, I watch him adjusting to new the sensations from his knitting pink flesh as the water travels over his scars. I take up the washcloth and soap, and give him the slowest, most luxurious wash-down that I’ve ever given him.

There’s a part of me that will miss him letting me do this, letting me care for him so completely. But once an injured lion has recovered, you don’t keep him in a cage. You release him back into the wild to take his rightful place.

Once I’ve carefully cleaned his top half, I get on my knees in front of him and pay the same attention to his bottom half. I take particular care with his junk, soaping him up slowly and firmly until he’s heavy in my palm, my other hand sliding thick with soap foam between his ass cheeks.

When I look up at him from this angle, his balance resting on one leg, his long, hard body rising up and taking up my whole view, I’m reminded of Michelangelo’s David—if a little hairier. I move on to his thighs, smoothing my hands over the tapering muscles, over his knees, his perfect calves.

I keep my eyes cast down and I bend myself double, my legs tucked up underneath me, as I wash his ankles and his feet. I lift each of his feet into my palm, curling my fingers around it while I wash it, rinse it, and then set it back down on the tiles carefully.

And then I lean right down and press my lips against his feet, kissing them all over, clutching at his ankles as the water rains down around me.

Finally, I look up at him again, his eyes so far away that they’re unreadable. “Do you have any idea,” I ask quietly, “how much I worship and adore you?”

He’s very good at keeping his reactions in check, so I know it’s involuntary when his mouth curls, just slightly, at both sides. “Are you coming to me as a supplicant, baby bird?”

“I am.”

I’ve caught his attention now, and not just physical, though I don’t miss the way his cock twitches as he looks me over, bowed and begging before him. “Well, then? Let’s hear it.”

I wrap my fingers around his ankle and consider my words carefully, staring at his feet again. “Soon you’ll be fully recovered.”

“Yes?” he prompts.

“I want you to know...that I’ve enjoyed taking care of you. I’ve been thankful you let me take care of you. It’s not something I get to do very often.” I slide my hand up behind his thigh and tilt my head back to take him in. “Thank you.”

He reaches out to caress my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re welcome, angel.”

“But,” I say, and watch his small smile die. “I want you to let me continue taking care of you.”

“What is it that you’re asking?” I can’t read him now, neither the tone of his voice nor the look in his eye.

“I am asking you to let me be your partner, in every sense of the word. I swore everything to you at our wedding—for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Haven’t I proved myself to you by now? I want to be with you in all things.” I take a deep breath. “I want to be with you in the darkness as well as the light.”

He doesn’t immediately pull away, so that’s a good sign.

“We agreed,” he says softly, after a long pause, “after Maggie—”

“It took me a long time to come to terms with that,” I concede at once. “But Luca? I would do it again.”

He puts out a hand to help me up. Good thing, too. These tiles have been hard as hell against my shins. When I’m standing, he keeps his fingers intertwined with mine and touches my chin with the other. “I don’t want you in danger.”

I give a painful chuckle. “Luca…let’s be honest. I am always in danger. But that’s not because of you. From the moment I was conceived, my life has been under threat, not because of anything I’ve done, but because of who I am.”

He says nothing, his face calm, and then he pushes my hair back from my forehead.

I try a different tack. “Are you forgetting the night we met, too? I am not capable of standing by, watching you take on the whole world without me. I jumped in then and I saved your life. You wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t.”

Luca’s eyes flash, but still he says nothing.

“Now,” I continue doggedly, “I will admit that I’ve allowed you to wrap me up in cotton balls and keep me in a little box. I’ve allowed you to pretend that I’m some principessa in a tower. But it’s been just that—pretense. It’s time for us to stop playing games, love of my life.” I run my thumb across his mouth, and feel almost relieved when his lips part to let it in. His tongue is warm and gentle as he sucks. “When we first talked about what we could be to each other—when you had me kidnapped and tied up in that chair, and I was wondering if it was my time to die—you agreed then that I could be an asset. It’s you and me, baby. Forever. For always.”

He releases my thumb with a wet suck. “You have been an asset. You taught me how to behave, how to dress, which shoes to wear—”

I grab the back of his neck and his eyes widen a little. I still have the capacity to surprise him. “Giving you a fucking makeover is all well and good. But that bullshit was always just the tip of the iceberg.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Yes I do, Luca. Yes. I do.”

His eyes, almost gray in the cold light of the bathroom, flick over mine, and then he leans in to kiss me. “I’ll think it over,” he says afterward.

“Luca—”

“Finch.” He says my name affectionately but firmly, and I know I’ve run up against a brick wall. “I will think it over,” he says again. “Now—”

“No fucking,” I warn. “Nothing too strenuous.” I almost add, You know what Darla said, but that would just piss him off. But it’s true; Darla told him he still needs at least another week of recovery before he can engage in vigorous physical exercise—including sex. He was outraged when she said it, but she was implacable. “I’ll be happy to suck your dick, though,” I say, grinning.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Luca sighs, “but I think I’m tired of blow jobs.”

I recoil in mock-hurt. “Tired of my mouth?”

He laughs, turning me under the water so my back is against the tiled wall. “Definitely not tired of your mouth.” He brushes his lips against mine, his hand wandering over my body, thumbing at my nipples as we settle into the kiss. His mouth opens mine and I let his tongue in, let him push it into me, a substitute for what I know he really wants.

I’m tentative at first, trailing my fingers over his body as lightly as the water itself, until I’m sure it doesn’t hurt him. Our kiss changes, gets deeper, faster, until he’s devouring his way down my neck, sucking and biting in a way that I know—and he knows—will leave marks. I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and encourage him. I want every one of our enemies to see how much he’s recovered; let them guess and gossip about what we’ve been doing during our time away.

Luca returns to my lips, the intensity of his kiss deepening. He rubs his face against mine, his unshaven skin scraping against my skin; he catches my bottom lip between his teeth and presses down, sucks at it, releases it.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs as he gathers up my dick and his in one hand, jacking us together, taking his time. It’s too much and not enough; I’m burning all over but shaking like I’m cold. One second I feel like my orgasm could be right there, one twist of his palm away, and the next I could do this for hours, let Luca edge me forever.

He’s sucking on my neck, his fingers pinching cruelly at my nipples and then soothing when I arch my back or whimper a protest. He knows just how to play my body.

He hasn’t forgotten.

I’d become used to regular sex, used to the notion that we’d always have each other, that Luca would always be there to light me on fire and then help hose it down. It breaks my heart to think I ever took him for granted.

“You okay?” he murmurs, as I choke back a cry. His fingers splay against my neck, tip my chin up so I have to look at him, look into the ocean of his eyes.

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I assure him. “Yeah, it feels good. You feel so good, Luca, you always have…”

He recaptures my mouth, a new kiss so delicate, so tender, so in tune with my heart right now that it undoes me. The pleasure spikes in a sudden, welcome wave, but it’s unlike my usual orgasms, those ones that explode out of me, pulse through my junk and leave me exhausted. No; this time it flows through my whole body, radiating out in ripples as though every nerve ending in my body wants in on the bliss. I hang on to Luca’s strong shoulders as he works me through it, and just when I think I’ll have to pull my dick out of his hand, just when it’s too much, he comes with a gasp of relief, his cock quaking against mine, painting me up to my nipples in his cum.

We hold onto each other as we come down from the high, and then I adjust the water to a cooler temperature to help wash us down from our mixed, sticky cum. We kiss again under the water flow as we sluice down, a messy, open-mouthed kiss with more tongue than lip, drinking each other in.

When we get back into the bedroom, Luca pulls me into his arms once more. “One more thing, baby bird. You’re no princess in a tower. No matter what you might think, or what Frank calls you. You’re my king, Finch D’Amato. Don’t you ever forget that.”

I give him a lazy blissed-out smile. “And you,” I tell him, “are my emperor. Make sure you rule over me wisely.”

He laughs at that. “There’s no one alive who could rule over you, baby bird, not unless you allowed it. I’d be a fool to think otherwise.”

He knows me, this man of mine. He knows me.

* * *

“What next?” I ask the following morning, once we’re both showered and dressed and ready to face the day. Wafting up from the kitchen I can smell pancakes, and I smile. Hudson is too kind to us, really. I’ll have to make sure he knows how much I appreciate him.

“Well,” Luca says slowly, and I turn to stare at him.

“You’ve been thinking,” I say sternly.

“I have,” he admits. “I want to go back and look through Tino’s house again.”

That’s not what I expected. At all. “Why?”

He gets this weird look that I can’t place. It’s almost embarrassment. “I just…” He sighs. “There’s something that’s been playing on my mind. I went through all his safes after he died, as you know. He left the combinations with Angelo, encrypted. But there was this one combination that didn’t work on any of the safes. So I’d just like another look through the house.”

“But you said it was renovated. And Teo’s been ripping out walls, adding shit back. They never found anything, another hidden safe?”

“No. But I’d still like to have a look for myself.”

I never went to Tino’s house while he lived, and I’m not too sure I want to go now that he’s dead, either. But just last night I gave my grand speech to Luca about being his partner in everything. I can hardly back out now, otherwise he’ll just keep on using me for fucking fashion advice.

Although it must be said, I do give great fucking fashion advice.

I try to sound nonchalant as I ask, “When do you wanna go?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

LUCA

Tino lived on a corner block in the Upper West Side, in a gardened, four-story luxury mansion. It’s actually a landmark in the city, built in the early nineteen hundreds by a wealthy tobacco merchant. When Tino bought it, it was falling apart—so Angelo told me. But over the years, Tino had it restored in painstaking, loving detail, including the reason he bought it in the first place: the Prohibition-era secret passageway from the cellar that originally led down to the river. The reconstructed passageway only extends as far as the other end of the block, and that was where he, Angelo and Connie had been headed during the final attack.

In the end, only Angelo had made it out alive.

The bright white facade of the mansion makes it stand out among the darker buildings surrounding it. I had it cleaned from the tarry smog clinging to its marble exterior during the renovations carried out after Tino’s death, and I’m glad now that I did. It shines even brighter than it did in my memory.

We’ve had it emptied of Teo Vitali’s security outfitters for the day, though their tools and workbenches still clutter the opening of the mansion.

“I wish you could have seen it before,” I tell Finch after Vitali unlocks the front door. I haven’t been here since just after Tino died. I had to see it for myself, just once. Since then, all I’ve seen are photographs of the repairs and renovations. I haven’t been able to bring myself to step over the threshold again until today.

“It’s very beautiful,” Finch says, as we walk slowly in. “I can see it must have been…a palace, of sorts.”

Very few mansions from the Gilded Age survive intact in Manhattan, and the restoration work Tino carried out was faithful to the original interior design. The floors beyond the marble foyer are shining, polished hardwood, and the coffered ceilings throughout the first floor are ornate, hand-carved wooden honeycombs, echoed in the carved staircases and panel detailing around the fireplaces. I wish Finch could have seen it with all the furniture, rugs and ornaments in place, but they’ve been placed in storage while the workers replaster the walls, which Vitali has had reinforced, and they are still to be repainted and the wallpaper replaced.

“And the conservatory is extant?” I ask Vitali.

“You mean that plant room?”

“The conservatory,” I correct him.

“At the back of the house? Yeah.”

I pause, the same elusive memory tugging at my mind. “You’re sure? The tiles weren’t damaged?”

Eyebrows raised, he nods. “Sure as sure, Boss. I know the glass got shot up some during the attack on the Old Don, may he rest in peace, but it was also one of the first repairs to be completed back then, on your orders. It’s bullet-resistant now, and there’s a steel gate that comes down automatic to shut it off from the house if the alarm goes off.”

I wave a hand impatiently. I don’t care about that sort of thing. “The plants?” I ask instead.

“The original gardener comes every week to give the plants some love—just like you ordered.”

He leads the way to the conservatory, Finch behind him, and I bring up the rear. Finch’s shoulders are square and pulled back, almost as though he’s expecting another sudden attack. This was where his biological father died, after all, so I can’t blame him, but if there’s one place we have kept as secure as our own townhouse, it’s Tino’s place.

Not that our townhouse has fared all that well.

Still, I had the feeling that one day something would turn up in Tino’s house. Checkbooks, bonds, jewels, various documents—including the results of Finch’s DNA test showing a direct genetic link, and Tino’s revised will naming Finch and his unborn child with Connie as heirs—were all in the safe in his study.

Important stuff, sure.

But the head of the Morelli Family, as I well know now, has even more important things that need to be preserved, and never in so obvious a place as a wall safe. In fact, I’d expected to find more material than I did in Tino’s safe deposit boxes. I have one myself, where I keep the most dangerous pieces of information that fall into my hands, and anything that I want to keep away from prying eyes. But we checked every one of Tino’s safe deposit boxes, and his bank accounts were straightforward.

I’d known that there must have been more, and that one remaining safe combination had been confirmation. I’d asked Angelo about it more than once, and while he’d agreed with me that there seemed to be something missing, he’d been no wiser than I. Since he’d spent a lot of time in the mansion, and had no clues to offer, I had to let it go in the end.

But the conservatory was a place where Tino preserved his privacy and enjoyed time alone to think. So, although it seems an unlikely place for secret safes, I want to check it over once more.

We arrive at the doorway to the conservatory, the air temperature decidedly warmer and more humid even though it’s now autumn in New York. Inside, the plants are slightly overgrown, but they have been kept in check over the years. It’s perhaps a little wilder than Tino preferred, but I…

I think I like it.

It’s giving me a sense of déjà vu that I can’t place. I turn to Finch, wondering if he recognizes something about it, too, but the question dies before I even take breath. Finch’s teeth are clenched, I can tell by the way the cords in his neck stand out. “Angel,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Are you—?”

He swallows, staring into the conservatory like it’s a jungle with all sorts of sharp-toothed creatures waiting in there to pounce. “I just,” he croaks, and then swallows again. “Maybe I just need a second.”

I flick my head at Vitali, who backtracks to the kitchen and comes back with a cool glass of water. Meanwhile, I’ve helped Finch over to the love seat in the sitting room outside the conservatory. He takes the glass gratefully and swallows it down all in one go.

“Why don’t you wait here with Vitali,” I murmur to him. I know he wouldn’t be happy if I made a big deal out of things.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I just…I could use a second to get my shit together.”

I understand. I find it moving myself to be in the house of my old mentor, without him in it. But the man was not just a mentor for Finch. He was blood—even if they never had the chance to get to know each other. So I give him a quick kiss and stand, locking eyes with Vitali, who merely nods at the silent order.

Then I turn and enter the conservatory.

* * *

For some reason I expected a much longer walk to the center, but the path, though circular, spirals quickly in to the same small table and chairs that I remember so well from my visits here. I give in to nostalgia and take my usual chair, the one I always used to sit in when I came here to report to the Boss.

But it feels wrong, somehow.

I stand again and look around, wondering if there’s a safe hidden among the foliage, and then decide I’d be better off sitting in Tino’s usual chair, if I want to think like him. So, after another glance around as though his spirit might be watching, I re-seat myself where Tino used to sit. Feeling a little like Goldilocks, I decide that this position is just right.

I glance down at the base of the cement table, built for outside wear and much more durable and heavier than necessary in a more sheltered conservatory. I always thought it was actually built into the paving, but as I lean against it, it gives the tiniest wobble.

I push again, harder this time, and it gives an inch, leaving a dark ring of dust and dirt behind it. Underneath is a large mosaic tile, and when I look closer, I see a hole in it, disguised by clever placement within the mosaic design.

When I stamp my foot down on the tile with the hole, there is a hollow-sounding echo. I compare it to the flat thud my foot makes on the other tiles around it, and then I shove the whole table to one side, ignoring the flashes of pain in my belly, and praying that Finch won’t suddenly decide to make his way in. He’ll get annoyed if he thinks I’ve been too physically active. I leave the clearing to root among the plants and tools until I find a piece of metal rebar that I think will fit in the hole. It does, with some maneuvering, and then I carefully lever up the tile and shift it aside.

Underneath it is a steel door and a modern keypad. I crouch carefully, and, with a deliberate finger, enter the last code, the one that never worked on any of the other safes. I know it by heart, having puzzled over it for many nights, but I double-check it against the cryptic note I made on my phone about it as well, and then I pause and triple check it again.

It’s correct.

I hit ENTER.

As soon as I do, the door gives a satisfying, dull clunk, and bounces up on the hinge. I pull it open and use my phone flashlight to illuminate the dark space below.

There are documents, as I expected—photographs, letters, contracts. All of them will be useful to me, I can see that with a mere glance, my heart leaping as I consider how much potential they symbolize. Underneath them all, though, there is a letter postmarked from Boston, without a return address on the back. The letter inside is nothing but a brief note addressed to Tino, and a series of numbers at the bottom.

But I believe I recognize the handwriting.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

LUCA

I take the time to replace the tile and the table, and then I leave the conservatory, clutching my prizes in one hand, and return to where Finch and Vitali are waiting. “You say nothing about this,” I tell Vitali.

“Of course not, Boss.”

“Go find a large envelope or something to put these in.” I wait until I hear him go upstairs. Finch is watching me closely, and I sit next to him, pleased to see his color has returned. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. What did you find?”

“Useful things. And—this.” I hand him the letter and by the way his eyes widen, I know I was right about the handwriting.

“This is—Mom wrote this,” he says, skimming the document inside the envelope, and then staring up at me.

“Yes. I thought so, too.” I’ve seen Finch pore over his mother’s journal enough times for her handwriting to be familiar to me.

He reads the note again, eyes lingering on each word. “But what does it mean?”

“Put it away for now,” I murmur, hearing Vitali’s footsteps returning. “We’ll discuss it at home.”

It’s not that I don’t trust Vitali. It’s just that I will never trust anyone else in this world like I do my husband. And besides, it’s a note from his mother. He deserves privacy around any discussions.

Finch puts the note back into its envelope and I slip it into my inside jacket pocket just as Vitali arrives back. “Can you wait for me in the kitchen with Vitali?” I ask Finch once I’ve put all the documents into the envelope. Vitali must have gotten it from Tino’s study, I think; the large Morelli crest in the corner shows it came from Tino’s personal stationery.

“Where are you going?” Finch asks.

“I just want to check the library.” It’s partly the truth.

“You’re still not supposed to go up or down stairs on your own—”

“I’ll take it slow. Promise.”

And it is the library I go to first, after I climb the staircase, a million memories crowding my mind as I step up them as slowly as I promised Finch. At the top I turn right, walk past several doors, and enter the library room.

The scent of leather and old paper fills me with nostalgia again, although my temper rises when I think of my own library in the townhouse, all those books put there with purpose by Tino Morelli as part of my wedding gift, now nothing but ash and pulp.

But as I glance around the shelves, I see many familiar titles, and several that I did not own myself. Learn from those who taught me, Tino told me when he showed me the books he’d collected for me: everything from ancient philosophers and memoirs, to battle tactics and modern warfare. I put those books to good use. Yes, once the Fifth Avenue townhouse is rebuilt and I am confident in its security, I’ll have Tino’s books removed from here and taken into my own library.

I turn to the left bookshelf and trail my hand along worn spines until I find the book I want, and pull it. The whole bookshelf slides smoothly inward, and I smile as I look through the hidden doorway to Tino’s study.

The only time Tino showed me that trick, I was just a boy. But it made an indelible mark on my memory. It still appeals to the kid in me. I’ll show Finch one day soon. Tell him my own memories of Tino, in the hopes that it will bring him some comfort.

I step through into the study. On the other side of the bookshelf, the secret door is masked with a full-length mirror, and I pull it to behind me. I wonder how many other secrets Tino’s house might give up before the renovations are done—Vitali probably knows of this one, although based on the open door to the study he came in via the hallway rather than the library.

Tino’s study is just as I remember, and I stand in the center for a moment just to breathe it in. The furniture here—his desk, the Italian leather sofa—they can come to the townhouse once it’s ready. But I didn’t leave Finch waiting just so I could consider interior decoration. Tino’s study and library were the places I wanted to visit to remember him by. But now there’s one more place in this house that I need to see, although I wish I could avoid it.

I go back to the lower floor as quietly as I can, come around the side of the staircase, and softly open the door that leads to the cellar.

* * *

After the crime scene cleaners and the repeatedly-engaged painters, the stark white wall should not surprise me like it does. But still, in my mind, I see the photographs the Feds made me look at after the attack, when all of us were pulled in and questioned. I see the blood and Tino’s body lying there against the wall, almost unrecognizable in death. He was surrounded by several dead Fuscone and Clemenza soldiers, which gave me so much satisfaction that I actually caught myself smiling during the FBI interrogation. It didn’t go down well, that smile, but I was released soon afterward, thanks to Carlo Bianchi.

Now, in this pristine basement, it takes me a moment to orient myself, to turn and face where I know Tino’s death occurred, and then I take out my phone and replay once more his final moments.

His final words to me.

“Take care of my famiglia.”

I’m doing my best, I think, slightly irritated. If only your goddamn son wasn’t so determined to get himself into danger.

But watching Tino again now, I realize it’s not only Finch that Tino meant when it comes to the Morelli Family. I’ve asked so much of my people since Tino’s death. Expected so much. Expected their loyalty, their support. Expected them to die for me.

For Finch.

And it has not been fair of me to expect that. Nick Fontana royally pissed me off several months back when he pointed out my hypocrisy, but I was only so angry because he was right. I’ve been putting my own goals ahead of the Family, and that is not what Tino Morelli wanted from me. Expected from me.

I need to stop using the Morelli Family like a personal army.

Yes, it’s my role to protect Finch. But he is not, as he himself said, some princess in a tower. He’s my lover, my husband, my partner. He’s the son of the man who died here in this room. And Finch’s mother was a formidable woman, as we are coming to understand more and more each day.

As for Finch, when I really think about everything he’s done in his life—well, he’s more dangerous and more resourceful than Tino Morelli and Orla Fincher Donovan combined. He’s had to be, to survive.

I play the video again, judging the specific place where Tino sat slumped against the wall, Connie Taylor hugging him hard, her face buried in his neck like a little girl wishing the real world away.

To my left is a large, boarded-over hole that I know used to lead to the escape route through which Angelo took Connie. Tino, he’d told me later, was already bleeding out. He’d insisted Angelo take Connie—the mother of his unborn child—and leave him behind. I’d do the same, if I had to. I would send Finch away if there was a chance for him to survive, and I’d stay behind as still-live bait for my enemies.

And like Tino, I’d take as many of them with me as I could.

But in his last moments, he also cared for the Family. I must follow the example he has set for me more closely. I can still learn from him, it seems, even beyond death.

I hear the creak of the door at the top of the stairs, and footsteps coming down. Swiftly, I come over to the bottom and hold up my hand. “No, baby bird, don’t come down. I’m coming back up.”

“I want to,” he says, and I know better than to argue when he’s using that voice. He comes down the steps, looking around with interest. He catches sight of the phone in my hand, although I try to pocket it without him seeing. “The video?”

I nod.

“Will you show me, please?”

He’s never watched it before. Where the hell is Vitali, and how did he let Finch come down here on his own? “I don’t want you to see it.”

“I know you don’t.” He holds out his hand for the phone and, after a moment, I give it to him.

I pace the cellar while the familiar monologue plays out. I’ve watched it so many times myself that I don’t need to see the picture to know exactly what is happening in each frame. Tino’s calm, his smile, they astonished me at the time. I understand better, now.

He had accepted his death—had probably accepted it some time before that night, in fact. Like me, Tino was a man who thought ahead, well in advance. When his options narrowed to one, he had no fear in the face of death, only the stoic knowledge that it is inevitable, and peace that he had already planned for it.

The video stops, and I glance over to Finch, expecting grief, even tears. But he’s as calm as Tino himself and, not for the first time, I see a startling resemblance. “Thank you,” he says. “I think…it was the right time to watch it.” He returns my phone to me.

But listening to the video without watching it at the same time has made me notice something I’ve never noticed before. I hesitate before replaying, glancing at Finch, who understands what I’m asking without words. “Go on,” he says, brows lifting slightly.

And so I replay the video, scrubbing back a few times over one particular part, until I’m certain. “You hear that?” I ask. “In the background. ‘Let me down there, I want to kill that motherfucker myself.’” I play it twice more for Finch, but when I see a flinch cross his face, I stop at once. “I’m sorry, angel, I shouldn’t have made you listen to that.”

“I do hear it,” he says softly. “Is it…important?” He must see me debating internally whether or not to share, because he adds, “Just tell me.”

“That’s Lou Clemenza’s voice.”

Finch looks at me for a long moment before his eyes slide sideways, back to the place in the cellar where Tino died. “I see.”

I have never wanted Clemenza dead more than I do in this moment. But until and unless I can disrupt his Family’s finances and weaken them as a whole, there’s more danger in killing him than keeping him alive. Lou Clemenza is not a man with anything approaching self-restraint—but he’s still the best his Family has to offer at the moment. In my estimation, his Capos are all twice as violent as he is, a view which has only been reinforced by recent troubles in the city. If one of them takes the Clemenza throne…

“Why did you come down here to the cellar?” Finch asks, curious. I consider my answer for so long that he prompts, “Luca?”

“I’m not sure. I wanted to…face the truth, perhaps? Face up to my inheritance. It’s time I stop feeling like I’m merely warming the seat for Tino’s return—or for the next guy.”

Finch gives a little huff of laughter. “Oh, you’re here to stay, baby. Not even bullets and arson could stop you.”

I smile at him and grab his hand on my way past to the stairs. “Let’s get out of here.”

Vitali is waiting upstairs with a nervous look on his face. “Don’t blame Teo,” Finch tells me casually, before I can say anything. “I go where I want, honey. You of all people should know that.”

“I do.” It’s another reason I’m more comfortable with Finch’s request for a true partnership. Those reasons have been coming thick and fast. His reaction to Tino’s video; the logical argument he made to me about getting more involved; and my own certainty that the best way to protect my husband is to ensure he can protect himself.

We’re just at the front door again when I think twice and say, “Vitali—take Finch out to the car. I’ll just be a moment.” I go back upstairs, and only once I’m at the top of the stairs do I remember I’m still not supposed to be going up and down them alone.

Ah, well. Too late now.

I go into the library and search along the shelves. Despite Tino’s eclectic shelving system, I discover the book I’m seeking very quickly: Machiavelli’s The Prince. I pull it out of its place and turn to leave. In the doorway of the library, I glance behind me. “I’ll do better, Don Morelli,” I murmur, as though his ghost might hear me.

As I make my way down the stairs again, I could swear I hear Tino Morelli’s warm chuckle of approval. When I come out onto the street, back into the reality of a city struggling in my grasp, I can only hope Tino might use any ghostly powers he has to reveal the meaning of that note from Finch’s mother.

Because I still have no idea what it means.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

LUCA

There are so many possibilities in the contents of Tino’s secret safe that I’m starting to think the note from Finch’s mother might not even be the most important find. Finch and I spread everything across the bed once we return to the brownstone, puzzling over all of them.

Most of the photographs are self-explanatory: blackmail material. Not all of the people are immediately known to me, but I can ask Angelo to identify some of them. At least two of them are dead already, but the rest might yield results.

And one person in particular could be very useful. The photographs show a man known to me, high-ranked in the Italian branch of the Clemenza Family, but it’s the woman with him in whom I’m interested. Known only as “La Contessa,” she is an enigmatic figure in Italy who has a lot of influence in many areas: political, social, business.

And she happens to be the Italian stakeholder who objected to my buying up controlling stock of a particular company several months back. These photographs give me leverage. If I can persuade La Contessa to my way of thinking and gain a majority share in that company, I could destroy the foundations of Louis Clemenza’s wealth.

I put the pictures aside for now. Other documents in the stash included letters of correspondence—Tino’s equivalent of memorandums of understanding, agreements, contracts that would never be upheld in a court of law. Looking through them, I can see there must have been many people relieved to hear of Tino’s death.

I don’t like the kind of business some of these documents suggest. I’ve been at pains to move the Family into more legitimate streams of moneymaking. But they are, undeniably, useful. I won’t destroy them—not right away.

But Finch is impatient to get back to the main event. “I don’t understand what it means,” he says, shoving his mother’s note at my face again.

I take it from him and reread it myself, if only to calm him.

T,

In another life, things might have been different.

If anything happens to me, use this and the power of prayer. You know I always keep God close.

O.

Under her signature is a string of numbers.

“What does it mean?” Finch demands.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, for the fifth or sixth time. “Baby bird, please—we’ll figure it out.” I’ve never seen him so enraged at an inanimate object, although I understand it. Long after my own mother died, I came across several letters sent to her by one of her friends, and for a moment she lived again, because there was something new to be discovered. I suspect Finch had high hopes for whatever was in this note. A short, cryptically religious message and a set of numbers must be a letdown.

He’s a little wild-eyed, his hair standing up at odd angles, and as he prowls the room, his stomach growls. “Ugh,” he says, pressing his middle. We both skipped lunch today.

“Let’s go down and have dinner,” I suggest, “and after that, we’ll call Tara.”

His head snaps up. “Yes. That’s a great idea. Tara might have some idea—” He’s already fumbling with his phone, until I put my hand over it.

“Angel,” I say as gently as I can, “let’s eat first. It’ll help us think.”

He’s frustrated, but when we go down to Hudson’s spread of salads, cold meats, and a lemon meringue pie for dessert, Finch is slightly mollified. He eats in big forkfuls, saying nothing, finishing before everyone else. But he stays there at the table, brooding and fidgeting, obviously thinking.

Carlucci and Hudson have exchanged more than one glance, but are keeping quiet after one ill-advised attempt from Hudson to ask how things went today got his head bitten off by Finch’s response.

“Don’t worry about it; we’ll clear up,” I say afterward, when Hudson jumps up to start taking plates off the table.

Finch just about murders me with his death-glare, but as soon as Carlucci and Hudson have scurried out of the room, I lean over and take his hand. “We’ll call Tara, then we can clear the kitchen while we think about anything she’s able to tell us.”

His glare softens. Back at the townhouse, we had a routine, Finch and I, and part of it was cleaning up after dinner together. I’ve always enjoyed those moments, because they’re among the most grounded in my day.

“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. But he hesitates. “Hang on. Let me go apologize to Hudson for being an asshole, first.”

* * *

Tara is initially concerned to hear from us, then sympathetic that we went to Tino’s place—she has solid emotional intelligence, that woman, picking up on the nuances right away—and then, as Finch impatiently explains the note from their mother, thoughtful.

“Does it have a date on it?” she asks.

“No, it doesn’t,” Finch just about snaps, and then stops dead, staring at his sister’s face on the video call. “Shit, wait. The envelope—”

He runs upstairs, leaving me alone with Tara. Her face is serious. “I’m not sure it was a great idea to take Howie to that place,” she says, and the big-sister disapproval vibes are strong.

“He wanted to come.”

“It’s not good for him to be dwelling on these things,” she says delicately. “Howie has always had a rather unhealthy fascination with…well…”

“Death,” I supply. “Believe me, I know it.” I look up as the noise of Finch thundering back down the stairs sounds in the hallway. “Don’t worry, Tara. I’m taking good care of your little brother. I promise.” Slightly louder, looking away from the phone, I ask, “Is there a date on the postmark?”

Finch just about skids to a halt at the kitchen counter, where I’ve propped the tablet up. “Yes,” he says, voice heavy with meaning. “And it’s the fucking day before Mom…died.”

“Well,” Tara says, “that’s one extra piece of information. As for the number at the bottom, I’m just not sure.” The camera cartwheels and then rights itself as she begins walking through Hillview. “Hang on,” she says, looking away from the camera. “The chef’s just come in.”

We wait a few seconds, listening to muffled voices before her attention comes back to us. “Sorry. She just wanted to check on the menu for next week. Anyway. When Mom writes about the power of prayer—”

“It’s definitely code, right?” Finch breaks in. “Mom wasn’t super-religious. Not like Róisín.”

“No,” Tara concedes, “but she did go to Mass every Sunday like clockwork.”

“You think she’s referring to a church? A cathedral? It’d have to be in New York, though, if she sent it to Tino—she couldn’t expect him to go to Boston.”

“No,” Tara says again, a little less patiently, “I don’t think it’s a place. I think she must be referring to her rosary.”

Finch claps his hands loudly, startling me. “Of course!” he hisses. “She took that damn thing with her everywhere. I don’t even know why, she only ever used it on Sunday.”

“Yes,” Tara says with meaning. “She did take it everywhere with her. So it makes sense that—ugh, hang on,” she breaks off in an almost-annoyed mutter, and turns aside again to acknowledge and thank her security detail. They’ve finished their final patrol, and I can hear O’Hara saying everything is fine, that they’ve swept again for bugs, and that he and Rory are heading out for dinner, but leaving Murph in charge while they’re away. Murph’s genial brogue follows, assuring Tara that everything will be fine while O’Hara is out.

I’m glad to hear O’Hara so on top of things. If something happened to Tara, I’m not sure Finch would be able to take another blow, not after he’s finally mended their relationship.

Finch, meanwhile, is grabbing my arm and bouncing on his toes. I’m not sure I like seeing him so excited, not over one mysterious note that could, in the end, mean nothing. Whatever his mother refers to could already have been destroyed—used—taken already—

“Calm down,” I murmur, patting his hand where he’s squeezing at my wrist rather painfully.

“—sorry,” Tara sighs, coming back to our conversation. “So the rosary—”

“Oh, shit,” Finch moans, collapsing on the countertop. “Maggie buried it with Pops, didn’t she? You tried to give it to me, but I wouldn’t take it. Fuck.”

Ah. I remember now, the Irish wake, the dark room where Finch’s namesake, Howard Donovan, lay in repose before his burial. Tara asking Finch to take the rosary as a memento of their mother—Finch’s refusal—

“No,” Tara laughs bitterly. “No, it was not buried with him. There was no way I was going to let Pops clutch onto Mom’s favorite rosary for eternity. He had no right to it.”

“You kept it?” Finch asks, elated again.

But— “No,” Tara says again. “I did what you suggested at the time, Howie. I gave it to Róisín.”

“Okay!” Finch says, slapping his hands on the countertop now. “That’s okay. That’s good. Now we just have to dig her out of that convent she’s in, and explain the situation to her.”

Tara makes a face. “It might not be that easy,” she hedges.

“I know, I know,” Finch says. “She’s probably attached to the rosary, being Mom’s and all—and the convent is a closed order, yadda yadda. But she came from behind closed doors to take care of you, Tara, didn’t she, that one time? And we can give the rosary back to her, once we figure out what the deal is. And if we can’t for some reason, I’ll buy her a thousand fucking rosaries if she wants.”

“It’s not that. Well, not only that,” Tara amends. “The real problem is, Róisín isn’t in the country right now.”

That surprises me. She joined a contemplative order, or was planning on it, last time I heard. They aren’t the type to travel. On the contrary, their ideal is no contact with the outside world, all the better to focus on God.

“Where the hell is she?” Finch asks, sounding dangerous.

“She’s on some kind of group pilgrimage in Italy,” Tara tells him. “She’s at the Vatican.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

FINCH

After we get off the phone with Tara, Luca and I don’t say much to each other. We finish cleaning the kitchen, but without the banter and flirting we usually have, and then with silent agreement, we head upstairs for an early night. I look in to say goodnight to Gio and Hudson before I do, who are already making up the sofa bed.

“You guys don’t want to use that spare room?” I ask. “The sofa bed can’t be much fun.”

They exchange a glance. “We’re fine right here, Mr. D,” Gio assures me with an almost-smirk. “You need your privacy.”

I’m halfway up the stairs before I wonder if Luca and I have been a little loud during some of the fun we’ve had while we’ve been staying here. I smother my snort of laughter and then run up the last half of the stairs. “Hey, I think we might need to fuck more quietly while we’re here,” I say as I enter the bedroom, and then I stop and stare at Luca. “Hey,” I say again, and point at him. “Hold on, mister! You know you’re still not supposed to walk up any stairs on your own!”

“I know. But I was at the top before I even remembered. I’m getting much better.” Luca’s half-smile is so like his old self that I forgive him on the spot.

“You’re not achy or—”

“Angel,” he sighs, but he’s still smiling, “I am perfectly well. Promise.”

“Alright,” I say, sounding as dubious as I can, but it’s hard when I have real proof of him feeling better. There’s no hint of pain around his eyes, and his color is as normal as usual—pale as fuck, sure, but that’s Luca, and he’s nowhere near the translucent white he was in the hospital. “So what are we going to do about Róisín?” I demand. “I gave you all that time downstairs after dinner to think. You must have a plan by now.”

It’s my preference to plan out loud, to talk through shit and bounce ideas off other people. But Luca is not the same. He needs thinking time, a quiet and solitary pursuit for him.

“Mm,” he says, which is not an answer.

“I mean, we’re going to the Vatican, right? Tara said Róisín’s not due back for weeks, so—”

“There’s too much we don’t know.” Luca is starting to undress for bed, as though anyone could actually sleep right now after what we just figured out.

“We know enough,” I say. “And I know you didn’t want to leave the country, but that was before Rossi and Alessi witnessed you wandering around, apparently hale and hearty. You’ve made your point to them, and Nick’s keeping the Family in line. So why shouldn’t we take a vacation if we want? That’s how we can spin it.”

He glances over at me as he unbuttons his shirt. “Italy…could be difficult for someone in my position.”

He does have a point. He’s the head of an Italian-American crime Family. They won’t be waiting with open arms at the airport. More like handcuffs and guns. And that’s just law enforcement. I don’t know as much as I’d like to about the spiderweb of associations, enemies, friends, frenemies of the Morelli Family and the various organizations of Italy. But even with the knowledge I’ve gleaned from whispered conversations and the odd internet search, I know getting to Italy and moving around freely could be, as Luca said, difficult.

But difficult is not impossible. And the truth is, Luca goes where he likes and does what he wants—he’s like me in that way. “If you wanted to get there, you’d get there,” I point out. “That’s not an excuse.”

“No,” he agrees, sitting down on the bed to unlace his shoes. He can bend over without a hint of discomfort now. “But it is a factor in my decision.”

I cross my arms. “Come again?”

He glances up at me.

“Your decision?” I clarify. “That’s not the way this works, Luca.”

He pulls off his shoes and socks and is standing again before he replies. “In this matter, baby bird, it is my decision.” He holds up a hand. “Please,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he’s tired. “Please don’t fight me on this, Finch. Just this once. At least for tonight? I’m still thinking things through.”

“That’s the problem, husband,” I say softly, but he gives me a sharp look. “You might be thinking things through. I have already made up my mind.”

He nods, as though this is not new information to him, and I’m about to keep pushing when he pushes down his boxer briefs. “I understand, angel. I really do. Let’s discuss it further in the morning.”

On the one hand, this is some straight-up bullshit that I’m not going to let him get away with. Sure, he can make unilateral decisions about his own damn Family, but when it comes to me? To the Donovans? When it comes to my sisters, to my mother? He doesn’t get to make the call.

But on the other hand, he’s standing there naked, and he’s just so damn beautiful.

“Tomorrow morning,” I say, “we are talking about this again.”

There’s always time for arguing tomorrow. Tonight, though, I just want to love him.

* * *

“My concern is not only about traveling in a foreign country under assumed names, or getting picked up by Interpol, or running into friends of the Clemenzas, or even being too close to Ireland,” Luca yawns the next morning. “It’s simply that it’s a lot of risk for something we don’t know will be a reward.”

I renewed our “discussion” right after I woke up. Luca wasn’t quite awake yet, but I tossed and turned until he was, and then I started in on him. I preempted all possible problems as far as I could see them, and suggested solutions for all. But this risk-reward shit is vague enough that I need to ask him what he means.

He turns on his side to face me and puts an arm around me. I do the same, the bandages he still wears at night fuzzy under the skin of my forearm. I’ll be so happy when all these bandages are gone completely, forever, no matter what scars are left behind. Luca’s flesh is beautiful to me no matter what external forces might come to bear on it. Hell, even if he ends up looking like his brother, I could live with that.

Just as long as there are no parts of him that are covered up or hidden away from me.

“What I mean is,” he mumbles sleepily, “there’s no guaranteed return on investment in any of this. We don’t know if Róisín will see us. If she will, we don’t know if she still has the rosary. If she does, we don’t know if she’ll agree to give it to you. If she agrees, we don’t know if it’s even what we’re looking for. If it is what we’re looking for, we still don’t know if it will make the number any more meaningful than it is now. And if—”

“Alright, alright,” I snap. “Damn it, Luca. I fucking get it. But do you have to be so negative about it?”

His palm slides around my back and he pulls me closer. “I’m not being negative, or at least, if I am, I’m sorry about that. I’m just trying to consider all the options. Because the truth is, baby bird, even if we get the rosary and figure out what the number means, put it all together—it might not amount to a hill of beans. If it’s money, it might have been spent, or hacked, or stolen.”

“It might not be money,” I point out. “It might be…”

He brushes his thumb across my lips. “Tell me what you’re hoping for.”

I swallow. “Something about me. About why she never told me. Why she…” I trail off. The fact is, I know exactly what I want, and I also know I’ll never get it.

I want something to make her death make sense to me. But it never will. It never could. Death isn’t something that makes any kind of sense, no matter whose it is.

Luca falls silent again and I know I should start talking, rather than risk giving him space to come up with more reasons why we shouldn’t go, but words just aren’t coming to my lips as easily as they usually do.

“Alright,” Luca says after a long pause.

I raise my eyes to his. “Alright?”

“We’ll go.”

“Luca!” I throw myself at him, rolling on top of him before I remember the scars and his recovery, and try to scramble back off. “Oh, shit, sorry—”

“You stay right where you are,” he tells me sternly, only tightening his grip. I grin into his face and run my fingers through his hair.

“You really mean it?”

“I really do.”

“We’ll have to get you a haircut before you go. And new clothes. Definitely new clothes.”

“Why not shop when we’re there?” He grins back at me. “Why not make a vacation of it? A second honeymoon?”

“Third,” I correct him. “Sailing around the islands was one. Vegas was another.”

“Perhaps this could be our first pleasant honeymoon,” he amends.

“You can’t get shot this time,” I warn him.

“I have definitely had enough bullets to last a lifetime.”

“We could visit Cee and Frank and Marcy!” I exclaim. They’re living in the north of Italy these days. “We could go to Firenze—Milano—Venezia, of course—”

“Our first priority is Rome,” Luca says. “Or rather, the Vatican. But…I would like to see Rome.”

Of course he would, with his bent for all that ancient philosophy bullshit. “We can go everywhere and do everything. As long as we see Róisín as soon as we can.”

Luca smiles at my enthusiasm, but I can tell he still thinks this whole thing could be a waste of time. That’s okay.

I can be hopeful enough for the both of us.

Chapter Forty

LUCA

It’s a shock to disembark in Rome after a long flight and hear so much Italian around me. It’s not that I was expecting English—it’s just odd to hear so much Italian, when I’m used to snatches here and there, to sentences started in English and finished in Italian, or a pidgin combination of the languages.

Finch, who has traveled the globe several times over, seems unperturbed. But as far as shocks go, it’s been even more startling to see Finch with his natural hair color. He dyed it back to a medium-brown before we left, and although he’s gorgeous no matter what hue his hair is, I’m finding it hard to get used to.

Secretly, I hope he might dye it pink again one day, although he seems pretty fixed on gold.

“We’re never flying coach again,” Finch grumbles after we get through customs. Our fake passports worked beautifully—Vitali specials.

“We’re undercover,” I point out quietly. “We could hardly live it up in first-class the whole way and then disappear into the crowd.”

His only answer is a loud, body-shaking yawn that makes passersby sidestep him. Although it’s only nine a.m. back in New York, mornings are not Finch’s preferred time of day. He didn’t sleep on the plane and the nine-hour flight has exhausted him. I did like the way he held my hand tight on take-off and landing. I’ve been on a few more planes since our first honeymoon, and I’m certainly not afraid of flying, but I still don’t like leaving my fate in someone else’s hands.

I’m more excited to be in Italy than I’d ever admit to. Excitement in general is not an emotion I feel often, and not usually outside of private times with Finch. I’ve never traveled outside the States, and I never felt much need to, Manhattan being the center of the universe anyway, but now that I’m here, even just in the airport, I can feel a whole new world opening up before me.

I do feel a little naked without any weapons on me. Vitali has set up a contact for me if I need anything, and I might just take him up on it. But not on our first day here.

I put my arm around Finch’s shoulders as we head to the exit, bags in tow. “Come on, baby bird, this is supposed to be our third honeymoon. Can’t you be a little excited? We’re in Rome. The Eternal City.”

“Please don’t break into song or something,” he sighs, but then he leans into me. “Fuck it, honey; sing your heart out if you want. You’re right, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. I’m just a little worried that we haven’t heard back from Róisín yet.”

“We will,” I assure him, although I have no confidence at all that Róisín will get our message in the first place, let alone respond, let alone agree to meet. But it’s a reminder that our time in Italy is not primarily meant for pleasure. And I have Morelli business I want to undertake, if I can make contact with La Contessa. I’ve set Vitali working on that particular problem, while Tara Donovan reaches out to Róisín.

In the meantime, all Finch and I can do is wait, and enjoy Rome.

* * *

We take a taxi to our hotel—a rundown little place with the smallest double bed I’ve ever seen, but with a view of the Colosseum when I stick my head out of the window and strain hard to the right. To the left is a busy Roman street, and down below, a newsstand on the other side of the road. As I watch, a man who has been waiting on the corner ambles up to buy a paper. I wonder if the newsstand has paper maps of the area. I don’t want to use my phone to get around Rome while we’re here. The lower-tech we keep things, the less likelihood we’ll be tracked—by anyone.

I pull the window closed to keep the cooler air inside the room, and see Finch staring around himself with a twist to his lips. “What a dump,” he says.

“You booked it,” I point out to Finch. Vitali gave us a list of approved hotels for Finch to pick from, so he only has himself to blame.

It’s a tiny room, made up mostly of bed, and the bed isn’t all that big to start with. There’s a TV, which looks like a first-generation flatscreen, mounted on the wall opposite the bed, and through a thin door there’s a bathroom with a shower, toilet and sink crowding into each other. A large air-conditioning unit overhead rattles and shakes when I turn it on. The weather report I checked before departure told me it was still warm in Rome during the days, though New York has been cooling off, and the air in this small room feels unpleasantly close.

Finch laughs, good-humored despite his distaste for the accommodation. “You know what? I fucking love it. Let’s pretend we’re broke, honey. That we scrimped and saved to fly coach to Rome and stay in this shitty hotel room. That way the only thing that really matters is—”

“—each other.” The room is so small I can cross to him in two steps, which I do, and then kiss him passionately and thoroughly until he’s melting in my arms. “And as you damn well know, angel, you are the most important thing to me.”

* * *

I take a shower to get the grime of travel off me, and Finch claims he’s going to join me, despite the shower being too small for the both of us. But his sleep schedule, already disrupted by all those late nights at Kismet, can’t take the jet lag on top. He passes out on the bed. Literally passes out—one moment he’s chatting about how we can walk down to see the Colosseum, and then he stops mid-sentence. I glance over my shoulder from where I’m putting a new SIM card into my phone that I bought on the way out of the airport, and see my husband’s adorable face mashed into the pillow, mouth open. After a second he gives a little snuffly snore.

I resist the urge to snap a photo of him like that. He’d never forgive me.

Instead, I log into the hotel Wi-Fi and check the throwaway email account I’ll be using while here. There are no emails except the welcome message, but when I check the drafts folder, there are several informative updates from Vitali. I settle on the bed gently next to Finch, making sure I have a glimpse of the Colosseum out the window, and read over Vitali’s emails.

It’s not a perfect start to the vacation—to our third honeymoon, even—but with Finch beside me and a wonder of the world before me, what else could I possibly need?

I just wish I could shake off this nagging sense of unease.

Chapter Forty-One

LUCA

Snoring Beauty awakes a few hours later, complaining of a dry throat and a stiff neck. “Go shower,” I say, stroking my fingers through his hair on the pillow where he’s still lying, “and then we’ll go out for dinner.”

He stretches, yawns, and shuffles off to the bathroom. I’ve unpacked and I’ve answered all the emails from Vitali, saving my replies to draft as well—still no word from Róisín, according to him—so I amuse myself with Italian television until Finch is dressed and ready to go.

There’s an elevator, but we take the stairs instead, and then we’re out on the streets of Rome, two anonymous Americans in a city where no one is trying to kill either of us.

Not immediately, anyway.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask Finch, slinging an arm across his shoulders.

“There’s a restaurant area a few streets away,” he says, gesturing. “We could walk over there, find a place.”

“Perfect.”

The nightlife in this part of Rome is almost as busy as New York, but somehow without the same sense of urgency—and definitely more sky. In Manhattan I’m so accustomed to being towered over by buildings that the more open skyline takes a little getting used to.

I wonder, as we’re seated at an outside table at the restaurant we chose, who over the millennia has passed over exactly the same spot I’m sitting in now. Julius Caesar, maybe. Augustus. Marcus Aurelius. All around us the air is filled with chatter and laughter, the smell of red wine and garlic as table staff pass by, and when I catch Finch’s eye he’s smiling softly at me.

I reach over to take his hand. “Ciao, bellissimo.”

“Don’t flirt too hard with me,” he says with a grin. “I’m a married man, and my husband tends to get jealous.”

“With a prize like you? I can’t blame him.”

We quit making gooey eyes at each other when the server comes out with our meals, and for the rest of our time there, we talk only idly of unimportant things and simply bask in each other’s company.

“I wish I’d come here long ago,” I say after dessert, looking around the street. It’s even busier now than when we arrived. The string lights decorating the large umbrellas overhead are reflecting off the yellowed stones of the building opposite, lending the whole street a warm glow that matches my mood. “But no—I don’t wish that,” I add. “Because I didn’t have you long ago, and I do believe you’re the one making it so magical here, baby bird.”

“Roma has her charms, no doubt, but mine are superior,” Finch agrees, with that plain-speaking arrogance that I so love about him.

It’s not like he’s wrong, either.

“Come on,” I say, standing to stretch out my legs. “I want to walk around as much as possible, get rid of any jet lag.” I put out my hand to help Finch up, and out of habit, I glance up and down the street. In New York I stay at heightened alert much of the time. I can’t just turn it off, even on vacation.

I catch a glimpse of a figure rounding a corner into an alleyway, and something about the scene makes me pay sharper attention.

“What’s wrong?” Finch asks softly.

I watch the corner a moment more. I’m probably seeing things; between the jet lag and the stress and the paranoia everyone accuses me of, it wouldn’t be surprising. But I trust my own judgment enough to keep one eye on the street even as I smile at Finch and say, “Nothing at all, uccellino. Let’s go.”

No one reappears. As we pass by the alley, I glance up it.

Empty.

* * *

We come upon the Colosseum suddenly, without warning, so that I stop dead and stare in delight. It’s lit up all over with a golden glow, formidable and beautiful. It’s bigger than I thought it would be, and yet so exactly like all the photographs that I feel a sense of familiarity.

“We’ll have to come back when it’s open,” I say. “Go in with the tourists. Easier to disappear that way.”

“We can do that, but we really need to meet Róisín as soon as we can, too.” Finch has barely glanced at the ancient monument; his pensive mood tells me his mind has returned to our reason for being here.

“We will,” I assure him. We keep walking, crossing the road to stand under the enormous, sturdy walls of the Colosseum. I crane my neck back to take it in.

“Has Tara heard from her?” Finch persists.

I look away from the marvels of Roman engineering and down at my favorite sight in the whole world. “I don’t know. She hadn’t last time I checked.”

“Can you…” He bites his lip.

I pull him close and kiss his forehead. “I’ll check again,” I tell him, and pull out my phone to thumb through it. “Your instincts were right,” I say after a moment. “Vitali tells me she’ll meet us tomorrow, in Saint Peter’s Square. She’s asked us to wait by the obelisk at noon.”

Finch’s eyes light up. “She agreed?”

“She agreed.”

“Thank fuck! Once we’ve got that damn rosary, we can relax, really enjoy ourselves.”

There’s no guarantee that meeting us will mean Róisín is willing to hand over the rosary—if she even still has it—but the news has buoyed Finch. And he’s right, of course. We’re here for a purpose, not just pleasure. Still, I can’t help thinking the whole journey will be wasted if Finch is only determined to get that rosary.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” I suggest. “Break in the bed. Or just break it.”

Finch’s familiar grin lifts my heart. “Sounds like a plan.”

We wander back up the road, and I think about how far I’ve come from the boy I was, to the here and now. I never even dared to think of coming to Rome, although I dreamt of it and wished for it.

“Isn’t the hotel that way?” Finch asks suddenly, trying to pull me a different way.

“Yes, but there’s no harm in looking around the neighborhood a little more, is there? We can take the scenic route.”

“Okay,” he agrees with a shrug, and I’m glad he doesn’t push it. The truth is—whether or not I’m being hypercautious—it makes sense to avoid direct routes to and from where we’re staying. In New York, I know the layout well enough to be able to intuit if something’s off. Here in Rome, not so much. But I’ll rely on my instincts as I always have. If they’re telling me to be cautious, I’ll be cautious.

The only problem is, going off the main streets has led us into less well-lit, less frequented areas. Fewer people means I’ll be able to identify any potential attackers more easily, but it also means I’m staring hard at everyone we pass—and some of them look like they might take exception to being stared at.

Finch, though, seems oblivious, and I wonder at it until it occurs to me: he feels completely safe. Despite everything that has happened to us, not just recently, but over the last few years, I still have his complete trust.

“You know,” Finch says, as we go by a particularly dark and dangerous-looking alleyway, “we don’t have to try to fuck in that uncomfortable-looking bed, baby.” He looks up at me from under my arm and gives me a wicked smirk.

“The shower’s too small,” I point out.

“Wasn’t thinking about the shower.”

“Then where—”

He moves away from me, grabbing me by the hand as he does, and pulls me a few steps down the street to the alley we just passed by. “Why not right here?”

We pause, Finch leaning back on his heels as he hangs off my arm, both his hands clasped around my wrist, while I counterbalance him. He bites his lip, and I can see the glaze of arousal across his cheekbones. “Please?”

It’s the please that makes up my mind. After checking behind him, and looking over my shoulder to scan the street as well, I let him pull me into the dark alley.

Chapter Forty-Two

LUCA

Finch gets in these moods sometimes, where he’s almost overwhelmed by his need for immediate gratification. I’ve even taken advantage of it from time to time. And I know that, occasionally, he likes to walk on the knife-edge; we wouldn’t be quite so successful as a couple if he didn’t find danger an aphrodisiac. And the idea of taking him in semi-public has me hard already, even while I’m thinking about a possible shadow here in Rome.

But what the hell.

We’ve been careful, and when I check my gut, it tells me there’s no one following us, not here in these back alleys. Besides, anyone following us is in more danger from me than I am from them. I recall Finch on his knees, worshipping my scars with kisses, and grip his hand even harder. He’s right. Whatever those assholes throw at me, I’ll survive it.

In the meantime, why shouldn’t I enjoy my husband?

The alley is an unlit dead end which mostly seems to be used for Vespa parking. There’s also a large dumpster to one side. All in all, this wouldn’t be the worst place to protect ourselves if we were followed. One way in means one way out—but it also makes it much easier to see anyone coming.

Finch pulls me into a doorway so that we’re out of sight of anyone walking by, twining his arms around my neck. “Come on, baby; I’ve always wanted to get my cheeks clapped in some Italian alley.” He leans up against the door, which looks like it hasn’t been opened in a few centuries, and pulls me to him, tipping up his mouth for a kiss.

“It stinks of piss and garbage in this particular Italian back alley,” I say after.

“That,” Finch tells me, grabbing my hips and spreading his legs so he can grind against my thigh, “is what makes it so goddamn hot.”

“No, angel.” I brush my lips over his, teasing another kiss but not giving it. “You are what makes it so goddamn hot.”

His hips move slowly, insistently, as though he has to build up the fire between us carefully, when the reality is a single look from him can make me self-combust. But I appreciate the tease, the promise of his hard cock pressing into my thigh. “We met in an alley just like this one,” he purrs.

“We met for the second time in an alley,” I correct him.

“Yeah. And that first time, you actually turned down my offer to suck your dick.”

“What a fool I was,” I murmur, leaning in to run my tongue along the length of his neck. I remember how he tasted that night, a chemical acidity consistent with the club atmosphere, bitter and foreign. But then, as now, my mouth watered for him. Years later, I’m still hungry for him all the time.

He pushes me away, pouting, or pretending to. “You were a fool,” he agrees. “For a long time. Remember all those nights after we were married, when you came creeping into bed, acting like I was your whore instead of your husband?”

He’s just teasing, but I don’t like remembering those days. It shames me to think how much I contributed to his misery back then. “I wish I could take it back,” I begin, but Finch grins.

“Hey, you were an asshole, no question. But it was kinda sexy.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “That is…not what you said at the time.”

“Oh, you had to learn your lesson, for sure. But the way you snuck in, woke me up, started kissing me while I was still half in dreams—” He runs his hands down to my waistband and unbuttons my pants. “It was sexy. Forbidden. Like we could get caught anytime. You know, like we could get caught right here and now…”

He cups my cock—outside my pants, but then he tugs the zipper down and slips a hand in to fondle me. “If I’m going to get arrested while we’re here, I’d prefer it not be for public indecency,” I begin, and he laughs.

“Can you think of a better way to get caught than mid-fuck with me?”

The thing about Finch is, he’s very persuasive. “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll indulge you.”

“You’re such a wonderful husband,” he murmurs, pulling me down to kiss him, really kiss him this time, wet and deep, lots of tongue. “Slap me around a little, huh?” he asks when I break off. We’re both panting now in anticipation, my heartbeat banging in my ears as he pulls my dick out into the now-cooling autumnal air.

I just about rip the buttons off his jeans as I force his fly open. “You want it rough, you’ll get it rough.” The very first time I fucked him, I had cracked ribs and a shitty stitch job in my arm where Finch himself sewed me up. It hurt like hell, but I liked the hurt. It made the pleasure that much more exquisite. I’m not so banged-up now, but I still find myself welcoming the little stabs of pain in my belly when I move fast to grab him by the shoulders, whip him around to face the door. I push him up against it with a hand in the middle of his back, and he murmurs in delight when I yank his jeans down to show off his bare ass.

“Come on,” he begs in a half-whisper, his head twisting back as he tries to look at me. “Come on, babe, do it fast. I got other things to do tonight, you know.”

“The hell you do,” I snarl, smacking that ass of his sharply. The crack resounds through the alleyway, but Finch only laughs, bouncing on his toes, makes his ass shake exactly the way he knows drives me crazy.

“Use it or lose it, ’cause I’m not gonna—unh,” he finishes, as I shove my finger into him.

I press close to him, grab his hair with the hand not currently exploring his asshole, and get into the spirit of things. “I’ll take as long as I want, uccellino. You’re mine, aren’t you?” I crook my finger inside him, making him groan.

A rush of pure affection thrills through me. Sometimes my baby bird likes it trashy. If he wants me to treat him badly, I can pretend to do it. But I’m not going to fuck him dry like this, even though he’s panting and fucking himself on my fingers, two of them now.

And I happen to know he always keeps emergency lube in his pocket for situations just like this.

“Give me something to open you up with.”

“Do it like this,” he begs, and part of me wants to, wants to screw into him, push his face hard up against the door, watch his eyes squeeze tight with pain, watch him feel every inch as I drive into him dry, my pre-cum the only lube…but we’ve done it that way before, on his insistence, and I know how long it takes him to recover. I want to spend as much time inside him as I can on this vacation, not leave him limping.

“Maybe you like getting torn open, but I like a smooth ride.” I clench my fist hard in his hair and he yelps.

“Fine, fine,” he mutters. He shifts on my fingers, gets his hand into his jeans pocket, down by his thigh, and passes me a small foil packet. “Here,” he says in this mock-sullen tone that makes me twist my fingers inside him, just to hear him swear at me.

I put my lips to his ear as I finger him, bite at his earlobe, then say, “You should be thanking me. Once I get inside this tight little hole, you’ll start begging me to stop. Because I plan to wreck you.” Finch’s head falls back against my shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips curled into a smile.

“Go on then,” he murmurs.

I smear his hole with lube and slap the rest on myself. There’s not enough of it. I haven’t fucked him for weeks—months—and I worry that I’ll hurt him, that he’ll be out of practice, but the second I get my cockhead into his ass, feel his ring around me, tight but welcoming, all my anxieties go up in a puff of smoke, incinerated as my fire for him rages out of control.

“Fuck.” I’m the one who curses, and I keep cursing, hissing out words as I shove my way into him inch by inch—Christ, fuck, fuck, Finch, oh fuck—as though I’m the one having a dick crammed into my ass with minimal prep in a reeking Roman back alley. He feels unyielding all the way in until he isn’t, suddenly, his body giving way, and I swear to God I can feel his soul opening up to me along with his gut.

Finch is hiking up his hips, forced up on his toes, his jaw clenched tight against my profane lips, his ass clamping down on me. I let out a shaky breath of relief. Finally. He makes his first noise since I started pushing into him: a whimper.

It’s fuel to my fire. I open my mouth wide to bite at the side of his neck, pull his head back, force him to expose his throat as though I’m about to cut it, spray his life all over the wooden door I’m fucking him against. But I don’t want to kill.

I only want to fuck.

The need is burning through me, fizzing under my skin, the need to rut into him, but I’m still waiting for him to adjust, for the tension in his body to lessen, just a little. I get one hand on his cock and coax it back into full hardness. His throat muscles bounce under my other hand as he swallows, gets his breath back, and when I press my lips back to the side of his neck, I feel his pulse, fluttering like a new butterfly.

He says something, hoarse and gravelly, and I release his throat, let him try again. “Wreck me,” he whispers into the door. His hand finds mine on his junk, pushes it aside, takes over jacking his cock. “Like you promised. Come on,” he growls at me.

I grab the back of his neck, squeezing hard, and force his face against the door. And then I drill into him, making his ass shake with the force of it. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth pulled into a grimace, but when I reach around to check, his dick is dripping like a tap, his hand flying over it.

Slap me around a little, he asked before we started, so I crack my hand down hard on his asscheek, and he jerks. The noise reverberates through the alleyway. I spank him again, then grab the meat of his ass and squeeze it hard until he whines a protest.

I’ve reached that stage where I feel like I could fuck forever, like I could give him my dick all night, stay as iron-hard when the sun rises as I am right now. So I switch it up, start pulling out further, driving into him harder, shoving him against the door, and lean in to lick the flat of my tongue up his cheek, bite at his jawline.

“You tell me now, uccellino. Who do you belong to?”

I fuck a shaky, soft, “You,” out of him, so I smack his ass again, hard as I can, in rhythm with sharp, shallow thrusts of my cock, until he cries out, “You, fuck, Luca, I belong to you!”

“You’re goddamn right you do.” I bite hard at his neck, making him squeal. But I want him to have my marks all over him tomorrow. I want people walking in the streets by to know exactly what he was doing the night before and then, as they see my arm around him, and my smug, lazy grin back at them, to understand exactly who put those brands on him. “You belong to me, and everyone in Rome is going to know it.”

I wriggle a hand between Finch’s chest and the door, find his nipple, and twist it hard, the way I know he likes it when he’s in these moods. And that’s what does it for him. He arches back into me, throwing his head back so fast that I’m lucky he doesn’t break my damn nose, and gives a strangled yelp as his balls unload. I can feel the waves of his orgasm as his ass spasms around me, milking my dick as his own sprays against the wood. I hold on as long as I can, let him enjoy it, but I can’t last much longer.

I wrap my arms around him and lift him right off his feet so he’s impaled on my cock, half-crushed against the door, and I blast into him, the force of it making my knees shake as I coat him inside with my spunk. He writhes around helplessly, gasping out my name, and then I let him back to his feet, but keep him held tight in my arms.

I moan into his neck, half-laughing, and let reality return only slowly. But eventually the stench of the place wins out over our snuggling and petting, and my cock has softened enough that it slips out of him, slapping down against my thigh spent and tender.

Fucking my husband in a piss-stained alley is an odd form of therapy, but it’s worked. I feel so much calmer, so much closer to Finch now as we rearrange our clothes, murmur words of love, steal kisses and promises from each other.

But after we emerge from the alley, hand in sticky hand, and make our way back to the hotel, I see the very same man I saw at the newsstand this morning. He’s pacing back and forth down at the bottom of the street our hotel is on, and just as I spot him, he turns to walk quickly away.

He gives one furtive backward glance, and I lock eyes with him just before he disappears around the corner.

Paranoia or no paranoia, sometimes they really are out to get you.

Chapter Forty-Three

FINCH

I can tell right away when we get to the hotel that there’s something wrong. I mean, it wouldn’t take a genius. Luca shepherds me into the tiny, deserted reception area with his arm tight around me, eyes darting everywhere.

“What is it?” I pant, as he pulls me up the stairs to our room, double-time. We get inside and he locks the door, then hustles me into the bathroom. When I look out the door to see what the fuck he’s doing, he’s leaning up against the wall next to the window, peeking down at the street through the curtain. He switches sides to look up the other side of the street, and then I see him looking carefully at the buildings opposite us.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask. He holds up a hand without even looking at me, a please be quiet hand—there fucking better be a “please” in there, anyway—and I sigh loudly until he’s finished being paranoid and leaves the curtain.

Only he hasn’t finished being paranoid, not yet.

“We need to leave.” He pulls over my suitcase, brushes past me into the bathroom, and gathers up all my hair product in one big sweep.

“Whoa, there,” I squeak, and follow him out to the main room, where he dumps my stuff into the case. I put a hand on his arm and make him look at me. “What’s going on? Nope—” I sidestep in front of him as he tries to move past. “You need to tell me first. Then I’ll help you pack.”

For a second he glares at me, all heavy Luca-brows and laser eyes. Then: “There is someone following us,” he says between almost-gritted teeth. “So we need to get out of here, then lose the tail.”

“Screw that. Let me at him. I’ll murder that asshole myself.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You think I’m kidding? No one is going to fuck up my third honeymoon!” He doesn’t even crack a smile, and that’s how I know it’s serious. “Come on, Luca. You really think someone’s on us so fast? We haven’t even been in Rome for twenty-four hours.”

He grabs me by the shoulders. “Finch,” he says, and then takes a breath. “Don’t you think,” he says in a more normal voice, “that I know by now when someone’s following me? I need you to trust me on this.”

He stares down at me. I can feel the seconds ticking by, and I know he’s counting every one of them.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s skedaddle.”

* * *

We packed light—way too light, in my opinion—so it’s easy enough to throw everything back in the cases and carry our bags down to the reception area. We ask the desk clerk to call us a taxi, and all Luca will tell the driver when we first get in is, “Just drive around for a while.” Luca spends the first few minutes twisting around in his seat and staring out the back window, but after that he relaxes a little.

“Keep driving, another ten minutes,” he says to the driver in Italian. “And then after that, we need a new hotel. Very close to the Vatican. Can you recommend somewhere?”

“We need the best hotel,” I add firmly, in slightly less-fluent Italian. If I’m being made to go on the run yet again, I’m doing it in style.

The driver assures us his sister-in-law is a chef at the best hotel in Rome, which happens to snuggle up to St. Peter’s Basilica. “There’s a view from the terrace garden for tomorrow—that’s why you’re here, eh?” He says all that in English. I guess he’s clocked me.

“Sure,” I say vaguely. “Who doesn’t like a view?” I shift around on the hard seat, wishing that maybe Luca hadn’t gone quite so hard on my ass back there in the alley. It’s been a while since we’ve fucked like that, and I’m aching.

But Luca’s gone into alert mode. “What’s happening tomorrow?” he demands from the driver.

The driver stretches his neck to look at him in the rear-view. “Sunday,” he says, like that explains anything. “The Angelus.”

I can see Luca processing that. “It’s Sunday tomorrow,” he says blankly, and then under his breath adds, “The days are melting together. Sunday. Shit.”

He seems not to like the idea. Me, I’ve never much liked Sundays—Aidan’s never available because he’s contemplating his navel or whatever, and half the Morelli Family disappears to church as well. On top of that, I have no idea what the “Angelus” is, but the taxi driver looks so expectant that I just nod and smile. “Yep,” I say. “That’s, uh. That’s why we’re here.” I rub at my sore neck, over the bite Luca gave me, and wonder exactly how bruised I’m going to be in the morning.

It was hot, though. Making me tell him I belonged to him, slapping my ass like that… Yeah, it was exactly what I needed. And for a little while there, as we walked back to the hotel, everything felt so joyful. Luca was affectionate and loving, his arm around me or his hand in mine, and I stared up at him in adoration, and it felt like what this vacation should have been: the passionate, danger-free honeymoon I’ve always wanted with him.

But it didn’t last. It never could last, never will. I know that; I’ve always known it. I accepted it the day I married him, that our happily ever after would have its ups and downs. Its terrors and its triumphs.

I have to hang on to those moments of sweet joy when they come around, hang on to them for as long as I can, never take them for granted. I sneak my hand into Luca’s, and he squeezes it, holds it up to his mouth to kiss.

My husband spends the rest of the drive doing sudden twists in his seat to check out the back window, but he seems satisfied that we’ve made a clean getaway. And even I, non-believer that I am, find the sight of St. Peter’s Basilica rising up before us at the end of the street as impressive a view as ever when we finally get there.

It’s begun to rain during the drive, a light sprinkling that gilds the cobbled streets around the Vatican as the city lights shine off the wet surface. The hotel really does hug the edge of the Vatican; when the taxi pulls up in front of the small entryway—the only sign that it’s a hotel the discreet plaque above the door—I only need to look to the right to see through the colonnades of St. Peter’s Square.

“Nice pick,” I tell the taxi driver, as Luca pays him.

We get our bags and duck quickly into the doorway before we get too wet. “What if there’s no room at the inn?” I murmur to Luca as we approach the desk.

“They’re giving us a room if it has to be a fucking closet.”

“You’re very certain of yourself.”

“We have your charm and a lot of cash. I’m certain.”

Great. When I’m the secret weapon, we’re fucked. But I paste on my best smile and try to look like a weary-but-excited traveler with big dreams of touring Vatican City.

Our hopes are almost dashed. “No, signore,” the receptionist mourns, “we have limited space—the Angelus is tomorrow, you understand?”

There’s that damn Angelus again. What the hell is it?

“Any room will do,” Luca insists.

“We have no standard rooms left, and I’m sorry to say that only the most expensive—”

“We’ll take it!” I blurt out.

“It is…very expensive, signore,” she repeats, her eyes hovering over our disheveled appearance with disapproval.

I get it. I probably look like a street rat about to service a customer. To be fair, I do still have Luca’s cum oozing out of me, and we both stink like the alley we fucked in. My ass is sticky and sore, making me shift uncomfortably.

I try to arrange my face into an expression I see Aidan wearing from time to time—scholarly, enlightened delight. The even-more-suspicious stare the clerk gives me suggests I got it wrong.

“A view of the Angelus from such a beautiful location is priceless,” Luca says, and puts a slab of cash on the counter. “Sign us in. Please.”

She eyes the cash with the same skepticism she gave me. “I will need to record your passports.”

Luca feels inside his jacket and then slaps two passports down next to the money—mine and his, only not the ones we traveled on. We took a range of options to use while we’re here in Italy.

“Hm,” the clerk says dubiously, after scrutinizing our passport photographs and then our faces. “Just one night, signore?”

“I’ll pay for three,” Luca says, and at last we seem to be getting somewhere.

Chapter Forty-Four

FINCH

The room is, even I have to agree, pretty spectacular. It’s got this classic Italian charm to it, everything built in cherrywood and marble, with rich red and gold trimmings. The suite has a living area and a bedroom, but my first priority is the bathroom.

I go straight into the shower and wash my ass, thanking any saints who might be listening in from the Vatican next door for getting me out of that roach-infested room near the Colosseum and into the kind of place I prefer. I don’t have to dance around on my toes the whole time in the bathroom, worrying about athlete’s foot, and the towels are white and fluffy instead of gray and bald.

When I come out, Luca has drawn the curtains in the bedroom to only a few inches and is staring out at St. Peter’s Basilica. “Róisín asked us to meet her at the obelisk at noon tomorrow in the square.”

“Okay,” I say. “We can sleep in, in that case.”

There’s no reply, so I go to him, still damp from the shower, and wrap my arms around his waist. “What’s an Angelus? Apart from an angel, I mean.”

“The Angelus is a prayer the Pope gives to the crowd every Sunday when he’s in the Vatican.” Luca’s voice is hard.

I pull him away from the curtain and twitch them shut. “Sounds like there might be a lot of people around.”

“Yes.” He wanders over to the fruit bowl and chooses a pear, tossing it up and down in his hand a few times. “There will be a lot of people. A lot of potential for confusion.” He sets the pear down again in the fruit bowl and goes back to peek out the curtain again. “Your sister, Róisín,” he begins, and then looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

I blink. “Look, she doesn’t like me much, but I don’t think she’d set me up for assassination or anything. At least, not in front of the Pope.” Luca doesn’t even give a ghost of a smile, and I feel a strange sensation rising in my chest. Defensiveness. On behalf of my sister. Who knew I still had such familial feelings? “We’re the ones asking her to put herself in danger. You can’t blame her for wanting to meet in public.”

“I don’t. And it could be a smart move, all those people around. Gives us more chance to blend. But…” He trails off as the brooding, thinky side of him takes over.

I try not to sulk too much over his comments about Róisín. At least Luca is looking happier since we got in here, and I guess he doesn’t have those tingles at the back of his neck anymore, or whatever it is he feels when someone’s about to try and kill us.

“I need to work on my spatial awareness,” I say thoughtfully, and abandon the towel by throwing it over my shoulder. Fuck it, I can air dry. “I never noticed that guy following us,” I say, pacing the room. I stop, put my hands on my hips, and stare at Luca, who is sitting on the bed now, his back up against the wall.

“I mean,” I continue, as Luca looks me over with a slight smile of appreciation, “I think I might have been relying a little too much on Teo and Gio and, of course, you.”

“It’s their job to protect you,” he tells me, “and it’s my privilege.”

With a smile, I crawl onto the bed, and Luca pulls me into his lap, cupping his hands around my ass. I wind my arms around his neck and lean in to kiss him.

“But,” he continues, when our lips have parted, “if nothing else, these last few years have shown me that I am not infallible. Nor are my men.”

“You want me to have a woman as a bodyguard? Sofia’s pretty good, they say.”

“Both Fontana and Vitali tell me she’s very effective. But no. She’s not ready yet. And in any case…” He cups my face in his hands. “We have all the lines of defense for you that we possibly can have in place, except one. The last one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when everything else fails, I want you to be capable of defending yourself.”

That stings. “I am capable.”

He’s quiet for a while, and for once I can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. “I don’t know that you are,” he says at last. “That’s what scares me the most, baby bird.”

“I don’t understand what—”

“I don’t mean talking your way out of trouble. Or drugging everyone and walking away,” he adds acerbically, and I chuckle. “I’m talking about taking a life to save your own. Maggie was a different proposition altogether,” he says, before I can say it. Damn him. “You killed her to save me. But I need you to feel the same passion for saving yourself as well. Do you understand me now, baby bird?”

I do. I’m not sure I like it, but I do.

“We’ll talk more about this later,” he continues, when I stay quiet. “But I also want you to understand that it’s not just your safety that I worry about. It’s your soul, too. I don’t want to pollute your soul, angel. I couldn’t stand the thought.”

I look down. “I’m no angel, Luca,” I say in a low voice. “You call me that, but we both know I’m not—I’m not a good person, not really.”

“Good. Bad. Those terms are meaningless. To me, you’re perfect.” He gives a shrug, a smile. He’s done with the conversation.

But I’m not done. “I made a vow to you. You seem to forget that. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, and like I said the other day—in darkness and in light.”

Luca frowns a little, hesitating before he speaks. Eventually, he replies, “You say these things without really understanding what they mean. I don’t believe you’ve considered how this darkness, as you call it, will affect everything else. The nightclub; your charity work; your life—there is nothing that will not be touched by it. And more than that,” he says, before I can get a word in, “I don’t want you to suffer for my sake. I know you don’t believe in Heaven or Hell or…anything, really. But…”

“But you do.”

“I do.”

I stare into those cold blue eyes, deep into that soul he thinks is already lost, and I smile. “Honey, where you go, I go. What the fuck would I do in Heaven without you, anyway? It would suck donkey balls. I’d rather suck yours.”

Luca says nothing more. He lets his hands and his mouth do the talking for him, until he’s worn me out completely and I fall asleep held tight and safe in his arms.

* * *

I wake to find him already staring out a crack in the curtains again. Since we arrived in Rome, it’s been a whirlwind, and I feel like I have a hangover, even though I stuck to chinotto last night at dinner. “Come back to bed,” I murmur.

He does, but I can tell from his manner that there will be no enjoying ourselves this morning. “What time is it?”

“It’s early enough. But we need to prepare.”

I just grunt a reply and rearrange his arms around me. I can feel his cock thickening against the small of my back, and give a hopeful wriggle, but he just kisses the back of my shoulder and holds me tighter.

“We’ll have to leave Rome quickly,” he tells me. “As soon as we’ve met with Róisín, or as soon as we get hold of the rosary. I don’t want to give our shadow any time to catch up to us. Besides, La Contessa is in Venice. I’d like to deal with her as soon as I can, so we can focus on each other. Enjoy ourselves.”

I bite back my unhelpful whining. I did tell Luca I’d trust him, and even if I have my own doubts about whether we’re being followed, I will trust him. Besides: “Venice is gorgeous,” I say. “Very romantic. If it goes well with La Contessa, we could stay there a while. But maybe we should go see Frank and Celia first.”

“Mm. It would give a little extra time for things to quieten down for us.” He sighs, shifts in the bed. “I just wish I could have seen the Colosseum while we were here.”

“I mean, it’s pretty boring inside.” Off his tutting, I shrug. “I didn’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, honey, so I didn’t say so yesterday. But the truth is, it’s just a big ruin.”

“That’s the point,” he says drily.

“Listen, there are piles of ancient rubble all over Italy. We’ll go see all the other ones. I prefer the Renaissance shit, anyway. Florence, for example. Much more colorful. Those Medicis? They knew how to splash their money around.”

“You know who else does? The Catholic Church.” He leans up on an elbow and tilts my face around to kiss me. “So let’s get ready to pay the Pope a visit.”

Chapter Forty-Five

LUCA

My dreams last night were disconcerting—not violent or fearful, but each time I woke I felt like I should have done something differently in the dream to procure a better outcome. Morning crept past the curtains and when I gave up on sleep, I checked the view of St. Peter’s Square, or as much as I could see from the window.

And I wondered again about Róisín.

Now that Finch is wide awake, I can’t stop him from his breakfast mission: out on the terrace garden, which, according to the information pamphlet the clerk gave us, is the reason people come to this hotel. I can see why when we step out onto it. It’s high enough to see over the colonnades of the piazza next door, and the Apostolic Palace is directly though distantly opposite, including the window at which the Pope will appear today to give the Angelus.

We aren’t alone on the terrace, despite the early hour. Indeed, the streets below are already busy, and I can see people already lining up in St. Peter’s Square, although the Pope won’t appear until noon.

“Come and eat,” Finch calls to me. I’ve stood a long time at the railing, observing the scenes below and to each side. I wore my baseball cap down to breakfast, although Finch has taken his off, despite my warnings. If anyone was going to get assassinated this close to the Vatican, he told me, the Pope was the odds-on favorite.

He does have a point. And his newly dark hair is still disconcertingly un-Finch.

I join him for breakfast, which includes very good coffee and seasonal fruits that taste much more flavorsome than at home. Maybe it’s just being in Rome that has perked up my tastebuds. Despite the stress and the adrenaline-fueled flight from the hotel last night, I have to admit that I am enjoying myself.

Perhaps the danger is even part of that enjoyment, I muse, while I watch Finch stuff his face with pastries. Life has been both extremely dull and extremely painful since the attack on the townhouse, and once I got over my seething anger and wounded pride that I lay bleeding in the street while Nick Fontana saved my husband, I was left with a wistful boredom.

Sponge baths just didn’t thrill me all that much—not that I would ever admit as much to Finch. There are so many things I’d rather be doing. Like last night, for example. Taking my husband in a dirty alleyway, roughly, painfully, ecstatically, has reminded me of the pleasures that life has to offer. I want more of that.

Less of being endangered, betrayed, and shot.

“What’s the plan?” Finch asks, chomping on a crisp slice of apple from my plate.

“I’m still considering.” I move my plate a little further out of his reach. “But we’re close enough that we can leave it to the last minute before we go down to the Square, allowing for security.”

Finch lowers his voice. “You think we have any pesky hangers-on?”

I let my gaze travel around the terrace. “No,” I say after a minute.

Finch has cocked his head to one side, watching me scope the room. “You need to teach me to do that.”

“Be observant?” I say, with the faintest of smirks.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m serious. I don’t know how you do it, but you have this trick where you—you seem to know what to observe. If I try to do it, I just get hyper-panicky about everyone in the place. Besides,” he finishes, grabbing the last honey-drizzled fig from my plate before I can take it, “you’re the one who said I needed to be my own last line of defense. Right?”

It’s not a bad suggestion, and he’s quite right. He does need training and he does need to get better at it. Fast. “Alright,” I allow. “After breakfast, we’ll go back up to the room, and observe.”

“We can’t stay out here?” He stretches back in his chair, kicking out his legs to find the morning sun.

“I want to have oversight of the square without anyone having oversight of us.”

He sighs, but he doesn’t argue with me. He really is taking things more seriously than I’m giving him credit for. I need to remember who he is, this husband of mine.

When we first met I thought he was just a beautiful boy, a rich fool living a life addicted to pleasure. But he had kept himself protected and alive, alone, for many years by that stage. And he is the son and heir of my own Don, the man who elevated me to my position.

His mother seems like a real piece of work, too.

Finch is no fool, and when he puts his mind to something, he always accomplishes it.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks. “What are you thinking about?”

“You. And how amazing you are.”

He just nods. “Sometimes it strikes me too, and I gotta just sit there and bask.” His grin takes a while to grow, but it’s infectious enough that I laugh with him.

* * *

Back in the bedroom, I pull up two chairs to the window with the best view of the piazza, and we keep watch. I tell Finch what to look for and answer his questions when he asks why I’m so quick to track one person over another. Some of the questions I have to really think about myself.

“He’s wearing a winter overcoat and a scarf,” I say at last in answer to one of Finch’s queries. “It’s not that cold out.” The weather has been changeable; it was overcast when I woke, but the skies have cleared now as if in preparation for the Pope’s appearance.

Finch is staring at the man I identified. “That guy is, like, ninety. He’d probably feel a chill in the Mojave Desert.”

“Maybe. But you asked why he caught my eye. That’s why. And the scarf allows him to cover his face if he wants to. And if he were just pretending to be ninety, he could pull all those outer layers off, dump them, have a whole new outfit underneath.”

Finch takes it in. “So does it make more sense to concentrate on faces?”

“Shoes, actually. It’s harder to change shoes than the rest of the outfit. So keep an eye on the shoes, see if they’re incongruous. Or think about whether you’ve seen them before, following you.”

“Shoes,” Finch says thoughtfully, and I have to hide a smile.

As time goes on, though, I give briefer responses, my focus getting more intense as the morning wears on. I see more and more problems and I like the situation less and less.

I don’t know Róisín Donovan at all. She was at my wedding to Finch, but all the Donovans were there. All I know about her is that she is strongly religious, and in my experience, people who believe anything with unwavering devotion tend to have a black and white view of the world. It’s not hard to speculate that Róisín, knowing that Finch and I would be unwelcome guests in Italy, might have alerted the authorities. Might see it as her duty.

Or it could be even worse. The Irish Freedom Fighters, as distant from Róisín’s avowed creed as they may be, are cut from the same cloth. True believers. Róisín was raised by a mother who, at one time, believed in that cause. Fought for it. Just because Tara and Finch and, yes, even Maggie, had no desire to work with the organization, it doesn’t mean Róisín is the same.

It may well be that she simply hasn’t discovered the secret of her mother’s rosary—if there’s any secret to discover, of course. Or she may have given it over to the IFF already, and simply be acting as a lure for us, bait left out for us to follow into a trap.

We’ve been shadowed while we’ve been here, despite how careful I thought we were, and Róisín was one of the few who knew where we were headed. Our shadow could be any one of a number of enemies, from international law enforcement, to an Italian Family wondering what our purpose here might be, or even one of my New York rivals keeping an eye on us. But after the attack in Boston, on the townhouse, and then the hospital, my primary concern is the IFF.

“Luca.”

I turn to Finch, blinking.

“I asked, what are you thinking so hard about? It’s making you all frowny.”

He didn’t like it before when I suggested Róisín might have an ulterior motive, but not liking something doesn’t make it go away. “I’m thinking maybe we should abort.”

Chapter Forty-Six

LUCA

“Abort?” His eyebrows shoot up. “You mean—not meet up with Róisín?”

“That is what I mean, yes.”

“But we have to.” When I don’t respond, he keeps arguing. “We already arranged to meet her, and it’s a massive pain in the ass for her. It’d be super rude to just ghost her.”

“And it would be even ruder for her to have set a trap for us, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t.” I reach out and take his hand. “Don’t be angry. Listen to me, and more importantly, look with me. I’ll show you what I’m looking at, explain the problems, and then you tell me what you think we should do.”

A belligerent crunch of his eyebrows is his only response, but he allows me to stand him up in front of me. I put my hands on his arms to move him into position and then I point over one of his shoulders to direct his attention.

“Item one: cameras panning over the crowd in the plaza and showing the pictures on big-screen televisions. If anyone sees us on them, it gives an exact position for them to head towards.” I point to the security checkpoints below. “Item two: security. I don’t have a gun with me in Italy, but Róisín doesn’t know that, and there would be no way to get past those checkpoints with a weapon. No way, no how. Not even a knife. If she wanted me disarmed before I got close, this is an ideal meeting place. Item three—” I wave a hand over the crowd. “People. Lots of people. Difficult to keep track of anyone down there, which means I might miss something important. And for an assassin, a crowd gives good coverage.”

Under my hand, Finch’s shoulders are slumping. I stop the recital—there were a few more things I was going to say, but obviously my point is made—and wrap my arms around him instead.

“You see what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

I wait, but there is no more forthcoming. “What do you think we should do?” I prompt.

“You’re not asking because you’re actually going to listen to me.” He pulls away, frustrated, and goes through into the sitting area, staring at the wall opposite.

I follow him, still trying to judge his mood.

“I lived a long time in places like this,” he says, which is not at all what I expected him to say. “Not next door to the fucking Pope, of course, but in hotel rooms. Even the nicest of them aren’t exactly homey.” He turns around to look at me, finally, and I stop myself from going to him. He obviously has something he wants to say.

It’s time I let him say it.

“I taught myself to stop thinking about family,” he goes on, his voice soft, so I have to listen hard to make sure I’m hearing him right. “I got to a place where I accepted that they just didn’t want to see me. Not just Pops, but the rest of them, too. They never tried to get in touch—or so I thought. Tara told me later that she sent more than one letter. She never had an email address for me, but she knew which hotel I was staying in, and she tried to reach out. But Pops had so much pull, the hotel just conveniently lost all my mail from home. Tara told me she thought I had never tried to get in touch with her.” He swallows. “And, well, I guess she was right about that. I never did.”

I stay quiet. What am I going to say? It makes me furious every time I think of the way his so-called father, Howard Donovan, treated him, but the man is dead now, and good riddance as far as I’m concerned.

Finch wanders the room, trailing his fingers over the cherrywood frame of the sofa. “What I’m saying is, it’s important to me to reach out to Róisín, too. She might not like me all that much—pretty sure she doesn’t—but she’s still family, and I know she didn’t like the way Pops and Maggie treated me.”

“We have no guarantee that Róisín has your best interests at heart, even if she feels bad about the things that were done to you.”

“Maybe not,” Finch says, his chin coming up and his back straightening. “But I want to give her the chance, at least, to show me. So no matter what you decide to do, Luca, I’m going to meet her. And you’ll have to tie me up and lock me in the fucking closet to stop me.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” I say, “I have, over the years, learned my lesson about trying to stop you from doing the things you want to do.”

Hope sparks in his eyes. “So you’ll let me go?”

“No. I won’t let you go. I’m your husband, Finch, not your jailer. You’re a free agent.”

“But…you won’t come?”

At that, I laugh. “Of course I’m coming with you.” Now I do go to him, hug him close. “Your happiness, your wellbeing, are the most important things to me,” I remind him gently. He’s shaking very slightly in my arms, and I’m sorry to know how much that speech has taken out of him.

“I won’t go if you think we’ll end up dead—I mean, really think it,” he mutters into my chest.

“You and I, we’re getting good at dodging death, don’t you think?”

“Our luck will run out sooner or later.”

“Maybe.” I push him back and look down into his face, searing him into my mind so I can remember him like this, serious and beautiful. “But our luck will not run out today.”

I kiss him and let him go, make my way back to the curtain to keep an eye on the crowd.

“How can you be so sure?” he asks, coming up beside me to look out as well. His fingers slide into mine and I squeeze his hand as I answer.

“Because I make my own luck.”

* * *

The closer it gets to eleven-forty, the time I’ve announced we will leave the hotel, the more fidgety Finch gets, roaming around the room, coming back to the curtain to look out, sitting down on the chair, standing up…

“Is it time yet?”

He’s asked every five minutes for the last half-hour, and my response has always been the same. “Not yet.”

“It’s half past!” he says this time, a new refrain. “We won’t make it past the fucking security checks and into the square if we don’t go now.”

“I have been timing how long it takes to get through the security checkpoint,” I say calmly. “Trust me. We’ll make it in. I don’t want to be standing around under the eyes of the world any longer than we have to be.”

But we will be cutting it close. And I think Finch will explode if we wait any longer.

“Okay,” I sigh a minute later. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

LUCA

We each wear a dark hoodie, and the largest sunglasses we own. I leave the sharp paring knife I took with me from the breakfast buffet in the hotel room. Despite my best efforts at finding a way, I just don’t think there’s any way to get it into Saint Peter’s Square—which is comforting in its own way, because if I can’t bring in a weapon, neither can anyone else. Besides, I don’t need a weapon to protect Finch. I have killed to protect him before with my bare hands.

I’d just rather not kill someone on livestream to millions of Catholics worldwide.

The best thing to do would be to split up as we go through security, but I don’t want Finch out of my sight or reach any longer than need be. I do let a small group of excited French tourists enter the line ahead of me, and behind Finch. I try to make it look like I’m with them by engaging in conversation, although my French is poor, and their Italian is not much better, and I claim ignorance of English altogether.

Once we’re through, I bid goodbye to them, and manage to snatch the French flag one of them has let drop to the ground before they notice. I wrap it quickly into a bundle as I walk away from them and towards Finch, who is waiting around nervously near one of the columns.

“Here,” I say, pushing it into his hands.

“What’s this?” he says, surprised.

“Wrap yourself up in it. Over your head. There are plenty of other people here shrouding themselves in their national flags.”

He doesn’t ask any further questions, thankfully, just does as I’ve told him. Between the flag, the hoodie, and the glasses, he’s completely unrecognizable. As for me, I pull my hood well forward over my face and try to keep my head down.

All the better to concentrate on shoes, after all.

The piazza is filling up fast. There are groups of tourists here and there in brightly colored matching shirts, shaking banners that declare their country or organization. Other groups flock around tour guides holding up tall pointers topped by bright triangular flags. Finch’s French cloak is mirrored by a score of other countries’ flags as well, many of them unknown to me.

Here and there are clusters of nuns, and I look each of them over carefully as we slowly move past on the tide of the crowd, wondering if Róisín is among them. But I see no familiar faces, and no anomalous shoes.

The sun is reaching its zenith, but in deference to this morning’s clouds there are a number of people with umbrellas. Some of them are using them as sunshades. I move Finch closer to a fountain near the front, where a group has crowded around it to be refreshed by the spray. As we pass, I take up an umbrella leaning unattended against the fountain—mercifully unbranded, and the same nondescript blue as most of the others I see in use around the square.

I feel slightly safer with the umbrella open and shading my face as I move Finch further out from the crowd now. We might not fool facial recognition software if it caught us front-on, but we stand a better than average chance of escaping the notice of any human eyes looking for us.

The problem, of course, is that Róisín will also struggle to identify us. Even now, the base of the obelisk is a sea of people.

“What next?” Finch murmurs, as we take up a position as far away from the cameras as possible, but with a good view of the obelisk.

“We wait. And every few minutes, we move position.”

“Shouldn’t we wait at the obelisk?”

I can hear the anxiety in Finch’s voice, but I can’t let my own stress cloud my judgment. “No. When the time comes, we’ll move closer.”

“It’s not long now until—”

“Finch. We will find her, if she’s here. I promise. But we need to be careful about it.”

He sighs and clutches the flag tighter around himself, but whatever he’s about to say is drowned out by the noise of a striking bell, almost like an alarm. I stiffen, grabbing Finch’s arm, but the rising excitement from the crowd tells me what it is: merely an alert to the faithful that the Pope is about to appear.

“If we get separated,” I tell Finch in a low voice, “meet me at the colonnades nearest to our hotel.”

At the window from which the Papal standard flies, I see the white curtain drawing back, and a moment later, the Pope appears, hands raised in blessing. The big-screen TVs around the piazza finally, thankfully, focus on the window rather than the crowd. “Buongiorno,” booms out the Pope’s greeting around St. Peter’s Square, and then a few Latin phrases familiar to me from church.

“Come on,” I say to Finch, and we begin to move closer to the obelisk as the crowd flows forward, using the movement to disguise our own objective.

At the edges of the crowd are the curious rather than the faithful, losing interest in the Pope’s words, moving off to the other side of the piazza, or lining up in readiness to tour the Basilica. I lead Finch on a circuitous route through the assembly, spiraling in tighter as we go. By the time His Holiness has finished reading out the Bible verses and begun his homily, we’re only a few yards from the obelisk. Standing right next to us is someone livecasting in a loud whisper on their social media channel, ignoring the furious shushes of those around them. We’ll have to be careful to keep out of their background shots.

“Where is she?” Finch hisses in my ear. “It’s ten after.”

I bite back my initial response, because an I told you so is not going to make today any easier. “She may have been caught up. But we’ll wait here until she comes,” I murmur. “Promise.”

It seems to help. At least Finch’s grip on the flag under his chin releases a little.

Then I see them. Nuns.

A whole gaggle of them flocking together, wimples bright in the sunshine, some smiling, some crying, some doing both at the same time. They’re on the opposite side of the obelisk, and when I listen carefully, I hear American accents.

Finch has seen them too, judging by the way he repeatedly nudges me in the side. I grab his elbow to stop him.

“Stay here,” I order him, squeezing his elbow to make sure he knows I’m serious. He gives a frantic nod of the head, the flag and hood slipping off his baseball cap. But his hair is still dark under the cap, a few curls peeking out at the back, giving him a modicum of disguise. I leave the umbrella with him and move away.

I step through the crowd slowly, making for the left of the obelisk, aiming to come up behind the group of nuns. There must be at least twenty, all of them completely focused on the window of the Apostolic Palace, only breaking their gaze now and then to glance at the big-screen TV echo of His Holiness.

I catch the occasional murmur from them, and they are definitely American. But none of them are recognizable from the quarter-view I have of their faces, and I can’t see red hair revealed at the front of any wimple. I sidle around a little further, and then look back to Finch to make sure he’s still safe. He’s staring intently at me and gives me a little nod when I catch his eye.

Reassured, and deciding that haste is more important than stealth as long as I’m away from Finch, I pick up the pace, and push my way further towards the front, trying to find a place where I can get a better look at their faces. But just as I push through into a small opening, the pictures on the televisions around the square change, the cameras sweeping over the crowd again, and I spot myself instantly.

I turn back abruptly, surprising the tourist behind me, and raise my phone as though to take a photo of the crowd. I aim for the nuns and use the zoom function to scan through the line of them. They have a little banner, held by two of them, God Bless America—and under that, the insignia of the Poor Clares.

It’s definitely Róisín’s order, but I still don’t see her.

I take a few pictures—Finch will recognize his sister more easily than I will—and then crane my head to make sure he’s okay, but from this angle the obelisk is between us. Cursing under my breath, and after apologizing to the elderly Italian widow who overhears me, I begin to push my way back through the faithful. The Pope has begun the Angelus now, the Latin prayer, and the people are surging forward almost unconsciously, as though they can better hear or see the closer they get.

I don’t want to call attention to myself, so I try to move to the side instead, get to the outskirts. That’s easier, but once I’m there I have to stand on my toes to see where I left Finch. He’s so damn small…

I can’t see him.

I shove past someone rudely, muttering a Scusi over my shoulder, trying to get a better vantage point.

“Good afternoon, and enjoy your lunch,” the Pope ends jovially, and there’s a great roar from the people, arms going up to wave, to pray, to give thanks, and I can’t see a goddamn thing.

The Pope retreats; the crowd settles; people begin to disperse. I move as fast as I can towards the obelisk, my heart beating so hard I feel like I’m sprinting instead of making slow headway. I jump up at one point, trying to see, hoping I just haven’t caught sight of him, and I’m told off in several different languages as I jostle people and land on toes. I ignore them all and jump again, a few times.

He’s not there. He’s not fucking there.

I give up all pretense of politeness and start bodily thrusting people out of the way, fighting against the tide until I get to the obelisk. I jog up the little steps of the pedestal and scan the crowd, throwing aside all my concerns about being noticed or recognized.

I still can’t see him.

Fuck it.

“Finch!” I shout. “Finch!”

But the bells of the Basilica are ringing with a joy that seems to mock me, and I can barely even hear my own voice over them. The rising sense of panic is all too familiar. I should never have let him talk me into this…

I catch a glimpse of a French flag, fluttering in the breeze, and my heart stops. I run towards it, faster this time as I’m not moving against the crowd so much, but when I arrive, there’s only the flag.

The flag. No Finch.

“Mother Mary, help me,” I choke out, twisting this way and that, trying to find any familiar faces, listening for his voice. I shout his name again, startling a young couple next to me who have stopped to take a joint selfie, and then beyond them, across the piazza, I see a navy baseball cap and dark curls at the nape of a neck I’d know anywhere.

It’s Finch. He’s making for the colonnade, towards one of the exits, the one closest to our hotel. I’m almost sick with relief. He must have lost sight of me, too, in the exodus of the crowd, or maybe he got a tingle of unease. Perhaps he simply felt unsafe without me there, and decided to make for the shadows.

Whatever the answer, I have strayed from my duty.

I lose him again behind a large and loud tourist group, just for a second, and as my eyes stray over heads trying to find him again, my attention is caught by someone not dressed for the unseasonably warm day. A hunch-shouldered, rotund figure dressed in a dark hoodie and a backpack, making their way determinedly through the crowd in the wake of my husband.

Tracking him.

Finch reaches the marble columns, but his stalker is not far behind him.

I break into a run, charging through the dispersing crowd, and I reach the hooded figure just as it reaches out to grab Finch.

Chapter Forty-Eight

FINCH

I hear a cry behind me and wheel around to see my husband with his eyes on fire, his teeth bared, holding a black-clad figure by the throat up against one of the columns.

Shit. I know that look. It’s the exact same look that was on his face just before he ended Sam Fuscone with his bare hands.

“Luca!” He’s already shoved me behind him, but I grab the flexing bicep on his arm, trying to calm him. “Luca,” I hiss again. “It’s Róisín, for fuck’s sake!”

Róisín’s hood falls off her head and Luca lets her go at once. The security guards at the checkpoints between the columns have noticed now, calling over, asking what’s going on as she bends over, gasping.

“We’re fine!” I yell at the security guards. “Just—messing around!”

Luca’s muscles are still tensed, quivering.

Róisín raises her head to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me?” He lets out a dangerous chuckle, and then he turns on me, his voice low and dark. “I told you to stay where you were!”

“I did!” The incredulous look he gives me—and the bald fact that I’m not currently waiting where he told me to—makes me rethink my answer. “I mean, I kind of did. But you disappeared, and then Róisín came up all mysterious and hooded and told me to start walking, and I couldn’t see you, so I made for the colonnades. Like you told me to,” I add, with a pointed stare.

“I knew this was a terrible idea,” Róisín mutters.

Luca turns on my sister again, but I grab his wrist. Hard. “You are calling attention to us, husband,” I point out.

“I don’t have time for this, Howie,” Róisín coughs, pulling up her hood again to hide her face. “I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. What do you want?”

Luca is rapidly regaining his composure, thank God, although he’s gone from fire to ice now. “Why weren’t you with your religious sisters? And why are you creeping around in a hoodie? Why aren’t you in your habit?”

“I could hardly meet two criminals in my habit,” Róisín tells Luca, just as frostily. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie with dark blue leggings and navy tennis shoes. She looks pretty damn inconspicuous. I’m kind of proud of her for being so smart. “And the Mother Superior would never consent to my meeting anyone at all, anyway,” Róisín goes on. “I’m breaking the rules just—just talking to you.” She looks down, her cheeks coloring. “I took some civvies with me in my backpack to put on over my habit. As soon as I could get away from my sisters, I did. But I didn’t want to miss hearing the Pope.”

As I look closer, it becomes apparent that the reason she looks so round is because she’s hiked up the skirts of her habit to hide them in the generously-sized hoodie.

“What excuse did you give your, uh, your boss?” I ask awkwardly.

“I told the Mother Superior I was ill, that I’d make my own way back to the hotel. We’re staying just down the road—” she points down the main road leading up to the Basilica “—at Spirito Santo. They give special rates for pilgrims. Anyway. I’ll tell her I got lost, somehow, if they get back before I do. But I have to be quick. And I certainly don’t have any desire to be assaulted by some mobster.” She gives Luca a cold look, and he gives her an even icier one right back.

Great start.

“Okay, Ro,” I say. “We’re staying just here.” I point at our hotel through the columns, across the road. We really did get a great position. “You wanna come over and talk?”

“No. What do you want?” Róisín asks again.

Luca and I exchange a glance. “We really do need to talk,” I say. “Come to our hotel, please. Let us buy you lunch.”

“I can’t—the Mother Superior... Someone will be sent back to check on me—”

“Please,” I say, and reach out to take her hand. She presses her lips together and glares at me, but after a second, she gives an abrupt nod.

“I don’t have much time,” she reiterates as we cross the road.

“It won’t take long,” I promise.

I can only hope I’m telling the truth.

* * *

Róisín doesn’t even look around our room when we take her up, although she does accept our offer of lunch and manages to pick the most expensive things on the room service menu. She seems resigned to hearing us out, at least.

Or maybe she’s just sick of convent food.

She gives monosyllabic answers to my questions about how she’s enjoying the Poor Clares, and when I tell her about the charity that Tara and Aidan and I have set up, I get a flat, “I know.”

“How do you know?” I ask, surprised. “I thought you weren’t allowed any contact with the outside world.”

She gives me the withering look I remember well from childhood and says, “Because it’s big news, Howie. Congratulations. You made the splash you always wanted.”

“Finch did not set up the charity in order to gain accolades,” Luca breaks in. He’s sitting in a dark corner in a leather armchair, well back from the two of us, and he looks every inch the Mob Boss Róisín thinks he is.

Well, and that he actually is, I guess. Luca is such a teddy bear underneath, I forget how scary other people find him.

Róisín doesn’t seem to find him scary, though; more contemptible. It irks me when she says, “Any charity founded on misery and murder is tainted.”

“Oh, my God,” I snap. “Listen, you don’t have dibs on doing good shit in the world, Róisín, and you don’t have to like what I’m doing—but you don’t have to be such a supercilious bitch about it, either.”

The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said it. This is how you butter up someone you need something from? I ask myself, but she surprises me when her lips twitch into a smirk.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll try to keep my supercilious bitchiness under wraps, Howie.” She shrugs. “I suppose if Aidan O’Leary is involved, it can’t be all bad. He seemed like a man of good judgment, apart from his friendship with you.”

It sounds mean, but she’s just teasing. I think.

We’re interrupted, thank God, by room service. They set up the meal quickly and then leave, and all the while Luca still skulks in the corner armchair like some dark demon.

“Come on,” I tell him, beckoning with my head. “Or I’ll put together a plate for you myself, and I know how much you hate that.”

Any reminder of his recuperation period generally gets a response, and it does now, too. He’s over at the table in seconds, and he and Róisín resume their Cold War of glares.

“Okay,” I sigh, as I shake out my napkin. “Luca, how about you apologize?”

“For?”

“Assaulting me?” Róisín snaps.

“I’m not going to apologize for protecting my husband,” he snaps back. I kick him under the table. After a moment, he says, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Róisín. It’s been…a stressful period recently. I saw someone following Finch and I—well. I’m sorry.”

Róisín pokes at her carpaccio starter, refusing to meet his eyes. I take a chance, and kick her under the table this time.

With a shuffle in her chair, she blurts out, “Apology accepted. And I’m sorry if I gave you cause to worry about Howie.” Both Luca and I must wear mirrored expressions, because she adds, looking between us, “I’m not sure why you’re both so surprised. It’s not like I want my little brother to be in danger.” She looks at Luca. “Or you. I was very sorry to hear about the shooting. I prayed for you every morning and night. I’m glad to see you have…recovered.” She gives her neck a pointed rub, but there’s a lightness to her words that takes the passive-aggressive edge off.

Luca’s eyes widen. “Oh.” I’m about to kick him again when he adds, “Thank you, Róisín.”

“Let’s dig in,” I say heartily, because the moment is awkward enough without extending it.

It’s a good moment, though.

The air of forgive-and-forget continues as I explain to Róisín what’s been going on in New York, and the letter we found from Mom to Tino. Luca wasn’t totally down with the idea of showing her the letter, much less the mysterious number at the bottom, but I overruled him. She doesn’t have any instant answers, anyway.

“This was what you wanted to see me for? I’m sorry, Howie, but I don’t know; it could mean anything.” She throws out a few wild ideas, all of which we’ve already considered. “GPS coordinates? A cipher? The combination to a safe? A biblical reference? An international phone number?” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

Luca and I exchange a look. “This wasn’t the only thing we wanted to talk about,” I start delicately. “Um. Mom’s rosary—Tara said she sent it to you?”

For the first time since Luca’s apology, Róisín’s eyes become guarded again.

Chapter Forty-Nine

FINCH

“Yes,” Róisín says. “Tara sent me the rosary.”

“And do you have it with you?” I ask eagerly.

She looks down, stabbing carefully through paper-thin slices of beef with her fork. “No.”

“Is it in your room? At the hotel?”

“No. I left it back home.”

Disappointed, I lean back in my chair. This whole trip to Italy has been a bust. Luca was right, we never should have come. We haven’t even been able to see the sights while we’ve been here. All he wanted was to go into the Colosseum, and he won’t get to do it.

Luca clears his throat. “We thought—Finch and Tara and I, we all thought your mother’s rosary might have something to do with this, because of what it says in the letter about keeping God close. Finch and Tara both say your mother kept her rosary with her at all times.”

Róisín finally stops spearing things onto her fork and looks up at Luca. “She did, yes.”

“Have you ever noticed anything strange about the rosary?”

“No.”

“Do you use it yourself?”

She shakes her head. “It’s a little unwieldy. The crucifix is quite heavy. You remember?” She glances at me and I shrug.

“I didn’t take much notice, to be honest.”

She sighs. “Still an iconoclast, even after all the miracles God has granted you.”

I snort at that. “Listen, if you think my life has been miraculous, you must be fucking crazy. Seeing Mom die right in front of me didn’t feel much like a gift from God at the time, let me tell you.”

She cringes, and reaches over to squeeze my hand, a gesture so caring that tears actually sting my eyes. “I didn’t mean that,” she says softly. “Not at all. I’m sorry, Howie, I just meant…”

“What did you mean?” I ask, trying not to sound as pissed off as I feel.

“I suppose I meant that you’ve survived it all. All the terrible things that have happened to you, and here you are. Pops and Maggie betrayed you, but you found a new family to accept you. And just look at you here, your marriage to Luca—however it might have started, it’s been a blessing for both of you. You love, and are loved. You belong to each other.”

That just about knocks my socks off. Róisín has never said anything about my marriage, and if I’d ever sat down to think about it—which I haven’t—my assumption would have been that she was against it, despite being a bridesmaid. Róisín tends to be pretty hardcore Catholic.

As you’d expect from someone who ran away to a nunnery to forget the world.

“Um, thanks,” I say.

Luca, on the other hand, takes advantage of the emotion of the moment. “So you know, then, that I will do whatever I need to do to protect your brother.”

“Yes. The whole world knows that by now.”

“So when you get back home, will you send me the rosary?”

She looks him over for a long moment and then says, “No.”

“But if you give me the rosary—”

“You are worried about Howie. I am worried about the rest of the world, Don Morelli. Whatever secrets my mother took to her grave, they are probably better off there.”

This time, I grab Róisín’s hand. “What did you know about her ties to the IFF?” Róisín is older than both Tara and me, so she might know more about Mom’s past. Might remember more.

Slowly, Róisín replies, “I know Mom spent a long time trying to make up for things she regretted doing. And I know our whole family was in bed with the IFF, not just Mom. Back in Ireland, there are strong blood ties between the Donovans and the IFF.”

“That rosary may be the key to cutting those ties for once and for all,” Luca says evenly. “If not for Finch’s sake, surely for Tara you would—”

Róisín stands, slamming her hands down on the table angrily. “I would do anything for my family, don’t you understand that? Why do you think I’m here? I shouldn’t be. I should be with my sisters in Christ, but instead here I am, having lunch with a crime boss. I’ve tried to make a clean break away from all of it, but I keep getting dragged back in.”

“You’ll forgive me if it’s not my place,” Luca says, his voice like a whip, “but hiding yourself away in a convent is not making a clean break. It’s a little more like making a getaway. Don’t you think your mother might have had it right? If there are regrets you have, you should make up for them, not pretend they never happened in the first place.”

Well, this lunch has completely gone to hell.

Róisín marches over to where she put her backpack down when she came in, yanking off the hoodie and letting her habit skirts down over her leggings. She pulls her wimple out of her bag and goes over to a nearby gilt-framed mirror to put it on.

“Ro,” I plead, going over to her, “we didn’t mean to upset you. We just—we really thought you might be able to help.”

Luca comes over as well, although after he speaks I wish he’d just kept his mouth shut. “It’s not just about Finch and Tara, or about the Morellis, or even about the IFF. If you hang on to that rosary, you’re only putting more people in danger, because the IFF will not stop until they have it. If you think holy orders will protect you—protect the women in that convent—you are sorely mistaken, Róisín.”

“If the IFF want it so badly, it must hold a lot of power,” Róisín says, looking at him in the mirror. “Why should it be any better that I give that power to you, Don Morelli?” She turns away from the mirror and picks up her backpack, clearly ready to go.

“We want—we hope—to stabilize the environment in New York and Boston,” Luca says. “Our aim is to do good instead of evil.”

“A corrupt tree produces evil fruit.” She walks to the door.

“Then learn from what His Holiness said today,” Luca urges her, following her to the door, “and overcome evil with good.”

I’ve heard Aidan use the same tone often enough to know when biblical quotes are being thrown around. But what would only make me roll my eyes seems to have some effect on my sister. She pauses at the door, turns, and stares past me at Luca. “Even the devil can cite scripture for his purpose.”

“Yeah, well, better the devil you know than the one you don’t,” I quip before I can help myself.

Oops.

I don’t quite understand Róisín’s expression until I see her mouth quirking. Apparently my saintly sister still has her sense of humor after all. She unzips the front pocket of her backpack and fishes for something, holding it out to me. I reach out automatically to receive it.

“Please don’t contact me again,” she says, and leaves before I can even say goodbye.

But I’m too busy staring at what lies in my hand: the rosary.

Chapter Fifty

FINCH

“You Donovans certainly are stubborn,” Luca sighs, while I’m still staring at the rosary in my hands. “But at least your sisters respond to logic.”

“Do you see this?” I demand, shaking the rosary at him. “She did have it with her. She lied!”

“Yes. Not very well. And now we have it. Can we—”

“Hang on a minute,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. His last words have just hit me. “First up, I’m a D’Amato, and don’t you forget it. And second, I respond to logic as well. I’m totally logical.”

“Oh, totally,” he says. “Come on, baby bird, let’s see what mysteries this particular rosary hides—and not merely the Catholic ones, hopefully.”

There’s part of me that wants to slow down, to talk about exactly what happened back there in St. Peter’s Square—because I know Luca’s still pissed I didn’t wait right where he told me—but if we have that conversation, we’ll also have to talk about Róisín’s final goodbye, presuming that’s what it was.

Don’t contact me again sounds pretty final, though.

I follow Luca back into the living room and we sit on the sofa together, side by side, close to each other. His thigh presses up against mine, warming me, and for once being this close to him doesn’t just make me want to jump him. I feel comforted, understood, as though Luca can tell I don’t want to talk about my family bullshit right now.

Although I still would totally jump him if he gave me any cues.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Luca is fixated on the rosary right now. “May I?” he asks, putting his hand over mine, where the crucifix of the rosary lies in my palm. Róisín was right; it’s pretty big compared to the more delicate rosary I see Aidan carrying around with him, and heavier than it looks.

“Sure,” I say. “You’re more likely to recognize anything weird about it than I am.” It must be almost two decades since I last held a rosary. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t fall into ash as soon as I touched it.

Luca lifts it gingerly from my hands, although I’m not sure why he’s being so careful. It’s not like it’ll break. This thing is heavy duty.

“It’s not wood or a precious metal,” he says, almost to himself. He’s turning the crucifix over in his fingers, and then lets the beads of the rosary itself run through them. “Beads seem to be glass. Agreed?”

“Yeah,” I say, flicking one with a fingernail. “Ow.”

“But it’s not particularly special. Apart from belonging to your mother, I mean,” Luca adds.

“Don’t worry about pissing me off, honey. Just tell me what’s so amazing about this particular rosary.”

He checks several of the round beads and then each flat one, frowning. Then he looks closely at the crucifix again, the back of it, the little figure on the front, and the sign above its head that, even to my untrained eye, reads INRI just like every other Catholic cross I’ve ever seen.

“I thought there might be some inscription,” Luca sighs at last. “Here—you have a look. Maybe you’ll see something I missed. She was your mother, after all.”

She might have been my mother, but I’m starting to wonder if I ever knew the real her. But I take the rosary, look it over closely, even bite down on the beads, then the end of the cross, like it might tell me anything.

Nada. It has no effect but to make me spit a little because it’s not very tasty. “Bleh,” I say, and then run a finger over my tongue to get the taste off. “What’s the crucifix made out of?”

“Clay, I think,” Luca says, looking it over. “Hard-fired and glazed. I’m not sure why you felt the need to chew on it.”

“Therapist’s wet dream, huh? Me chomping on a crucifix. Very Freudian.”

“Mm.”

Luca’s still staring at the cross, turning it over in his hands. I poke him. “Whatcha thinking?”

“I’m thinking there might be something inside it. Baked into it.”

“Um…wouldn’t whatever it was get burned up in there during the kiln firing?”

“Not necessarily. It would depend on what it was. Anything paper or wood, yes. Probably the same for copper or gold or anything with a lower melting point. But if it was steel…or iron…maybe even bone…”

I stare at him. “Since when did you become an expert on the melting point of—of things?”

“Since we had a house fire,” he says wryly. “Before we got the list of salvage, I wanted to know what to expect was lost versus what might have survived.” In response to my cocked eyebrow, he says, “Yes, alright, I was wondering about my platinum Armani cufflinks. They made it through.”

“Praise Jesus,” I say, holding up the crucifix. “Seriously, Luca, this all sounds a little hardcore for my Mom. Baking spy stuff into a cross? She wasn’t a hobbyist potter or anything, to my knowledge, so she would’ve had to get it made specially.”

“Well, there’s one way to check if there’s anything in it.”

It takes me a second to figure it out. “We are not smashing open the crucifix on a hunch, husband. Róisín would kill me. Tara would kill me. Hell, I’d feel shitty about it myself, especially if we end up with dust and there’s nothing inside.”

Luca thinks it over for a while, and then puts a hand on my knee. “There might be another way.”

I look down again at the crucifix, weighing up my options. “Maybe…maybe we should just smash it. We came all this way; we might as well see if it was a waste of time.”

Luca takes the rosary back from me and puts it on the coffee table. “No,” he says softly. “You were right the first time. If we can preserve it, we should. And besides, we might be missing something. Let me follow up on my idea first. If we run out of options, we can crack it back in New York.” He cups my face. “I thought we did well today. We were a team.”

Brightening, I smile at him. “Yeah. We were.”

“Except that part where you left the obelisk.”

Damn it, I should have seen that coming. “Fair cop, guv,” I try, but even my terrible cockney accent isn’t going to get him laughing.

“I mean it, angel. If I can’t trust you to have my back—”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, but I’m taken by the way he put things. “Wait…have your back?”

“Well, yeah.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I was counting on you to watch out for me, just as much as I was watching out for you. I need to know I can depend on you when I’m in a tight spot.”

Like, I’m not sure if I really, a hundred percent believe him? But it does make me melt, so I’ll allow it. “I’m sorry. Next time, I promise—I’ll sit and stay like a good puppy.”

“I hope so. Maybe we should practice a little.” He boops my nose with a fingertip and a smile lifts his lips.

My eyebrows shoot up. “Well, honey, you know I can never resist a little experimentation. And believe me, there’s nothing I’d love more than playing your bitch right now. But, uh, my ass is still recovering from that alley.”

“Shit.” Luca pulls back from me, a hand squeezing his eyes. “I knew I was too rough. We shouldn’t have—”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, swinging around on top of him, my legs splayed over his as I sit back on my heels, resting on his thighs. “Yeah, we definitely should have.” I slide my hands around the back of his neck, and he automatically puts his arms around my waist to keep me balanced.

I smirk down at him, but he’s still worried, reaching up one hand to cup my face. “I hurt you.”

“You sure did,” I tell him dreamily. “In all the best ways. Believe me, Luca—that was one hell of an enjoyable night. Memorable. And in all honesty, I’d be down for your dick in me right now. It’s just,” I sigh, “that we got places to be.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Places to be?

“Mm-hmm.”

“What places?”

I grin and boop his nose right back. “I’m gonna show you Rome, baby.”

Chapter Fifty-One

LUCA

Finch’s favorite restaurant in Rome is a hole-in-the-wall place in a side street a little ways from the touristy areas near the Forum. The only main course on offer at the restaurant is filleti di baccalà, although there are a few other appetizers on the menu, along with several side salads or cooked greens.

At first I’m taken aback; I expected fine dining, despite Finch insisting that my jeans and black shirt were fine for where we were going. As for him, he’s in jeans as well, but wearing a white tee so thin that I can see the pink of his nipples underneath. Against his glowing tan and dark hair, it makes a tempting combination. And we do fit in perfectly with the crowd around the restaurant, all casually dressed.

The meal, when it comes, is maybe the best fried fish I’ve ever eaten. The sides of thick-cut fries and sautéed chicory are perfect accompaniments. The restaurant is tiny, Finch and I bumping knees under the table as we eat, but somehow all the more private for it although the room is stuffed full of people. The chatter and the sizzle of frying fish cover our conversation perfectly.

Afterward, there’s a gelato bar down the end of the street, where we each take our picks and then end up swapping when I prefer Finch’s salted caramel and he prefers my pistachio. The gelato tastes both sweeter and fresher than any I’ve had before, although I’m pretty sure it’s the environment, the atmosphere, the fact that I have Finch close to me, smiling up at me, making me fall a little deeper in love every moment.

“What next?”

“Well, later on we’re gonna dance at this awesome gay club I found online,” he says, taking my hand. “Thought we should check out the Roman nightlife while we were here.”

“Keeping an eye on the international competition? I’m in. But it’s a little too early for a nightclub, and after all that food—”

“Oh, it’s a long walk to get there,” he tells me. “Correction: it’s a long, moonlit, romantic walk through the ancient parts of Rome to get there. We go this way first—”

He must have memorized the directions, because we’re carrying dumb rather than smartphones with us, only capable of calls and texts, and no map. Harder to trace.

Or maybe Finch knows the way because he’s done this walk before. I ask him that, and he laughs. “You picturing me walking these streets with some Italian hottie other than you? No, honey. Only for you would I ever walk through a bunch of old rocks and ruins.”

He takes me to the ancient Roman Forum, where the people gathered, their senators spoke, and their Emperor paraded. Finch might claim to have no interest, but he’s a surprisingly informative tour guide as he takes me to what he claims is the best overlook of the Forum. It’s a beautiful view when we get there, with fewer tourists this time of night. The heavy moon swells in the sky overhead, not full, but getting there, and as the clouds part, its cool light paints the Forum in silvers, grays and blacks. The ancient lines of the buildings show up in stark relief. The night air is cool, and I pull Finch close to my side and kiss his temple. He snuggles up to me and we stand there in silence, looking at the remnants of a once-great empire.

I think of my own empire; my own Rome waiting for me across land and sea, and I make a vow not to let it fall apart under my watch. Under the chilling light of the moon, I feel as though something—someone—some ancient pagan deity, perhaps—has heard my vow.

And they will keep me to it.

* * *

“Dancing next?” I ask Finch after we’ve strolled down into and through the Forum for another hour. It’s late enough that we’re mostly alone, apart from small groups of college-aged students, and even they disperse as we wander down the Via Sacra, past the old temples, and then past the Arch of Titus. I can see the Colosseum, too, right down the end.

“Mm, not quite yet,” Finch says, but he’s leading me more firmly towards the Colosseum, so I have no complaints. “You really wanted to see inside it,” he sighs, as we arrive at the monument.

“It’s just a pile of old rocks,” I remind him. “Really boring inside.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and then: “So I hope you won’t be too disappointed by this private night tour I booked.”

He takes my hand, pulling me over to where a small group is waiting around a tour guide, who is taking names and signing them in on a tablet.

“How?” I ask, bewildered. “And when?”

“I snuck down to ask the concierge at the hotel,” Finch says, and of course he did. It would never occur to me to do that, but to Finch, so used to hotel living in his younger years, it would have been the obvious thing to do.

“Baby bird…” My throat hitches, and I have to clear it. “Thank you.”

“You think I’m going to let you come to Rome and not see everything you want to see?” he asks, proud of himself, excitement giving him a bounce in his step. “No way. Only the best for my husband. And this is the best way to see it—fewer grubby tourist-types, and we can have our privacy if we want it.” The look he gives me is flirty and sexy.

“I am not fucking you in the Colosseum,” I tell him in a low voice, but he just laughs.

And maybe I would. Maybe I’d chance a night in a Roman jail to be able to experience that. So we join the group of six, where Finch gives our false names, and then we follow the guide into the Colosseum.

* * *

“You’ve been so well-behaved,” I murmur to Finch an hour later, once we’ve been released by the tour guide to have a look around the Colosseum for ourselves. The others in the group have been told strictly to stay in the lighted areas and within the signposted areas, but I saw Finch slip the guide a substantial amount of cash and give him a wink.

“Come on, baby,” he said to me. “You and me, we go where we please.”

So that’s how we managed to find a place well away from all the other tourists, more dimly lit, a place where we can sit where ancient spectators once sat, and take in the wonders of the Colosseum.

“Well-behaved?” Finch says, walking his fingers over my thigh and dipping his hand between my legs. “Does that mean I can misbehave for a little while now?”

I take his hand in both of mine, kiss the back of it, and hold it in my lap. “Even for us, this is probably too public,” I tell him. “Besides, we still have the club to get to, right?”

“You’re right; the bathroom of a Roman nightclub is a much more romantic place to get our freak on,” he says with mocking sincerity.

I shake my head with a smile. “You really outdid yourself tonight, baby bird. You know that?”

“Hell yeah, I know it,” he says confidently, looking back over the Colosseum and squeezing my fingers. “I hope you’ve enjoyed it so far.”

“I have. So much.” I lean into him. “Thank you.”

The moonlight has leached his eyes of their color, but they still shine with love when he smiles at me. “I’m glad.”

We share a sweet, lingering kiss, and then Finch pulls back. “I’m gonna give you some time alone for a minute,” he declares, hopping up off the stone bench.

“I don’t want time alone. I want to experience all of this with you.”

“Sure, but I need to give the tour guide the second half of the huge tip I promised for letting us go off alone. And by tip, I mean bribe. I’ll just be a minute. And then maybe I’ll stand in that broken-up bottom part for a minute and pretend I’ve been thrown into a cell with four really sexy gladiators, while my Emperor watches them take me, all at the same time. Gladiator gangbang. Actually, I think I’ve seen that movie.”

“Your Emperor would never let anyone else have you.”

“Yeah, yeah. But it’s hot to fantasize about, right?”

“Any man who touched you would lose his hand,” I tell him firmly, but Finch’s laughter carries behind him on the warm, gentle breeze that blows through the Colosseum.

I do appreciate the moment alone, and appreciate again the way Finch knows me better than I know myself sometimes. I sit in silence, letting the sound of the traffic outside die away, the giggles and chatter from our fellow tourists below, until all I hear is the whisper of the past in my ears. I let go of my cares, just for a moment, and feel the power of this ancient place. Remember the blood spilled.

I think about how lucky I am to have found Finch, so perfect for me, who opened up new worlds for me. I can hear him somewhere in the Colosseum, his voice though not his words, and then I catch a glimpse of him waving at me from the other side.

“I took a wrong turn coming back,” he shouts.

I chuckle, raise my hands to my mouth to shout back, but with a noisy ka-chunk-a-chunk, all the lights go out.

I spring to my feet, tensed for action, my eyes burning into the sudden dark. The clouds have shrouded the moon, and I have to strain to see anything in the black bowels of the Colosseum. “Finch!” I shout.

“I’m okay,” his response comes.

There aren’t that many people here, but I can hear them all chattering, the faux-scared screams of some of the girls, the laughter, the reassurances of the tour guide.

“Move down towards the base!” I shout towards where I saw Finch last. My eyes are adjusting, and the occasional moonlight flashes through the clouds and ambient light from the city are bright enough that I can pick my way down from the higher stands. I keep my hand on any available guide rails as much as possible. My heart rate is elevated, and part of me wants to move faster, but I try to stay calm, think fast, move carefully. The last thing I need right now is to stumble or fall.

This stupid, broken body…

“Say something!” I shout. “Baby bird—”

I hear Finch cheerfully bellow out a dirty limerick that I’m not sure is advisable in public, but at least I know he’s safe. As long as he’s talking, he’s still okay.

Maybe there’s just been a power failure. Maybe the tour guide lost track of time and we were all supposed to have left the monument by now. But those are a child’s fantasies that a man like me can’t allow himself. I have to treat every incident like it might be leading up to an attack on Finch.

“Finch!” I shout again.

“I’m with the group!” he hollers back, and that affords some measure of relief. At least in a group, he won’t be so easy to grab.

I’m near the bottom of the Colosseum when it occurs to me that if this is the precursor to another kidnap attempt, it suggests there are at least two IFF agents around. One to turn off the lights—because they wouldn’t trust to a bribe for something so important—and at least one more to nab Finch.

But if they’re smart, they’ll have a whole battalion with them, because they’d need one to stop me from getting to my husband.

I’m so focused on Finch, and on making my way under the deceptive light of the moon, that I only hear someone behind me seconds before they strike. I whirl around, but it’s too late.

There’s a tearing sting in my arm as a needle stabs in; I stumble back against a wall; everything goes dark.

Chapter Fifty-Two

FINCH

It takes a few minutes before I call out to Luca again. “Baby, did you get lost?” I shout, amused, but there’s no response. “Luca?” I try again. Nothing. I turn to the tour guide. “You need to get those lights on now,” I tell him. “If my husband has been hurt, I am going to sue your ass, and your company’s ass, and this whole damn country’s ass into oblivion.”

“It will be best if we stay here,” the tour guide assures me, as though he just didn’t hear me threaten legal action. “The lights will come back on any moment, signore.”

“If you think I’m gonna—” I start, but with several loud thunks, the lights come back on. The tour guide, who can see my furious face more clearly now, takes a step back.

I turn my attention to where I last saw Luca, calling out for him again. I’m starting to worry that he tripped over something in the dark, maybe knocked himself unconscious. The last thing he needs is to get hurt again—and if I make him go to the hospital, which I will, he’s going to be really mad. “Luca!” I try again, jogging up the stairs on the other side.

He was definitely on this side. Wasn’t he?

I look over to the other side, but I know he was here. He was right here…

My stomach goes cold and I turn around and around, trying to catch sight of him, calling out his name.

“Please, signore!” the tour guide pants at me. He’s heaving himself up the stairs to join me. “Please, stop screaming. You are worrying the others in the group.”

“Fuck the others in the group,” I say, and shake off the restraining hand on my arm. “Luca!”

“Perhaps this is his idea of a joke,” the guide snaps.

I turn on him. “Or perhaps he’s lying fucking unconscious somewhere. Start looking.” I start to run up and down the steps, trying to look behind any raised areas, and the guide begins to walk up and down as well, along with a few other tourists still in the Colosseum. Most of them left when the lights came on again, and none of the ones who stayed even seem to know who we’re looking for; I hear one English woman explaining to her husband that my child is hiding from me. At least they’re looking, I guess.

But it’s no use. Luca is gone.

For a second I wonder if it is a prank. If Luca is waiting outside the Colosseum for me with a grin on his face. Baby bird, I could hear you shrieking all the way out here.

No. He would never do that. But maybe it’s a test—maybe he’s waiting to see what I’d do if he suddenly disappeared, and I had to take care of myself?

I picture him just about snapping Róisín’s neck with one hand when he grabbed her at St. Peter’s Square. No way. He’s in no mood for games and no mood for testing me, not outside a very controlled environment.

I take a few deep breaths and try to think.

“Perhaps,” the tour guide says nervously, “we should call the—”

“No. No police. No law enforcement.” I back away from the guide. “I’ll—I’ll go check outside. Maybe you’re right, and he’s pulling some prank.” I turn to leave, then turn back. “Don’t mention this to anyone,” I say in a low, cold voice, trying to channel my inner Luca.

It seems to work. The guide gives a frantic shake of the head, and I make my way out of the Colosseum, alone.

* * *

Luca is not outside. I didn’t expect him to be, but I hoped for it. I’m trying to keep my panic at bay by imaging how goddamn mad I’m going to be when I find him. “So fucking mad,” I mutter under my breath as I walk quickly away from the Colosseum.

I’m trying to be smart.

Waiting around under one of the foremost national monuments like a deer in the headlights is just going to get me killed—if my worst fears have come true, and Luca has been taken away from me by the IFF, or by a rival Family, or law enforcement, or a million other choices.

Taken, or worse…

No. He can’t be dead. I stamp that thought right out. Luca D’Amato is fucking indestructible; that’s all there is to it. And so it’s my job right now to find him, wherever he is.

I walk blindly, trying to pretend to myself that I’m throwing any shadows off my tail, but the truth is I’m not acting rationally. I’m just panicking, trying to find a dark corner to hide away in so I can think.

When the shitty old Nokia that Luca insisted I swapped to tonight buzzes with a text message, I just about jump out of my skin. I fumble it out of my pocket, praying to any deity that might be out there that the text is from Luca, wondering where the hell I am, telling me he’s waiting at the Colosseum for me and to get my butt back there, pronto.

The text says it’s from Luca, but it’s not telling me to get back to the Colosseum.

It’s telling me that some unnamed “We” has my husband, and if I want to see him alive and in one piece, I’ll respond right fucking now and tell them I understand.

It takes me a while to get my shaky fingers to react, but before I do, another text comes through very quickly.

Instructions to come at 0600 tomorrow. You will exchange yourself for our prisoner. Reply I UNDERSTAND.

I resist the urge to write back I’M GOING TO KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, and instead I type, I WANT PROOF OF LIFE.

All I get back is another:

Reply I UNDERSTAND.

I stumble into an alley and throw up all my filleti di baccalà in a neat puddle on the sidewalk. Afterward, I wipe my mouth and try to stop shaking. “He’s alive,” I mutter to myself, because that’s all that matters. He’s alive, but there seems to be more than one IFF agent involved in this, because they used the plural: our prisoner. Not my prisoner.

My phone buzzes again.

Reply I UNDERSTAND.

I text these assholes that I FUCKING UNDERSTAND, and then I turn off my phone just in case they’re tracing me somehow. I’m starting to think again. Cold rage is overtaking my fear.

I take a chance and dart back to a main street to flag a passing taxi, praying it’s not some IFF guy in disguise. I tell him to take me to St. Peter’s Basilica; no point letting anyone know where I’m staying who doesn’t need to know. The driver has no interest in chat, thank God, so during the ride, I go through my options.

The IFF—because it has to be them, right?—has my husband.

They want me in exchange for him.

I don’t know where Luca is. He might be near the Colosseum, or he might not.

I could call Teo Vitali when I get back to the hotel. But what use would he be, really, four thousand miles away? What’s he going to do, call up his buddies in Rome, get a ragtag team of ne’er-do-wells together to rescue the Boss while I sit on my ass on a divan and eat grapes while I wait?

No. Fucking. Way.

Besides, I don’t have any idea at all where Luca might be in this whole damn city, and unless I can give Teo a place to start looking—

I’ve been fiddling with my wedding ring, screwing it around on my finger as though it’s a lucky charm, and then it hits me. It hits me so hard that I let out a strangled laugh and the taxi driver looks at me in the rear-view, wondering if I’m trying to make conversation.

I look quickly out the window, squeezing my eyes shut, my heart beating rapidly.

Our wedding rings. Of course. Luca would have thought of this much sooner. The tracker in my wedding ring has saved me before, led him right to me.

And it goes both ways. Luca has a tracker embedded in his ring, too.

* * *

I throw a handful of euros at the driver when he pulls up at the Vatican, and ignore his surprised, happy, “Grazie!” as I fling open the door. I take off at a run, but with much more purpose now. I get to the hotel and go straight to the stairs, because the elevator is going to take too long. I unlock the door to our supreme suite and hesitate, just for a moment, because what if there’s someone in there waiting for me?

But if they knew where we were staying, they could’ve just come there, rather than pulling off the considerably more difficult feat of kidnapping a Mob Boss from the Colosseum. Because there are a lot of cameras there, and a lot of guards, which means they must have paid someone off—several someones…

I march through the room and into the bedroom, and start rooting around in my bag for my usual smartphone, swearing and raging under my breath. How in the hell Luca didn’t see them coming in the Colosseum, or feel them, with that weird-ass sixth sense he gets…

And then I understand.

He was so busy worrying about me when those lights went out that he wasn’t worrying about himself.

I bend double, anxiety hitting me right in the gut, grabbing at myself until the fear and guilt passes over. My fault. My fault. It beats a tattoo in my brain.

“Get it together,” I hiss at myself. “Maybe it is your fault, but you have a chance to fix it.” I think about Luca telling me he needed to know I had his back, to know he could depend on me in a tight situation, and I grind my teeth together and take a few more deep breaths.

And then I keep looking through my bag for my phone.

When I finally find it, turn it on, and log into the app that tracks his wedding ring, my heart almost stops. He’s close. So close, that for a terrible moment I wonder if he left his ring here for some reason, but then I zoom in and see he’s in-the-vicinity close, but still a few blocks away.

I think for another minute, and then I find Teddy in my contacts, my thumb hovering over the “Call” button. Is this the smartest play? What would Luca do?

Luca would rip Rome apart to find me. But he’d be clever about it, too. And the thing is, if the IFF has been tracking us through Rome, if they’ve been able to pick us up wherever we go except the hotel—and that’s a big if, but I go with it—that means they only have access to specific information about us. And while I didn’t tell Luca about my plans for tonight, I did tell two people.

I told Tara, in a chatty email mostly about our encounter with Róisín, that we were going to the Colosseum for a night tour.

And I texted Teo Vitali, too, as the head of Morelli security, so he’d know where the Boss was tonight and why he wasn’t answering his main phone if anything went down back in New York.

There’s no way Teo has betrayed us. I won’t believe that, not in a million years. But there’s no way my sister has betrayed us, either. Not Tara. Maybe she mentioned something to Róisín, though, if she heard Róisín’s side of our meeting this morning? But if Róisín wanted to betray us, to foil what she saw as our dastardly plans, why give us the rosary?

My phone has gone dark under my thumb, I’ve hesitated for so long. I put it down and dig out Luca’s phone from his bag, which is much easier to find, because Luca is organized. And then, from Luca’s phone, I text Teddy.

I need a friend.

Teo Vitali’s response comes only moments later, a contact card with a Roman address, a password, and then a follow-up text. Everything OK Boss?

All good, I text back. No point tipping our enemies off that I have plans pre-0600 if they are monitoring our communication somehow…or if, despite how much I don’t believe it, Teo’s suddenly turned rat. Either way, the IFF could hardly believe I’d turn up tomorrow unarmed.

What they won’t expect is for me to take matters into my own hands. Not Finch D’Amato, the playboy husband of Don Morelli who can’t protect himself, who needs a whole Mob Family to keep him safe, who hides in his husband’s shadow.

I give a grim, slow smile. Oh, these fuckers might think they know me.

But they’re about to find out how wrong they are.

Chapter Fifty-Three

FINCH

Obtaining a gun and a knife is a surprisingly simple operation, although the contact Teo gave me took some convincing that I was who I said I was. Even after using the password, he looked doubtful. It was only when I told him, in halting Italian (because all my Italian has flown from my mind under stress, and the guy didn’t or wouldn’t speak English), that I was there on behalf of Don Morelli, that he nodded. Then he took me through into a cement-walled backroom, and let me take my pick of the weapons he had to offer.

I took the smallest caliber gun he had, because was most similar to the one Luca has trained me with, and a knife, stubby and squat, but deadly in the right hands. Mine are not the right hands; in fact, if I get to a point where I’m left with no other option than the knife, it’ll be pretty much the end, but I took it just in case I’ll need something to cut ropes or zip ties.

I asked about the location where I saw Luca’s bleeping icon. The guy swipes around on the map on his own phone, zooming in and out of the position I pointed out until I was ready to stick the knife in between his ribs, and then he nodded and said something in rapid Italian.

“Slow down, please,” I begged.

“Cat-a-comb,” he said slowly and deliberately.

“Catacomb?” I grabbed the map back and stared at it. “This signal is coming from a fucking maze under the city?”

And now, in the back of another taxi, I’m checking the Wikipedia entries on Roman catacombs. There are over forty catacombs, and the one in which Luca—or his ring, anyway—is in, is not one of the ones open to the public, and is mostly used by homeless Romans as shelter at night.

When I arrive, I’m actually guided by some of those rough sleepers to the hidden entrance. “No, no,” one says, when I nod my thanks and turn away, making for the entrance.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m forgetting my manners.” I hold out a twenty-euro bill to him, but he slaps my hand away.

“No, no,” he insists, trying to pull me back. “Not in there.” He abandons any attempts to speak English, but his Italian is easy enough to understand. “There are bad people in there.”

I take his hand and push the money back into it. “I understand,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. I’m bad people, too.”

* * *

It might seem obvious, but before I went in, I didn’t realize how creepy it would be to descend into a dank catacomb in the middle of the night with only my phone as a light. I’d been picturing walls of skulls and gates made out of bones, but the reality—rough-hewn limestone worn down over the millennia, and walls so close together in some parts that I have to turn side-on to get through—is somehow worse. All I can do is keep one eye on the blinking signal light on the tracking app, and the other on the path so I don’t stumble, while I listen out for any noise.

Pretty soon, though, the light stops blinking, stays a dull blue color, and a message pops up next to it: Last known location. For a second I panic, until I realize I’ve lost reception on my cell phone. I must be too deep in. But if I just keep going, I should find Luca.

Or his last known location.

The next problem, as I judge I must be getting closer to the coordinates for Luca’s ring, is that the passages begin to branch out into two, sometimes three tunnels. Next to each branch, though, there are phrases in chalk, paint, even cut into the rock walls, and after I manage to translate one or two of them, I realize that they’re directions.

Big open area this way, reads one.

Stinks like piss, reads a response, but stays warm overnight.

Along the way there are empty and broken bottles, piles of cigarettes butts, screwed-up foil balls and old hypodermics, scraps of moldering clothes, newspapers grown wet and clumpy. All in all, it looks like these catacombs are used pretty regularly. But I meet no people along the way, alive or dead. Those bad people must have scared away all shelter-seekers for the night.

More than once I have to backtrack when I hit a dead end. But eventually I think I’m getting closer. I probably haven’t even come that far in terms of distance, but the darkness, the creep factor, and the time it takes me to translate some of the directions scribbled on the rock walls are all slowing me down. Based on the graffiti marks I’m currently following, the area I’m in has not been widely explored. And it doesn’t take long before one dire, chalked prediction—Caved in—is proved right, and I’ve reached another dead end.

The tunnel must be closer to the surface here, with tree roots and coming in from the ceiling. The piled-up rocks that block the way are all pretty small, except for one large marble block at the bottom of them all. When I helplessly check the app again on my phone, even though it won’t update in real time, I spot a cemetery marked on the map, near Last known position.

I have an intrusive vision of bony fingers stretching down towards me, of Death grasping for me to keep me here in this underground chamber of despair, and I have to lean over and slow my breath down.

I’ve failed. I have no idea where I am.

More importantly, I have no idea where Luca is.

And now maybe I’m lost in this maze of passageways and I’ll never find my way out, never have another chance to find Luca…

“Shut up,” I spit at myself, and try to think rationally. Panicking will not help.

Since I’m not moving right now, I turn off the flashlight to conserve phone battery. Somehow the complete darkness is more comforting than seeing the narrow walls, the reaching tree roots, the clumps of dirt and rocks. It’s so dark that I start thinking I can actually see a glow in the darkness, and I blink a few times and rub my eyes to help them adjust.

But I’m not seeing things. There’s definitely a faint light coming from somewhere behind this caved-in part of the tunnel. I take a step to one side, then the other, judging where the light gets brighter, and then all at once, like one of those fuzzy hidden image pictures suddenly coming into focus, I see that there’s a space in the cave-in that a person could squeeze through, if they really wanted to.

If they were crazy enough to do it.

Me? I’m pretty fucking crazy.

I slide through the gap slowly and carefully. The glow is definitely getting brighter. On the other side is more tunnel, but only a short distance, and the end of it is lit up with a yellow light.

And as I shuffle forward, I hear a voice. A low murmur. There is someone—maybe someones—up ahead, and whether it’s the Roman homeless or an Irish asshole, I’m about to find out. The tunnel curves around so it hides me from view, but it opens up abruptly into a larger area. I have to scramble backward again to stay out of sight.

“The fuck was that?” mutters a rough, Irish-accented voice. There’s a silence, and I try to keep even my breathing as quiet as I can. But I’m just about shitting myself. If the guy is talking, who is he talking to? How many of them are there? I can maybe stop one.

If I have time enough to aim, and if they’re not moving.

Or shooting back.

“Rats,” says the same voice, and then sighs. “Just the rats. Maybe they can chew on your toes, eh?”

“They’ll be eating your eyeballs soon enough,” says a cold, threatening voice, and I put my hand out to the wall to steady myself.

It’s Luca.

Luca, and he’s alive.

The only reply to Luca’s comment is an amused chuckle, and then silence descends again. I guess the IFF isn’t all that interested in conversing with their captives. I wait a few minutes more, praying that no rats will actually start swarming by my feet, and then I chance another quick look around the tunnel wall into the open area.

It’s a tomb-like room, lit by a battery-operated lamp set in the middle. It’s not huge, but big enough to accommodate, say, a group of college students who might be looking for somewhere private to party. The walls are covered in faded graffiti. There are more bottles and cans, and even some ancient, faded, fast food wrappers discarded here and there.

And there’s only one IFF asshole that I can see. Standing, pacing, fair-haired. Dressed all in black with his back to me.

One asshole.

And one Luca D’Amato propped up against the wall, legs sticking out straight, ankles bound by zip ties, with his wrists behind him.

The sight of him, the sound of his voice, has galvanized me. He’s there and he’s alive, and he’s staring straight at me. His captor didn’t see me walk right into the lion’s den, but nothing escapes my man’s attention.

Especially not me.

I show my gun hand to him, letting it hover slightly around the corner.

Luca gives a sharp jerk of the head, and I duck back obediently before the asshole turns around again. “When’s your buddy coming back?” Luca asks. “He’s been gone a while.”

Shit. So there’s another one of them. And he’ll be back soon. So I need to sack up and act fast.

“You shut your mouth,” the blond says, “and maybe I’ll think about that drink of water you’ve been asking for. Hm?”

I know then what kind of man he is, this particular asshole: a sadistic fuck who gets off on having power over other people.

Luca says softly, “Maybe my husband’s already taken care of your friend. Maybe you’re next.”

The other man just laughs. “That soft little bunny rabbit of yours? No chance.”

“I have many friends here in Italy.”

There’s a scoffing noise. “And just as many enemies.”

It’s time. Luca is keeping this guy occupied, precisely so I can do what I need to do. It’s time to show the IFF that this soft little bunny rabbit has very sharp teeth.

I take a few seconds to check my gun, make sure the safety is off, that my hand is steady. I move two short steps into the open area, line up the guy in my sights, and fire three times.

Chapter Fifty-Four

LUCA

People underestimate Finch all the time, but they do so at their peril.

I’ve discovered that myself over the years. I made a lot of assumptions about my baby bird when we first met. When we were first married. Even these days, I forget just how ruthless he can be when necessary. But Finch reminds me now as he reappears, gun steady and well-aimed, and lets off three shots.

They would have been perfect, too, if his target hadn’t chosen that exact moment to take a step to the right. The guy keeps moving, stumbling in shock as the explosive noise echoes around the walls, and for a moment I think Finch actually hit him.

But then he scrambles to his feet and bolts.

Finch fires three more shots again, but he isn’t great with moving targets, never has been. And our enemy is already gone, vanished down the black tunnel on the other side. I can hear him running, the noise of his feet stumbling and smacking through the dark. He left his gun behind, and any light. They’ve been very confident, these two agents; one the muscle and one the mind. Brothers by blood as well as oaths, if I can believe their conversation while they still thought I was unconscious.

The muscle went to get food on the blond’s orders a while back. But now the blond could be going to get his brother’s help.

Finch comes forward fast, but his eyes are still focused on where the guy ran off into the dark. “Shit,” I hear him mutter under his breath. “Shit-fuck-shit—”

“Hey,” I interrupt, soft as I can, but he jumps nevertheless, swinging the gun around wildly. “Hey,” I say again, more firmly, and he rushes to me, collapsing to his knees, and drops the gun on the dirty ground.

“Oh, God, Luca.”

“I’m okay.” I let him hug me, keeping watch on the direction the guy—the soon-to-be-dead guy, if I have anything to say about it—ran. I allow Finch a moment of hugging, but then it’s time to move. “Baby bird, don’t leave the gun lying there on the ground like that. Keep it in your hand. Any second now that guy will realize it’s just you, alone.” He lets me go, shivering as the adrenaline starts to really hit him, and picks it up, pointing it back towards the tunnel. “Keep an eye that way, but I need you to look around for a knife or something to cut through these zip ties.”

“I have a knife,” he blurts out. He fumbles said knife out of his thigh pockets and saws through the bonds on my wrists while I keep an eye on both tunnels. I rub my wrists as the restraints come free, and take the knife from him to free my ankles as well.

“Are you okay?” he asks when I’m done. “Baby, are you—”

I grab his shoulders. “I’m fine,” I assure him. “Promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

I make to stand up and Finch tries to assist, though he probably hinders more than helps. My feet and hands have pins and needles, and my head’s still a little sore, but nothing that won’t wear off soon. “I didn’t come around that long ago,” I tell Finch. “Maybe a half-hour.” Finch looks so wild-eyed that I take his face in my hands, focus his attention on me. “Baby bird, listen. We’ll have time to worry later. Right now, we need to—”

There’s someone coming back down the tunnel, running fast, a light flashing against the walls. I push Finch behind me and, just as Muscles reappears, I throw the knife straight at him.

It hits his throat, burying in to the hilt, and he drops like a stone, gargling and choking.

While he’s busy dying, I grab the gun that the blond left behind him, and both Finch and I wait, aiming our weapons steadily at the tunnel, letting the sounds of dying echo around the chamber.

They cease soon enough. The blond doesn’t seem inclined to make a reappearance.

“We’re getting out of here,” I murmur. “Now.”

Finch nods, hard.

“So which way should we go, angel? Back from whence you came, or take our chances and run after the other guy? Eliminate the problem for once and for all?”

“Back my way,” he whispers. “Come on, Luca. I don’t want to mess around in here any longer than we have to. It’s creepy as fuck.”

A large part of me wants to go after the blond, to show him what happens when you try to move against me, against my husband. Send him to hell along with his brother. But…

“Yes, perhaps the way you came would be best,” I agree. I follow Finch, both of us walking backwards towards the tunnel he came out of, and then quickly down it. But I hear no evidence that we’re being followed, and I suspect these two were working light, a tandem effort to help avoid attention from the authorities.

We arrive at a cave-in blocking the way, but Finch shows me how to get past it. It’s a little easier for him, smaller and slighter than I am, but I welcome the feel of every scraping rock and branch as we squeeze through and into the blackness beyond.

All these little discomforts remind me that I am alive.

Once we’re through, I put my hand on his arm and stop him for a moment. “How?”

He knows what I mean. “Our wedding rings.”

I only ever put that tracker in mine to make it seem fair for Finch. I never really thought the app would be any use other than for me finding him.

Finch puts his phone flashlight on, and I let him. It’s not like we need to worry about being spotted. If the blond has taken a direct overground route to the other exit and is waiting for us there, we’ll know it soon enough.

After another ten minutes of careful walking, I murmur, “You came all the way through here alone?”

“Of course,” he says, reaching back to grab my hand and squeezing it before letting go. “You think I would ever let anyone take you from me? No fucking way.”

I’m delighted to be alive, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Finch making his way through these claustrophobic tunnels, with no guarantee that he wouldn’t just come across my corpse. We’re coming to the exit now, and I can see the moonlight spilling in through the crumbling entrance.

I catch Finch by the wrist and try to move him behind me, but he resists. “You got drugged,” he hisses. “Let me go first.”

“Angel, I’m a better shot than you are.”

I can just make out his features in the dull, bleached light, and he looks annoyed. But then he sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you are.”

It’s all moot in the end. There’s no one waiting for us, although there are a few surprised homeless people who watch our emergence. We move quickly towards the sounds of the city again. Along the way I wipe the blond’s gun of my prints and dump it in a public trash can, and instruct Finch to do the same. I considered keeping the weapons; Finch and I already found out the IFF policy on revenge killings after we eliminated Gus and Maggie Donovan. I’m pretty sure that blond is not going to forgive and forget my killing of his brother.

And he seemed the vicious type. I suspect he’s going to make this personal.

But weapons are easy enough to come by, and I don’t want to chance getting stopped with a gun on my person. I’m already planning our next steps, thinking of how to get out of Rome, where to go next. A visit to my brother and his family is completely out of the question, now. But I still have business to deal with before we leave Italy altogether.

I flag down a taxi once we’re back into the busier part of the city. Holding Finch close in the backseat, ignoring the driver completely, I kiss him deeply. “Uccellino, I’m so proud of you,” I murmur afterward. “But we are going to need to talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about?” he asks softly. He grabs my face and kisses me back, hard. “I’ll always have your back, baby. Forever.”

It’s true. Finch showed me tonight, proved it for once and for all. He’s exactly like me: he will not let anyone stand between us, no matter the cost. Without his quick action tonight, things could have been so much worse. It almost scares me.

And it fills me with new levels of respect and reverence for the man I married.

I take up his hand in mine and kiss his wedding ring. “Forever. For always.”

It’s time to move on together.

Chapter Fifty-Five

LUCA

We leave Rome as early as we can, after I buy tickets for a high-speed train north. We don’t talk much about anything that happened overnight until we’re safely in our first-class seats—Finch refused to travel in anything but—and I’m happy enough to have time to process and think. I asked him, as we packed, to explain to me exactly what steps he had taken, and his reasoning behind them, and he gave up all the information readily, succinctly.

I ran it through my mind again and again, in the hotel room, in the taxi to the train, and after we boarded and were waiting to leave. And at the end of all that thinking, I really couldn’t fault anything in his approach.

Refusing to let the enemy dictate the terms of engagement is a classic strategy. He’d been right that they would not expect an attack; he’d been right that they’d underestimate his grit. He’d been right to keep it quiet; Vitali could have pulled together a crew or called in a favor from an extractor to pull me out, but probably not before six a.m. the next morning, and not without significant damage to my own reputation, which I can ill afford right now. Appearing weak is the one thing I have to avoid, and Finch is smart. He understood that.

No. The person who fucked up here is me.

I’m the one who missed the signs. I was tunnel-visioned, hyper-focused, worrying about the wrong things. It could have gotten me killed—or worse, gotten Finch killed. Because this IFF plan of luring Finch into handing himself over in exchange for me was never going to end well for either of us.

Once the train is beyond metropolitan Rome and speeding through the countryside, I get up to ostensibly use the restroom, but instead take the opportunity to eyeball our fellow passengers. None seem familiar. And it’s not even dawn yet, so there are few of them, and no one is sitting near to Finch and me. So when I get back to the seat, I take his hand in mine, and wait until he looks at me.

“Don’t do that,” he says, before I can start to speak.

“Do what?”

“Do that serious, ‘We have to talk’ expression. I told you last night, there’s nothing to talk about.”

The soothing rhythm of the train is lulling him. His eyes are heavy, and exhaustion has made him pale. I lower my voice and say: “You could have been killed.”

He doesn’t look away from me. “But I wasn’t.”

“Angel—”

“Luca,” he says firmly. In his eyes I see the same hard determination that I saw last night. “What happened at Innisfree with Maggie, it shook me up. I had to do a lot of processing. But we have been through a lot of shit in our time together. Chicago, for example. And the things that happened on both our previous honeymoons. Last night was just another incident as far as I’m concerned. Our enemies will always keep coming for us, but I plan to be ready for them.”

He says it all in a whisper, but it’s still fierce.

And it’s all true, too. I can’t keep him completely safe from danger, and it would be even more dangerous to send him somewhere away from me.

All I can do is train him…and trust him.

“Okay,” I tell him at last. “Okay, baby bird. When we get back to New York, the first thing we’re going to do is get you some moving target practice. But you listen to me: I don’t want you running around saving me unless you absolutely have to, you hear me? That is not the first option; it’s the last. I’m telling you this not just as your husband, but because your actions have implications for—for the Family business. Understand?”

His eyes travel over my face, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Eventually, a slow smile dawns on his lips and he leans into me. “Yes, Don Morelli,” he says in my ear. “I understand.”

For a moment, I consider taking him into the train restroom and having very awkward, uncomfortable sex with him in that tiny room. It’s exactly what he wanted me to think about, judging by the flirtatious flutter of lashes he gives me.

“Wait until we get where we’re going,” I tell him, grabbing his traveling hand before he can start unbuttoning my pants.

He starts to pout, but it morphs into speculation. “Where exactly are we going, husband?”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. You really must be tired.”

He frowns. “We can’t possibly chance visiting Cee and Frank after last night.”

“Absolutely not,” I agree. “But, as you know, I have business in Venice. It seemed like the opportune time to go, and it’s a long way from Rome.”

“Venice.” He smiles. “Perfect.”

He curls up next to me and I pull him close, press my nose into his hair and breathe him in.

“I really am very proud of you, baby bird,” I whisper a few minutes later, but he’s already asleep in my arms.

* * *

When we arrive in Venice, the workday is only just starting, and so we breakfast at a café while I wait for Vitali to organize access to our accommodation. He was still awake when I called, and sounded highly relieved to hear from me.

“All went okay with the contact?” he asked.

“Very okay.” I knew he was wondering about details, but there was no need to give them. Finch did what he did, and no one outside our marriage needed to know about it. Eventually I plan to shout my husband’s praises to the skies, let everyone out there know that he’s just as dangerous to cross as I am, but while we’re in Venice, it suits me better for people to continue underestimating him.

“Well, alright, then,” Vitali had said at last. “Anything else you need?”

I gave him a number of instructions: accommodation arrangements, finding an opportunity for me to approach La Contessa, and finally, a sizable donation to a particular Florentine art restoration company. Vitali expressed no surprise at all, even at the philanthropic gesture. He was getting more and more like Angelo Messina by the day. At the end I added, “And get some sleep after that. It must be the middle of the night there.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “After that last text, Boss, I couldn’t sleep. Glad to hear it all worked out.”

“These things always do. How are things there?”

“Well, nothing we can’t handle, Boss. Al Vollero’s been going around shooting his mouth off. He’s lit a few fuses, if you know what I mean.”

“Has he? Alright. We’ll deal with that situation on my return. Now listen, Vitali—give us three days free and clear in Venice, but then spread it around a little, which town we’re in. Understand?”

“Baiting a hook, Boss?”

“Something like that.”

“Will do.”

Finch, who did not have the luxury of a few hours of pharmaceutical unconsciousness overnight like I did, has been staring into his coffee with fixed eyes for the last few minutes. But when I put my hand on his, he looks up with a troubled expression.

“You want that asshole from the catacombs to find us?”

“Eventually. I have something bubbling in the back of my mind.” Finch shakes his head, frustrated. “What is it?” I ask at once, my hand tensing on his.

“It’s Teo,” he says. “I mean, it might be Teo.” He rubs a fist in his eye like a sleepy child. “Christ, I’m tired. What I mean is, someone has to be tipping off the IFF about where we’re going. Last night, while I was trying to think what to do, I realized I’d only told two people about the Colosseum. Teo was one. Tara was the other.”

I nod and then I sip my espresso, and look around the piazza. It’s touristy; I can’t wait to get out of here and experience the real Venice.

“Luca?”

“Well, you’re right. I agree there seems to be a mole somewhere, baby bird. It’s been on my mind.”

“And you think I’ve narrowed it down some?” He sounds bitter. Unhappy. “Because it can’t be Vollero. He didn’t know where we were.”

“Vitali’s the only one who knows where we are right now, so I guess we’ll find out fast if it is him. But do you really believe he’d betray us? Or, perhaps more importantly, that he’d betray that priest friend of yours? The fallout from something like that would destroy his relationship, and he would know it, too.”

Finch swallows and rubs a hand across his eyes. “So you’re saying it’s Tara?”

“I’m saying there are ways to intercept electronic communications, and that becoming suspicious of our closest allies will only lead to paranoia and poor decisions.” I drain my espresso and set the cup down. “Trust me,” I add with feeling. “I’ve been there.”

Finch laughs at that. It’s only a shadow of his usual loud, carefree laugh, the one I love to hear, but given the night we’ve had, it still fills me with gladness. “Okay,” he says. “Good point.” He yawns before adding, “And Aidan’s not a priest, and you damn well know it.”

I get a confirmation text from Vitali, and pat Finch’s hand. “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get you into bed.”

“Mm. You know I’m always up for it.”

“Sleep,” I tell him, pulling him up from his seat, “not sex. You had a big adventure last night, baby bird. You deserve to rest.”

But after we pick up the key and reach our Venetian accommodation, Finch gets a second wind. “Holy shit,” he breathes, after I wave him into the palazzo before me. “Are you serious? I thought we were keeping our heads down.”

“We can keep our heads down and enjoy what Venice has to offer. Besides, this is a Morelli property. It has everything we need as far as protection and security, as well as being beautiful.”

Before Finch, I could put up with a lot. I used to live in a shitty one-room on the outskirts of Manhattan, with only occasionally-working AC and a never-working elevator. Finch was the one who started to show me what luxury really meant—and Tino, through his gift of our honeymoon on his yacht, and then later the townhouse.

Spending even a short amount of time in that first Roman hotel room showed me that I’ve changed since those days. I’m not as bad as Finch, who acts like he might die if he doesn’t get enough legroom on a plane, but I’m not willing to suffer when I don’t have to, either.

Palazzo delle Vigne used to belong to an old and wealthy Venetian family. They sold it quietly to Tino Morelli five decades ago, and it stands unoccupied, though weekly cleaners and a housekeeper have been kept in permanent employ. Walking through its lavish rooms, I feel as though it has been waiting for us all these years, impatient for our arrival. Now that we’re here, it unfurls its pleasures to us without shame.

The baroque style of the interior design would be overwhelming anywhere in America, but here in Venice, in a side waterway just off the Grand Canal, it is exquisite. The walls and plasterwork showcase trailing vines and clusters of plump purple grapes, and the original eighteenth-century frescoed ceilings were painted by renowned Venetian artists. The antique furniture is elegant, opulent; the master bedroom is dominated by a sumptuous royal-blue and gold canopied bed that immediately makes me want to see Finch naked in its sheets.

But both of us are too tired, I decide. I do put Finch to bed in those silken sheets after his shower, kissing his forehead carefully as he closes his eyes, and then I take a long, indulgent bath, and I consider the last twenty-four hours and the next twenty-four to come. Once the water is growing tepid, I drag myself to bed as well, wrap my arms around my husband, and let myself give in to slumber.

* * *

We wake together late in the afternoon, and, without the need for words, Finch asks for what he needs. We’re both too lazy for anything gymnastic, and settle for unhurried, dreamy, simultaneous hand-jobs. Mine ends in a throbbing, sweet orgasm that leaves me floating blissfully as it reverberates through me.

“Nice,” I sigh as it ebbs away, leaving pure relaxation in its wake.

“Nice?” Finch snorts, and then yawns. “Normally I would take that as an insult…or a challenge. But yeah. It was nice. I guess sex doesn’t always have to be, you know. Soul-shaking.”

“Wow,” I snort. “Insult? Or challenge?”

We both start chuckling, and Finch flops around on the bed, puts his arms around me. He’s sweaty and sticky with cum. I shuffle a little to get my arms around him, too, and we lie there slowly gluing together, too spent to care.

“What next?” Finch mumbles. “I mean, food, first, obviously. Then what?”

“We’ll dine somewhere close by, then come back here to enjoy each other again. Tomorrow, Vitali should send through any intel he has on La Contessa’s movements for the next few days.”

“You think you can convince her to do business with the Morellis?”

“I can only try. If she disagrees…well, we have other options open to us.” The photographs from Tino’s cache of La Contessa in conversation with a Clemenza Family member would be of great interest to the Italian anti-Mafia agencies. I’ve taken them, and the negatives, along with us to Italy. But I’d rather not resort to blackmail if it can be avoided.

Finch asks no more about it that night—and normally, in deference to our sharply demarcated roles, I would make my own plans for contacting her and leave Finch out of it altogether. But since she’s a woman who occupies a class several rungs above my own, and I’ll need Finch’s help with at least part of my plan.

And after the courage and cleverness he showed last night, I find myself willing to give into his demands. He’s a D’Amato by marriage and a Donovan by birth, but he also has a Morelli inheritance, and I can’t stand in the way of that. It would be foolish to try, because Finch always gets what he wants—one way or the other.

But my plans for La Contessa and the IFF could mean putting Finch in danger…and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.

Chapter Fifty-Six

FINCH

Four Days Later

There is nothing I enjoy looking at more than an Italian man in a suit, unless that man is specifically my husband and the suit is specifically Armani. As much as I tease him about it, Luciano D’Amato really was put on this earth to wear Giorgio’s creations. A match made in heaven—or maybe hell.

Either way, Luca in black-tie Armani makes my knees weak.

“You like it?” he asks, looking himself over in the mirror.

The tux is brand new; we picked it up after alterations just this morning. I come up behind him and look at his reflection. It gives me the advantage of being able to check him out from both back and front. “Baby, if we didn’t have somewhere to be, I’d insist that we fuck immediately.”

“You like it,” he confirms with a smirk. “Alright. As long as you think I’ll pass muster with La Contessa as well.”

Tonight we are attending the opening night of the season at Teatro La Fenice, the Venetian opera house, where Luca is hoping to make first contact with La Contessa. She’s a great patron of the arts in Venice, and Luca hopes that showing himself in a similar light might pique her interest.

I watch Luca straighten his bow tie for the fifth time and then reach around him to do it myself. The thing about Luca these days is that he’s not just good-looking. Of course he’s gorgeous, but he’s been that his whole life. These days, those surface-level, devastatingly-handsome features are buoyed by his self-confidence, his self-control, his self-belief. They’re all qualities that make him completely irresistible to me. I want him more these days than I ever did at the start, and I would have cut off a limb for him at the start.

These days I’d crush empires, raze worlds, unmake universes. And I think he knows it now, after the catacombs incident.

Luca reminds me of all those old Mob Bosses who used to visit my Pops back in the day, the ones dripping with power, who could command and control with the slightest flick of a finger. And I’m not the only one who feels that pull. Luca holds as much sway over New York as any of those vintage Bosses did. He has come into his kingdom.

More importantly, he plans to hold onto that kingdom. To protect it. No matter what.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks my reflection, amused.

I’m staring all dewy-eyed at him. But why shouldn’t I? He’s my husband and I love him and I’m proud of him. “I’m thinking that La Contessa will be falling over herself to do business with you.”

“Ah, baby bird, I’m afraid you might be biased.” He whirls around from the mirror to sweep me into his arms.

“Biased or not, I’m sure you’ll break more than one heart tonight.”

“Venice is making you romantic,” he says, and then kisses me gently. “I like it. But I’m still very sure I won’t be able to pass in high society, so I’ll be relying on you to supply the charm and the manners, as always.”

“I gotcha covered,” I assure him, although the truth is, I’m not sure if I’ll pass in Venetian society circles. I’m hoping our status as Americans will give us some leeway. I haven’t dealt much with the aristocracy before. Although maybe she’s not a real countess; maybe that’s just a cool title she uses.

Maybe.

Fingers crossed on one hand, I let Luca take me by the other and lead me down to our waiting speedboat taxi at our private dock on the canal.

Venice is really fucking cool.

* * *

I’m not really what you’d call an opera fan, but you’d have to be a Philistine indeed not to appreciate the atmosphere at Teatro la Fenice, the leading Venetian opera house, let alone not be moved by the sheer beauty of the building. The facade is in keeping with the surrounds—simple, discreet, the purpose stated by a minimalist banner hanging from the top, declaring the coming season’s operas: Faust, Madama Butterfly, and a whole lot more I’ve never even heard of before.

This opera house has burned down in 1774, 1836 and 1996 and I feel a strange kinship with it when I think of our townhouse. But the aptly-named La Fenice—the Phoenix—has been rebuilt each time with loving attention to detail. We’re guided by one of the theater valets to a private box, and I lean forward over the balcony to take in the feast of gilt-framed frescos, the plush red velvet seats and curtains, and the warm glow of the lamps.

Luca tugs me back from the edge. “Don’t give them a clear shot, baby bird.”

“What?” I turn to him, startled. “Do you think—”

“I think there are always people looking to do us harm. No point making it easier for them.”

I settle back into my chair, chastened. “Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in a theater,” I say after a moment.

Luca sighs and looks at his program. “Let’s change the topic. Have you seen this one before?”

“Antony and Cleopatra? Not the opera. I’ve seen The Magic Flute three times, and not by choice. You?”

“I’ve never been to the opera before.”

Sometimes I forget that Luca and I had very different upbringings. “Well, The Magic Flute sure would be a better introduction for someone who hasn’t seen an opera before.”

Luca doesn’t reply. When I glance over at him, his eyes are scanning the stalls and boxes, moving fast until they backtrack and stop. I look where he’s looking. “Always business with you, honey, isn’t it?”

“Not always. But tonight, yes.”

Opposite us, on a lower level, is a woman who would be hard to miss. It must be La Contessa. Seated in the Palco Reale, the Royal Box, even from a distance she looks lovely and vital, laughing in the middle of her group of tuxedoed men, and when I bring my opera glasses up to my face, her face matches the close-up cropped photograph that Luca has been carrying around these last few days as we organized everything for tonight.

But I notice something else about her companions, too. “Either she has a harem of dudes, or those are her bodyguards,” I mutter to Luca.

“Well done,” he says approvingly. “Yes. Those are bodyguards, trying hard not to look like bodyguards. How did you recognize them?”

I study them again, trying to figure out my own thought processes. “She’s a very beautiful and charming woman, and she seems like she’s having a very interesting conversation, but none of them are looking at her. Except the one in the middle.”

“Yes,” Luca muses. “What do you think of him?”

The one in the middle is a sylph-like creature with full lips and bedroom eyes. His gleaming black hair curls in ringlets around his neck, and the deep burgundy suit he wears is closely tailored to his slim body. Around his neck is a ruff, an actual ruff, giving him a Renaissance air. No plain tux for this guy.

“He’s either a vampire or a pampered cat in human form.”

Luca gives a soft laugh. “He reminds me a little of you.”

“What? I look nothing like him.”

“No,” Luca agrees, as though that settles the conversation. “And La Contessa?”

I go back to studying the woman. She is startlingly vivacious, the black of her silk gown set off by the diamonds at her throat, ears and wrists, her large dark eyes expressive even from a distance, and captivating when I raise my opera glasses again to get a closer look. She’s just real damn nice to look at, like a work of art.

But the more I stare, the more I wonder. There’s a weariness underlying that vivacity, a watchfulness to her. She’s surrounded by bodyguards—all of them packing heat, from what I can tell—but every so often she turns her head suddenly to look out across the room herself, as though she doesn’t trust even her presumably highly-paid and highly-trained guards to spot every sign of trouble.

In fact, she looks straight at me while I’m looking at her, her velvet eyes narrowing, and I immediately look away, turning my spyglass to the next box along.

“For someone in prime position, she doesn’t seem to want to be looked at,” I murmur.

“She carries many cares with her.”

Luca’s odd response is enough to make me wonder exactly what cares and worries he carries with him day to day.

“You think she made us?” I ask, concerned now that I might have been staring a little too long. I drop the glasses and pretend to read my own program.

“I think she’s aware of us.”

That doesn’t sound promising. But before I can say anything, the house lights dim three times, then go dark. The chattering crowd falls silent, and the curtain on stage begins to rise. The stage lights come up, but I can’t help glancing back toward the Royal Box.

Even over the distance I can see that La Contessa is still looking straight back at me.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

FINCH

“I’m not sure I’m an opera buff,” Luca says doubtfully after we’ve made our way to the bar at intermission. He clapped politely at the curtain, but he had to stifle yawns all the way through.

“Yeah, like I said, The Magic Flute would have been better to start with. Opera’s an acquired taste,” I tell him. “Like olives.”

“I love olives,” he points out.

“You want one in a martini, baby?” I raise my finger to get the attention of the bartender.

“I do not. I’ll have water, though, if you are.”

“We’ll have a large bottle of San Pellegrino and two glasses,” I tell the bartender in my best Italian.

“At once, sir,” he says back in English. I guess my best Italian is still not going to fool any actual Italian.

We take our drinks over to one of the standing tables in a corner of the bar, which smells heavily of cigarettes and perfume in the wake of the crowd, and look at each other.

“So what now?” I ask. “Is it dangerous to go back in? If they know who we are, I mean.”

“I’m not sure if they’re the issue,” Luca says.

“What do you mean?”

“While we might be tailing La Contessa, someone else has been tailing us.” He lifts his glass, which I’ve just filled, and clinks it against mine. “Cin cin.”

I can’t return the toast. “What the hell do you mean? Is it—”

“I mean that same persistent young man who got the jump on me at the Colosseum is here tonight at the opera. I saw him down in the stalls.”

Luca looks perfectly calm, but I have to ask. “You’re—you’re sure? You’re not just, you know, seeing things?”

He turns his attention from the bar entrance back to me. “I’m quite sure, angel.” He tilts his head to one side. “You don’t believe me?”

A few months back, during the heights of his paranoia, I might not have. But I would also have been wrong then, as it turns out. Because we were attacked. And—as much as I like Nick Fontana—he was lying to us, like Luca kept insisting at the time. And we were being followed in Rome, just as Luca said. After what happened there, I’d rather not take any chances, even if my husband is hallucinating.

But I don’t think he’s hallucinating, which is even worse.

“Of course I believe you,” I tell him. “So we retreat for tonight, back to the palazzo?”

He sighs. “I had the most delicious fantasy of you on your knees for me during the second half, keeping me on edge up until the climactic scene, and then letting me blow down your throat right when the soprano hit the high note.”

“Holy fuck. We can do that.”

He grins. “My desire to keep us alive is slightly stronger than my desire to come in your mouth in public. No; we’ll have to leave that for another time.”

Nervously, I crane my head towards the lobby, but it’s empty now. Everyone’s gone back into the theater proper. “If he wants to get rid of us, why not just, you know, start shooting?”

“Because he wants to make it personal, baby bird. He wants to avenge his brother. He wants to look at me close up when he kills me, to watch the spark leaving me.” I let that pleasant thought trickle down my spine while Luca drains his glass, and then takes my hand. “Let’s see if this bartender can help us.”

We make our way back over to the bar and Luca asks, in Italian, “Is there a way to exit out canal-side from here?”

The bartender obviously thinks better of Luca’s Italian, because he responds in the same. “Not during the performance, sir. You’ll have to go out the front.”

Luca pulls a few euro bills out of his inside jacket pocket, placing them on the bar, and smiles. “Are you sure?”

The barman glances at the cash, does a double take, and puts down the glasses he’s clearing to wipe his hands on a dishtowel.

He takes the money, pockets it, and then comes out from behind the bar. “Follow me.”

The back stairs of La Fenice lead through the now-darkened memorabilia section, with several portraits of Maria Callas, and descriptions of the three major fires the opera house has suffered over the years.

“The phoenix lived up to its name,” I murmur to Luca, stopping to look at one of the photographs from the 1996 devastation.

“Please, signore,” the bartender says anxiously, coming back to hurry us along. “I cannot be away too long.”

And then we both hear it—footsteps following coming closer. The bartender beckons us nervously, standing at the top of a set of enclosed, narrow stairs.

“It’s just down this staircase?” Luca asks the bartender, who nods. “Do I need a key?”

“No, it can be pushed open from the inside, but you cannot re-enter.”

“Then go. We’ll make our own way.”

“But—”

“Go,” Luca says softly. “And take a different route if you don’t want trouble.”

The bartender’s mouth drops open and he backs away, hurrying off in a different direction.

“Come on,” Luca says, seizing my hand.

I go with him, but I can’t help throwing a look over my shoulder to try to catch sight of our pursuer. “We’re running?” I say, as we do, indeed, run down the stairs to the door at the bottom. Luca shoves at the bar across the middle and it opens to the outside just like our brief friend said it would.

“What would you rather do?” Luca asks, shoving it shut behind me, and looking left and right.

My heartbeat has been speeding up ever since we heard those footsteps, and at first I assumed it must be fear. But it’s not.

It’s excitement.

“Fight?” I suggest. “Two of us, one of him.”

“It would be the height of bad manners to shed blood at the opera,” Luca says reprovingly, as he takes off to the left, around the corner. “I assume,” he throws back over his shoulder.

“You assume correctly, although it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.” I trot with him around the corner. It takes us right up to the canal’s edge, but there are no handy gondolas or motorboats to jump into. It’s too early for the water taxis to be arriving to ferry patrons away from the opera.

“Come on,” Luca says, grabbing my hand. We run on to the little bridge just ahead, and through to the other side. There’s a small alley there, and Luca stops abruptly, pulling me into it when I try to keep going. “Wait,” he murmurs, standing in front of me in the protective manner I recognize from all my bodyguards. We’re deep in the shadows, but we still have a partial view of where we just came from, back over the bridge.

I hear them again: the footsteps, hurrying along, then slowing cautiously as they approach the corner we just came around ourselves. We have a perfect view of the corner.

What if whoever’s coming has a perfect view of us, too? “Luca, maybe we should—”

“Wait.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

FINCH

A figure comes around the corner, shadowed by the low roof of the portico, and stops dead, staring straight at us. It’s the IFF guy. It’s definitely him; his shadowy figure looks exactly the same as it did in the catacombs.

I tense to run or duck, my hand squeezing Luca’s so tight that he might lose a finger, but then our stalker looks the other way. I hear a soft curse carrying across the water. He strolls a little further down to stop in a patch of moonlight, and unbuttons his jacket.

For a very brief moment I feel Luca’s hand squeeze back at mine, but then the man takes out a packet of cigarettes. He takes his time shaking one out, then reaches into his inside pocket once more—only to take out a lighter.

With a soft snick, a glowing yellow flame lights up his face, and he seems to look right at us for a moment before he touches it to the end of his cigarette. Then he leans against the railing and begins to smoke, casually, calmly, all the while looking down at the water of the canal.

Luca begins to push me further down the alley, a finger to his lips to make sure I step carefully. Once we’re through, we find a few more side streets and alleys, until Luca judges we’re far enough away to start running without being overheard.

I run with him, but there’s no panic in our pace; it’s steady, leisurely, a matter of putting distance between us and the opera house. We hit a wider street and slow even further to a fast walk.

All the while I let Luca pull me along with him while he looks this way and that, until he finally makes for a very dark, very narrow alleyway. He bundles me into it, then leans up against the wall, face twisted towards the brighter street as he listens out for our stalker again. We stay like that for a long time, and I’m so damn proud of myself for keeping quiet and not asking any questions that I resolve to make Luca praise me for it later, too.

Eventually, he peels himself off the wall and beckons me back into the street. It’s deserted; we’ve come a ways from the touristy areas, which worries me a little. This is the kind of street where a vengeance-seeking Irishman might be able to get up close and personal in his killing.

But it doesn’t worry me quite as much as it should, somehow. The way my heart is beating is closer to elation than terror. Luca takes my hand again as we walk quickly through streets, taking corners here and there randomly as we head in the general direction of our palazzo. After a few minutes, he actually begins to swing our arms and gives a chuckle.

“Well, well,” he says. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Honestly? Yeah. It kinda was.”

He raises an eyebrow at my response. Then he glances around us again, but this time there’s an air of playfulness to it—and he pulls me into a doorway, keeping my face in the shadows, and kisses me deeply and soundly.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks me afterward.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve got a notion,” I gasp out, making him chuckle again. “But Luca—how did he know we’d be there tonight?”

“He knew because someone got word to him that we were in Venice, and he followed the money trail we left behind us. Splashing all that cash around like we have been, it gets attention. So now we can be sure—there’s a mole somewhere. But it’s not Vitali.” He leans over me, his hand planted on the wooden door next to my head, smiling down at me. He even leans in to rub his nose against mine.

“How do you know that?” I ask doggedly.

“Because if the IFF knew where we were staying, which Vitali does, they’d hit us there.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “I would. Safer. No, he was just trying to get a lock on us tonight. Didn’t you notice he wasn’t carrying?”

“No?”

“When he opened his jacket to take out the cigarettes. Come on, baby bird, you need to notice these things more than you do.”

I think about that for a second, and then slide a hand inside his jacket. “You’re not carrying either, baby. You don’t think it would have been a little reckless to try approaching La Contessa, with all her bodyguards, while you were unarmed?”

“I think it would have been reckless to try it armed,” he says, running a thumb over my lower lip. “Reckless and obvious. Those bodyguards would pick it a mile off. And anyway, I was hoping La Contessa would see that I meant her no harm if I approached the front gates, so to speak, rather than cornering her. You don’t strap on a bomb before you go to peace talks.”

While he’s been talking, his hands have been exploring, carding through my hair, sliding around the back of my neck, the other moving further down, inside my jacket, pressing against my chest. He must be able to feel my heart, strong and fast.

He leans in very close to brush his lips over mine, and I think about that Roman alley, not so dissimilar to this deserted Venetian street, and my body starts to respond hopefully. His palm, stroking down my body, cups my hard-on and gives a light squeeze. “Oh, angel,” he breathes. “You really are perfect for me.”

“And you for me,” I tell him, pressing into his hand, lifting up my mouth for more kisses.

He indulges me, but only for a moment. “We don’t have time for this,” he sighs regretfully. “Not here and now. We should get back to safety.”

I quietly grumble my frustration, but hey, I’m in no hurry to die, either. Not these days. “Back to the palazzo?” I suggest. “And we can continue this there?”

“The perfect ending to a perfect evening,” he agrees.

I tuck that little tidbit away until we’re safely back in the palazzo with all the alarms set. I’ve been up to our rooms to shower and then I dress in the old gold satin and brocade pajamas I bought here in Venice. The palazzo feels like the right place for them, and when I pull on the matching robe, I can’t help but admire myself in the mirror.

I should be the most tempting morsel in this whole watery town. But Luca is nowhere to be found. I have to go all the way downstairs again to find him, holed up in the living room, working on his phone.

I sneak up behind him and then jump forward with a “Rah!”, grabbing his shoulders.

He just reaches up to pat my hand absentmindedly. “Feel better after your shower, baby bird?”

Now that I think about it, sneaking up on a Mob Boss probably wasn’t my best idea ever. Still— “How’d you know I was there?” I come around his chair and throw myself across the love seat opposite him, one leg hooked over the arm.

“Those pajamas are lovely, but noisy. You make a sort of—” He holds up his fingers, rubbing them together. “—shushing noise when you walk.”

At least he noticed the damn pajamas. I ask the question I’ve been mulling over since our necking session in a Venetian doorway. “Was it the perfect evening?”

“Hm?” Luca is finished on his phone, and tosses it aside. He comes over to look down at me, lean over me on the love seat, trace a finger down the shirt collar of my pajamas.

“You said, back there on the street—the perfect ending to the perfect evening.”

But he’s already busy undressing me, impatiently trying to get down to my skin as fast as he can right here in the drawing room. “Did I?”

I take his hands in mine to make him focus on the conversation. “You did. But we didn’t achieve anything we set out to achieve. So was it really perfect?”

Luca’s eyes are a much deeper blue in the mellow golden lights of our Venetian palazzo. They shine like sapphires as he looks down at me, frees his hands, and caresses my nipples under the silk of my pajama shirt until they stand out against the fabric, begging for further attention. “Yes, it was perfect, baby bird,” he says, admiring his handiwork. “We’ve come to La Contessa’s notice, even if we didn’t have a chance to speak with her. We know our enemy is in Venice. And I…”

“You what?”

“I have been reminded, once again, how lucky I am to have you by my side.” He pulls me to my feet, and I let him slide his arms around me. He gives a happy sigh. “Tonight, I felt young again.”

“You’re not old, baby,” I point out, laughing.

“No. But in my position now…” He gives a half-shrug. “So much of it is strategy. Diplomacy. Tactics. I’d forgotten about the thrill that comes with action. When I was younger, right around when I met you, I enjoyed the danger. I enjoyed all those near-misses, the close calls, the death threats. I was more reckless back then. It gave me a rush, knowing that I’d escaped my fate once more.” He scrunches up his nose. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“I get it,” I say, my sincerity making him look more closely at me. “I know what you mean. I felt—still feel, sometimes—the same way.”

The feeling of being most alive when my life is under threat. And I know, too, that sense of escape—from fate, as Luca calls it.

But I call it Death.

Suddenly I want nothing more than to show fate, Death, all our earthly enemies, that they can’t have us. Not yet. Not tonight.

“Come to bed,” I say. “I want you to fuck the living daylights out of me.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

LUCA

The gold of Finch’s pajamas echoes the gold of the brocade canopy over our enormous bed, and when I lay him out against the deep blue sheets, he looks exactly like a Renaissance masterpiece, a squirming feast for the eyes of sumptuous color and metallic sheen. I’d like to paint him, or at least photograph him, but I settle for letting my gaze travel over him, fixing the memory in my mind.

Finch allows it until impatience drags his fingers up to the buttons of his pajama shirt. “Come on,” he says, his voice low and needy as he undresses for me. “I want you, Luca. Come on.”

I sit next to him, sweeping aside the silk of his clothes, helping him pull them all off until I have his flesh under my hands, warm and soft, his summer tan still glowing. “Beautiful,” I tell him, caressing him in long, languid strokes. The air in our Venetian palazzo is warmed with central heating, but Finch still speckles with goosebumps in the wake of my hands, his flushed nipples standing out, his cock growing plump and damp-tipped the longer I make him wait.

He reaches out to touch me, and I let him cup my face, nuzzling my mouth into his palm. I want to tell him how precious he is to me, how much more precious than anything else I have, but words seem trite. Useless.

I pull off my own clothes hastily, then lie down with him so I can tangle his legs up in mine and kiss him. He acts coy, pulling his mouth from mine each time I try to deepen the kiss, his wet lips gliding away from mine, until I slow down and coax his cooperation. It’s not the first time he’s played the coquette with me, but tonight his fluttering lips and lashes, seductive glances, tentative touches—they all combine until I’m aching for him.

But I want to extend our bliss as long as possible. These last few days have reminded me that there are no guarantees in this world. I should never take Finch for granted, or our love, or our pleasure. So I let him tease me, let my own imagination tantalize me until I can take no more.

“I want to taste you,” I murmur as his tongue flits in and out of my mouth.

He looks down between us, drawing my attention as he strokes his cock once or twice, rolling it over his belly, wiping up the inevitable spill that’s already flowed out of him. He holds his hand up to his own lips and wipes his palm over them, then allows me to devour the flavor from his mouth with hard, feverish kisses.

“Delicious,” I say, after I’ve sucked every fragment from his mouth. “But that’s not quite what I meant. Turn over, uccellino.”

He spins so fast that the canopy shakes above us, and I grin as I slide down the bed and kneel between his legs. “Up,” I say, patting at his round little cheeks, and he obediently thrusts his ass higher. He shudders at the first delicate brush of my fingers across the small of his back, and then quivers again each time I caress him.

“Are you cold, baby bird? I’ll warm you up.”

It’s the shock of my hand slapping down on his ass rather than the pain that makes him buck. I don’t want him in pain tonight, not like in that Roman alley, where the pain was the point—for both of us. No, this is just to pink him up a little, to build anticipation for him, and because I think his ass looks pretty with a little color in the cheeks. I spank him lightly, all over, until he’s squirming, moaning, until his skin feels like it’s on fire, glowing hot for me.

I grab his red cheeks in each hand, spread them, and blow across his sweet little hole. I wait long enough, just watching, that his asshole starts to twitch involuntarily, and then I spit on it, watch it squeeze shut. “Come on, now,” I purr. “You can’t play bashful with me, baby bird. I know how much you love my tongue inside you.”

He arcs his hips even higher, and when I look down the bed at his face, his head is at an angle, eyes on me, glazed with longing. I let him watch me lick my thumb, but when I swipe the wet pad of it across his hole, massaging the furrows of his flesh, he buries his face back in the pillow. The shy act only makes me want him more, and I lean in to follow the path of my thumb with my tongue in a soft, slippery, succulent trail.

He pushes against my face, seeking more. I flick my tongue up and down his crack until I’m tired of teasing. When I stab the pointed tip of my tongue at his ring, he lets out a long, encouraging moan, and I drive into his hot hole, spreading his cheeks even wider as I go. I tongue-fuck him until I think my jaw might cramp, until he’s wailing, his dick dribbling a slick, gluey mess under his belly, and then I keep him on edge with wet tongue-lashes from his balls to the base of his spine.

He’s so wet, his asshole so hungry and puffy, that I almost think I could dive in without lube, but I’m not skimping on that this time. I want this ride to be smooth as silk. Finch objects when I take my tongue out of him, but I replace it almost right away with my fingers, soaked with lube, delving deeper into him. The sigh he gives almost sounds relieved, until I find his most sensitive place and graze my fingers across it. He goes rigid, as though the slightest movement would be too much for him. He’s always been sensitive inside, wildly responsive when my cock drags across his prostate. Sometimes he’ll come just from me fucking him at the right angle.

“You’ve made such a mess on these sheets,” I murmur. “All that cream churning away inside you, just dying to spill out. You’re full up with it.” He only whimpers in response, still frozen in place, but when I press down with my fingers, it forces a gasp out of him. “Let me help you, angel.”

He stammers out a few vowels, but I’ve already begun massaging him, undulating my fingers around the sides of his gland, milking him languidly, deliberately, intimately. He manages to gasp out my name, but not much more. I grab him by the hip and hike him up higher, to get a better look at the effect. His dick is still leaking, but as I work him, the thin, clear fluid turns opalescent, the drizzle becomes a stream, and on either side of me, Finch’s feet begin to curl.

I whisper endearments, half Italian, half English, and his whole body begins to shake, vibrating on my fingers. “So sweet to watch you like this, uccellino,” I murmur affectionately. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

I get only a moan in reply.

“Body and soul?”

“Y-yes,” he chokes out. He tenses, his ass clamping around my fingers, and sucks in a deep breath as then holds it as his cock pulses, splashing out long pearly strings, until he lets the breath back out and begins panting wildly.

I withdraw my fingers and give his butt a patronizing little pat. “You just wait there a minute. I wanna wash up.” The truth is, I’m so hard for him that if I put my dick in him now, I’d explode. But Finch is so far gone, still tumbling through the aftershocks, that I don’t even know if he notices when I leave the bed.

I duck into the bathroom and wash my face. When I raise my head and look at myself in the mirror, I’m hot and flushed, my reflection a stranger to me. Desire has turned my blue eyes black, my pupils blown wide. I look wild as I grin at myself.

I hear Finch make a plaintive noise and go back to him at once. He’s struggling to move, to turn over. I bounce back onto the bed next to him.

“Well, that looked fun,” I sigh, flipping him over onto his back. I kneel between his spread legs, and help him bend his knees up, running my hands over his calves, his thighs. “Would have been more fun for me with my cock inside you, of course.”

Finch looks down his own body with a dazed, bewildered light in his eye, as though he didn’t know it could even do what it just did. His dick is still rock-hard, still dripping a little pool onto his abs. “I’m still…” he whispers, amazement in his voice.

“Yeah, you are,” I say, and give the flushed, wet tip of his dick a hard flick. He yelps, but doesn’t move away, so I do it again, then smear his own fluid all around his cockhead. Another little spurt comes out and I swipe my fingers through it, anoint myself this time. “Don’t know why we ever both with lube, when we could just use your mess,” I tell him. I pull him forward into my lap and position myself at his hole. He’s still well-lubricated from my fingering, but I like the idea of fucking him with his own cum; Finch does too, based on the way his eyes roll back.

His ass is so welcoming that I’m balls-deep in one quick stroke. I fold his body back on itself, his knees hooked over my shoulders, his face inches away from mine. “Look at me,” I order him. “Don’t close your eyes, little angel. Let me in.” There’s a green-gold flash between his lashes, and then his eyes open wide as I grab a handful of his hair. “You love me?”

His smile is tired, but it spreads wide. “You know it,” he croaks. “So come on, fill me up.”

I fuck him deep, as deep as I can, keeping his face turned to mine with my fistful of his hair, only looking away from his eyes occasionally to watch his cock bounce as I slam into him. My orgasm is white-hot, a rushing tsunami of desire and desperation and love, and I fuck him through the whole of it until my body protests, too much, too much, and I have to pull out.

My dick might be done, but I’m not. I still have a hot-burning desire for him sizzling under my skin, want to make sure he never forgets tonight. I slither back down the bed, making Finch pull his legs high, and plant my mouth back on his hole. He cries out, wriggling uncontrollably as I suck my own cum back out of him, my tongue making whorls around and inside his ring, the dark, rich taste of him mixing with my own salty spill. When I’m done with that, I move up the bed just a few inches to where he’s jacking himself with a light hand, and push his fingers away so I can suck on his dick.

I keep my lips tight around his cockhead and stroke his shaft with firm twists, bobbing up and down now and then just to mix it up. But I keep it shallow; I don’t want him to shoot down in my throat. I want to truly taste him, to enjoy every flavor of his body across every one of my tastebuds. And that’s exactly what I get when he arches on the bed, his cock throbbing in my hand three times before he finally gives up another load. It’s concentrated, a sweet and thick mouthful, and I keep sucking it out of him until Finch collapses back on the bed with a drawn-out sigh.

I lie there for a while as we catch our breath, my face pressed into his sticky belly, the scent of him in my nose, my mouth. He reaches down to thread his fingers through my hair, stroking me. Soothing me.

When I’ve recovered enough to stand, I take the wet top sheet off the bed and pull the covers back up over Finch before I go to clean myself down again. Then I clean an exhausted Finch, too, taking a warm washcloth back to the bed to wipe him over from head to toe. I take my time about it, tender over his pillowy asshole, making him hum in satisfaction. He takes a short, sleepy trip to the bathroom while I wait impatiently for him, unwilling to sleep until he’s back in my arms.

When I’m holding him again, spooning him close, his bare butt warm against my spent cock, I nuzzle into the back of his neck. “Was that soul-shaking enough for you?”

He gives a tired chuckle. “That comment wasn’t intended as a challenge, you know. But yeah, consider my soul shook. You won, babe. Is that what you wanna hear?”

I smile smugly. “It’s nice to win,” I say. “But I think we both won this round.”

I just hope tomorrow night will be another win for us. Tomorrow night, when I plan to make a second attempt at contacting La Contessa.

Chapter Sixty

LUCA

Our talk last night about escaping fate has led me to want to try the one thing I swore I wouldn’t when I came to Venice: a gondola ride. It’s not that I have anything against gondolas…except that I do. Every time I’ve looked at one of them while we’ve been here, I’ve had a flash-memory of the assassin gondolier in Las Vegas, of those bullets striking so close to Finch, and of Finch himself, dripping and astonished as he resurfaced from the water after I dumped him into the canal.

But this morning I’ve decided it’s time to exorcise that particular ghost. I also have an ulterior motive, though I haven’t told Finch yet. I wanted to think my plan through a little more, decide how much I’m willing to risk simply to get close to La Contessa.

How much danger I’m willing to allow Finch to be in for the sake of the Family.

Vitali supplied several potential opportunities to contact La Contessa, and I always had a backup plan in mind should our attempt at the opera fail. Tonight, there’s a masquerade ball that La Contessa will be attending, and a masquerade ball suggests several possibilities. But the particular plan I’m contemplating means Finch being very involved, and I worry that my protective instincts toward him might take over in the heat of the moment.

“I’m not sure how this is helping,” Finch says, as we glide along the Grand Canal on a private gondola. I checked the gondolier carefully, picking randomly from the new arrivals at the dock. The more random, the better, as far as I’m concerned.

“It’s helping,” I say.

Finch shuffles carefully out of my arms to look over the side of the boat, leaning his chin on his crossed arms. He turns his head to look at the Rialto Bridge coming up, its smooth, pale arc shining in the morning sun. “Venice is just gorgeous,” he sighs.

“Not as gorgeous as you.”

He turns to me with a grin and moves back into my arms. “You know that IFF guy is a few boats down, right?” he whispers. “Following us?”

“I do.”

“Is that part of this master plan you’re working on for the masquerade tonight?”

“It actually is.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Interesting. When do I get let in on it?”

I stretch out in the seat, raising my face to the sunshine. It’s a much prettier blue sky than the mural on the ceiling over the Las Vegas canals, that’s for sure. A few pigeons flutter overhead as I watch, high up in the blue, probably on their way to San Marco to prepare for the lunchtime crowds.

“Luca,” Finch says, and pinches my arm. “When?”

“You see this palazzo coming up?” I ask, and have to smother a yawn afterward. Between the smooth swipes of the oar in the water, the pleasant droning of motorboats up and down the Grand Canal, the warm sun on my face and the echoing warmth of Finch in my arms, I’ve become drowsy with happiness. The Las Vegas canal experience has been successfully expunged.

I have everything I need right here, right now: sunshine, an intellectual puzzle, and, most importantly, Finch.

“What about it?” Finch asks, and I bring my mind back to the task at hand.

“That’s where the masquerade will be tonight,” I tell him, sitting us up a little more as the gondola comes alongside it. “Could you slow down a little, sir?” I ask the old gondolier in my most polite Italian. “Just a little,” I add, when he gives a grumpy grunt.

We slow to a passive-aggressive crawl, which suits my purposes just fine. Finch stares at the building as we pass, and I take my time checking it over for methods of ingress and egress. I’m not sure if my plan—such as it is—will work. And if it doesn’t, Finch and I will need a convenient escape, and perhaps another high-speed train out of town.

The masquerade ball is a private fundraiser for the preservation of Venice. The rich, the connected, the elite and the powerful will be there, including La Contessa—and us. Vitali reached out to some of our associates here in Venice and managed to get Finch and me on the guest list.

Finch gets that lazy, knowing smirk that I love so well. “And is there a particular reason behind those costumes we ordered?”

“There is.” We placed our costume orders at the same time as we shopped for the tuxedos for the opera, though in a very different store than Giorgio Armani: a private atelier of historical carnival costuming.

“And our shadow knows we’ll be at this shindig tonight?” Finch glances back down the canal.

“I’m counting on it.” I have no doubt our IFF shadow will figure it out, if he hasn’t been tipped off already by the mole. Finch is staring hard at the building, hard enough to indicate keen interest, and if our friend is worth his salt, he’ll have noted Finch’s preoccupation.

For good measure, I make sure to turn my attention to the palazzo as well as we drift by. The canal-side exit has a few wooden poles emerging from the water for the mooring of gondolas or motorboats, but it’s not an easily accessible exit. It will probably be closed off tonight. But I’ll trust my instincts. If there are ways into a building, there are ways out. How noisy and noticeable those ways out will become depends on necessity at the time.

“So what exactly is this plan?” Finch asks softly.

“I’m wondering if there’s a way to kill two birds with one stone.”

* * *

I look at us side by side in the dressing mirror that night, at the glint in Finch’s eye as he smiles in pleasure at his own reflection and then at mine, and wonder if I’m really prepared to risk his safety. But if all goes as planned, we’ll be granted an audience with La Contessa, and I’ll be able to dispose of the irritation of our shadow.

What I’m most concerned about, as usual, is Finch. But covered over in his plague doctor neck-to-ankle flared and belted overcoat, and with a long, beaked mask covering the top half of his face, he’ll be very difficult to recognize. It’s not carnival time in Venice, but the ball tonight is carnival-themed anyway; many of the attendees are rich foreigners, and the Venetians are canny enough to know what rich foreigners enjoy. Finch’s plague doctor outfit will be one among many of the same. Our IFF tail will have to pay close attention if he wants to follow Finch through the crowded party.

As for me, I’m peacocking in a red and gold Renaissance tunic, with close-fitting leggings underneath. My mask is a sheer slip of black lace that does nothing to conceal my identity. I don’t want La Contessa to get the wrong idea—that I’m an assassin, for example, trying to get close to her without her knowing. I want to win her trust by appearing completely open.

“You look so damn good,” Finch sighs, pulling off his mask.

“So do you,” I say, ruffling his hair.

Finch grins at me. “Kiss me for luck?”

“We make our own luck,” I remind him, but I kiss him anyway.

Afterward, Finch leans in to the mirror and carefully applies lipstick in a stylized rosebud on his lips. He’s already powdered his face white and drawn in thick lines around his eyes. The makeup is yet another disguise, and I couldn’t say no to him when I saw how delighted he was with the collection of cosmetics at the shop where we bought our costumes.

“Seriously, though,” Finch says, turning to me, “do we have time for me to suck your dick? Because I think you deserve it, looking like that. I could leave my lipstick all over it, mark you out as mine?” He gives an inviting, seductive smile.

“We don’t have time,” I tell him, although my dick likes the suggestion, and at some stage I am definitely going to get him to suck me while wearing that garish lipstick. “We should get going.”

Finch groans theatrically, but then dons his Medico della Peste mask. “You’re sure this will work?”

“I am hopeful, baby bird.” He reminds me less of a baby bird than a bird of prey with that unnerving, long-nosed mask. “But if it doesn’t work, there are other ways we can get under Lou Clemenza’s skin.”

“And flay him from the inside out?” Finch’s voice is slightly muffled by the curving beak of the mask, so I’m not sure what tone he’s using: lighthearted or murderous.

“Something like that.” I adjust my own mask, put on the traditional three-cornered hat, and hold out my hand. He takes it, and I lift it to my lips. “Let’s go, angel.”

* * *

We’re admitted to the palazzo with no trouble at all, and I’m pleased to see that there are a score of other plague doctors wandering around, many of whom are around the same size as Finch. I stand out in the crowd, much more recognizable. But whatever happens tonight, at least I know Finch’s life is not in danger—only his liberty. The IFF want him for what they think he knows, so they still need him alive.

Me? I was just collateral damage at the townhouse. Now I’m an elimination target. That blond is not going to let me escape again. And tonight, in his mind, must be the perfect environment for it. Killing me—whether by stiletto or gun or other means—would cause the perfect distraction to allow him to grab Finch.

Unfortunately for him, we have plans of our own.

The grand ballroom, once we get into it, offers a crowd of people talking, laughing, accepting Bellini cocktails from passing waiters. Two staircases, one to the east and one to the west, lead up to a mezzanine balcony overlooking the floor, and I can see a number of curtained doorways on that level that suggest private dealings.

La Contessa is nowhere to be seen. I believe she must be in one of those private rooms upstairs, reserved for the most exclusive attendees tonight. I can even tell which room specifically, because every now and then a group of large, costumed men leave one particular room to travel up and down the western staircase. Each time I catch a glimpse of the figure in the midst of them: a cat-masked, androgynous figure dressed in midnight blue velvet with glossy black ringlets. Not La Contessa, but her pet.

As for why her pet is going up and down those stairs so often, I’m not sure. Each time he descends, he makes steady and direct eye contact with me, while the bodyguards around him glare.

At least it means La Contessa will be aware of my presence.

While we wait for events to unfold, Finch and I make desultory conversation with other couples. He knows more than one of the American billionaires in the room, and they, judging by the inquisitive looks we get, know him—and me. But half an hour after our arrival, when Finch is deep in debate about the benefits of owning a private fleet versus simply renting a jet when necessary, I become aware that someone is watching me.

Someone new.

I look around the room, turning to take a cocktail from a passing waiter so I can glance behind as well. Over in the corner is a figure that gives me pause. He’s standing too still, his body language too taut for a regular partygoer.

His masked face turns to me, and when he sees me looking his way, he turns away to move behind one of the thick wooden posts holding up the mezzanine balcony.

It’s the IFF agent. I know it. Even disguised by that blank, serene bauta mask, I know it’s him. The black silk hood, stark white mask and tricorn hat completely cover his face, but his brisk movements echo how he dived out of the way of Finch’s bullets back in the catacombs.

And then there’s the irony of his outfit: historically, bauta costumes were strictly regulated by the Venetian authorities during carnival because of the opportunity they gave to conceal weapons under the flowing cloak.

Funny guy.

I lean in close to Finch’s ear. “It’s time, baby bird.”

“…and that’s why I always think it makes more sense to hire on an as-need basis,” Finch finishes up in his conversation with the daughter of an ex-President, her tech-giant fiancé, and a French film star. “If you’ll excuse me—I need a refresh.” He tips his still-full glass of sparkling water to the group, and we move away from them.

Finch sets the glass down on the platter of a passing waiter, and then, taking advantage of a lull in the noise and our relatively open position in the middle of the room, I sweep him off his feet in a deep dip, making sure we are seen.

Making sure we are noticed.

If it weren’t for the mask, I’d kiss my husband right there, but his wild laugh that cuts through the conversation is even better for our purposes. Everyone in the room has looked our way…including the bauta-clad IFF agent, peeking out from behind his pillar.

I set Finch back on his feet and look into his eyes, which are glinting pure green behind his mask. “Off you go, uccellino,” I murmur. “Make sure you stay aware.”

We drift away from each other, but I keep a keen eye on our enemy, reflected in the many gilt mirrors around the room tonight. The next part of my plan now depends on which of us our shadow considers a priority. On the other side of the room, Finch’s plague doctor disappears behind a group of people, and the IFF agent cranes his neck to catch sight of him, then moves in that direction.

So he’s after Finch tonight.

Good.

I wait until I have Finch in my view again, and then I make my move.

Chapter Sixty-One

LUCA

I wander around the side of the crowd, keeping both Finch and the IFF agent in view. The agent hasn’t picked up Finch again, judging by the way he’s pushing past people. He’s chasing down plague doctors, but there are a lot of them.

I head for the staircase to the east. Once I get up to the mezzanine, I plan to walk right around it to the western side, and La Contessa’s room, to speak to her guards. But my passage is barred abruptly by a very large man in a well-cut frock coat. “Excuse me, sir,” he says in very polite Italian, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder.

I smile and respond in his language. “If you want to keep your fingers, you should remove them from my person.”

The hand withdraws, although the man does not. I recognize him as one of La Contessa’s bodyguards. His white porcelain half-mask leaves his mouth visible, and I watch it pull into a sneer. “Get out of here.”

“I don’t think so,” I say softly, and move past him. He grabs me by the arm, and that’s the last mistake he makes. I move toward him instead of away, pressing him back into a dark corner behind a statue of Venus. While we move, I put my hand over his, bending his middle finger back until it snaps, and use my other palm to smother his scream of pain.

I shove him up against the wall and lean in to his ear. “I did warn you. Now, I suspect the woman for whom you work would not like a scene, so…” Slowly, I take my hand from his mouth and release his fingers.

He doesn’t cry out or call for help.

He does let out a stream of profanity in a soft whisper as he nurses his fingers with his good hand, staring at me with death in his eyes.

“All I want is one private conversation with her,” I tell him.

“You won’t be leaving here alive,” he snarls back.

I sigh, glancing over my shoulder to locate the IFF agent again. He’s looking around the room, the white mask moving back and forth quickly. “Listen,” I say. “I was like you, once. Just a low-level soldier, trying to make good. You and I, we could be friends. Your mistress will reward you once she hears what I have to say.”

“Fuck you,” he says in English.

“I’m afraid you’re not my type. So stop flirting,” I say, dropping all amusement from my voice, “and listen to me.” I pull off his mask so I can see his face properly. “There’s an assassin here tonight, and he’s after La Contessa.”

He begins to speak, but then pauses. Thinks.

“He’s wearing a bauta costume,” I supply helpfully. The guy cranes over my shoulder, glancing suspiciously back at me between scanning the ballroom.

“There are a hundred bauta here tonight,” he mutters.

“Escort me up to the balcony and I’ll point him out to you,” I offer. The guard gives me a skeptical look from beneath his pain-drawn brows.

I cast my mind back to when Frank and I were just small-time crooks doing all the grunt work. It’s a different mindset to being the Boss, that’s for sure. I think about how I felt when my Capo, Sam Fuscone, gave me the shittiest, most dangerous jobs to do, like this poor bastard right here who got sent down to deal with me.

Fuscone always half-hoped I wouldn’t come back.

I lean in and drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You could make a name for yourself tonight. Be the hero. Or I can take the assassin out myself, and leave you to explain to La Contessa why I had to do your job for you.” I nod up toward the mezzanine level, where the rest of her guards are standing, some looking over the railings at the party below. “Why not prove yourself to them?”

I’ve pushed the right button. “I’ll take you upstairs,” he grunts. “You point him out. But if this is some trick, you should know I have a new blade that needs blooding.”

I grin at that. “Deal.”

* * *

There are so many plague doctors in the crowd that once the IFF agent lost sight of Finch, it has been hard for him to distinguish between the lookalikes. From the mezzanine balcony it’s easy to see him moving this way and that, glancing back toward where he last saw me, and only getting pushier. He treads on the toes of a bosomy, corseted Columbina, rudely shoves past a pink-haired Harlequin dressed in white and fuchsia silks, and seizes another plague doctor by the shoulder, whirling them around.

It’s not Finch, and this particular plague doctor, who pulls off his mask to reveal himself as an aging English rock star, makes quite a fuss about the disrespectful grabbing. The bauta backs off immediately, his cloak opening around him as he whirls around.

“Motherfucker,” my new friends breathes. “He has a gun.”

I’m so glad he noticed. It would have been irritating to have to point that out to him as well.

The IFF agent backs off, looking around the room again, and then up. We lock eyes behind our masks. He knows I’ve made him, but he begins to force his way through the crowd toward the western staircase, the one closest to his side of the room—and closest to La Contessa’s private room.

The IFF agent is not stupid; it’s reasonable for him to assume that Finch will make his way back to me, sooner or later. Or perhaps he’s just cutting his losses with Finch for the night, going for the kill rather than the capture: if he can’t grab Finch, he’ll settle for slitting my throat.

But to the thug standing next to me, it only looks like one thing. The assassin is coming for La Contessa. He lifts his wrist to his mouth, speaking rapidly into it, code I don’t know but still understand. The guards on the other side of the balcony swarm like bees, barking questions, orders, calling to each other, and I take the opportunity to slip back down the eastern staircase and merge back into the people.

I’m tall enough that I can keep eyes on the bauta-costumed agent, and it’s not long before he realizes I’m no longer upstairs. His attention is caught by the group of guards on the mezzanine pointing his way, and he hesitates, judging his chances. He begins to back away, turning to the entrance, but stops when he sees me heading toward him.

His eyes burn straight into mine.

He wants to kill me.

Wants it badly enough that he’ll squander a few minutes of his escape time to do it.

I back off, feigning caution. What I’m really doing is choosing our place of engagement. But IFF agent takes the bait, following me under the cover of the mezzanine just as several of La Contessa’s guards reach the ballroom floor and begin fanning out. The rest of them stay up on the balcony, guarding the private room, but when I move closer to the wall, deeper into the shadows, I’m out of their line of sight.

I round a corner into a small alcove showcasing a chaise longue, and behind me I hear hurried footsteps, picking up the pace. I turn and wait. The bauta appears, a gleaming knife in his hand, a matching glint of hatred in his eyes.

But to his right, there’s a flash of pink and white. A flamingo-haired Harlequin steps into view, pulling off his mask. “Hey, bozo,” he says in a broad American accent. “It’s me you want, isn’t it?”

The moment of hesitation, of the knife swaying away from me toward a new target, is all I need. I close the few yards between us, dodge behind the IFF agent as he turns, and grab his head.

One quiet snap and it’s over.

I support the lifeless body down onto the chaise longue and, after checking the pockets for any identification—none—and making one small addition of my own, I arrange the deceased agent as though he were a passed-out partygoer who’s had one too many cocktails.

I glance up at Finch, who’s keeping watch.

“Ten seconds to company,” he says. He runs a hand through his newly-pink hair and gives me a grin before slipping back on the small silk mask that matches his Harlequin costume. “Should I go change back into Birdman?” he asks. “I left the cloak and mask over on the other side, stuffed in a big vase.”

My heart is still hammering from the adrenaline—not from worry for myself, but for Finch. It was a dangerous game we played tonight, big risk for big reward, and there were moments where I had to battle my own need to rush straight for him, protect him.

“No,” I say. “Stay as you are.” I couldn’t bear to see him cover up again, not now that he’s returned to the pink hair that reminds me of the night we met. He changed it just this afternoon, at the last minute, on my suggestion.

Our ten seconds are up. La Contessa’s guards are swarming, pushing Finch aside, grabbing hold of me, leaning over the bauta-masked corpse. One of them pats him down, finds the knife, and then—

“Shit,” he breathes, pulling out a photograph from the inner pocket of the agent’s tunic. He shows it to another guard, the one who must be their leader, judging by the deferential air shown to him. They mutter together, and the one phrase I overhear is La Contessa.

“You did this?” The lead guard turns to me, gesturing at the body.

I shrug off the two guards holding me and straighten my costume. I will neither confirm nor deny the accusation, but the leader is no fool. He knows me.

But before he can interrogate me further, we’re interrupted by the guard whose middle finger I broke. In quiet Italian, he murmurs into the leader’s ear, too hushed for me to hear, but I can tell I am the topic of conversation by the way the lead guard watches my face as he listens.

A moment later, the leader nods, steps closer to me and begins to say something, but pauses to press a finger against the small speaker in his ear. He listens, frowning at the floor, then looks up at me again. “La Contessa has asked to speak with you.”

“You’ll handle this?” I ask, indicating the chaise longue with a tilt of my head. The lead guard gives one short nod. “Well, then,” I say. “Let’s not keep the lady waiting.”

As we are escorted away by two of the guards, Finch looks down at his black boots. They matched the plague doctor outfit well but are decidedly out of place with his Harlequin costume. He gives one glance back over his shoulder at our dead enemy.

“Guy should’ve paid more attention to my shoes,” he murmurs with satisfaction.

Chapter Sixty-Two

FINCH

I think Luca is as surprised as I am that he was actually capable of letting me be part of the plans tonight. But as we ascend the stairs, hand in hand, he leans down to my ear. “Well done, uccellino.”

I squeeze his hand and press my shoulder into him, basking in his praise. “Same,” I whisper back at him, and he gives a quiet snort of laughter.

One enemy down. One to go.

We are admitted into La Contessa’s private room with no trouble, although I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the candlelight within. The room is small and intimate, and La Contessa is draped across a divan, dressed in an intricate, corseted costume of black satin. As we enter, she is holding up to her face an ornate filigree mask at the end of a silver wand.

Her companion is curled up next to her on the divan, his head cradled in her lap. She strokes his hair as though he’s a favored lapdog allowed to accompany her wherever she goes. Maybe she’ll tuck him away in her handbag later on. His eyes are closed and he seems to be fast asleep, but when I look closely, I can see those eyes crack open, just a fraction.

Together, the two of them look exquisitely elegant, a Caravaggio painting come to life. La Contessa’s dark eyes appraise Luca, looking him head to toe, and she says nothing.

Luca bows his head and gives a polite and formal greeting in Italian. I keep my mouth shut.

She drops the mask from her face, letting it dangle at the end of the holding stick.

“Do you think I don’t know who you are, Don Morelli?” she asks in a rich contralto, and it doesn’t escape my notice that her reply is in English rather than Italian. “You think I didn’t know you at once at the opera last night? A face like yours is memorable—as is that of the little bird who flutters around you.” Her eyes flick to me, and I feel compelled to remove my own mask. She gives a pleased little hm and smiles.

I smile back.

Her black satin dress shines in the light as she shifts to set the mask down on a tiny side table, the diamonds at her throat and wrist all the brighter for the dark background.

“So, Don Morelli,” she says, returning her attention to Luca as her voice hardens. “Why are you here?” The young man in her lap rearranges his position slightly, his eyes slitting open to look up at Luca, at me, intrusions into the sunbeam of his lover’s attention.

“To offer my services,” Luca tells her.

“Services?” She yawns delicately, one hand covering her mouth and the other floating out, reaching for something in mid-air, though there’s nothing there. But all at once, there is: a waiter appears with a tray, on which is a half-full glass of champagne. La Contessa takes a sip, places the glass back on the tray, and the waiter and drink both disappear again behind a heavy fold of the velvet curtains behind her.

“May we sit down?” Luca tries.

“You may not.”

He grins at that. “Alright. Then I’ll be brief. I came because I heard rumors that there was a contract on your life. I wanted to warn you at the opera, but I was not afforded the chance.”

La Contessa strokes her necklace as she contemplates Luca’s face. “How fortunate for me that you were here tonight, to save me from this…assassin.”

He bows his head.

“I would appear to be in your debt,” she continues in what would pass for a drawl if it weren’t for the Italian accent. Her hand drops to comb through the black ringlets spreading across her lap.

“Not at all,” Luca murmurs gallantly.

La Contessa’s red lips curl up at one corner. “Let us speak plainly, Don Morelli. What is it that you really want from me?”

Luca tilts his head to one side. “I want you to cut off your business with the Clemenza Family of New York City.”

“Or—what?” she asks, her dark eyes flashing like her diamonds.

“Or nothing,” Luca says with a shrug. “I didn’t come here to threaten you. I came to ask a favor. I would be greatly indebted to you if you agree, because it would suit me in my business pursuits.”

She studies him, her bejeweled fingers stroking and stroking the hair of her pet, the sapphires and rubies of her rings flashing and dazzling even in the low light of the room. “Why should I agree?”

“Because I would like us to be friends. Friends are always more useful than enemies.”

“I have many friends already. Some of them very much dislike you, Don Morelli.”

“I can imagine.”

It must be the sardonic way he says it that makes her laugh. “Then you’ll know your request is not so simple as it sounds. You know,” she says, smiling down at her pet, “Andreas here has something of a crush on you, Don Morelli. Perhaps a few days and nights with him would be an appropriate thank you for saving my life instead?”

I step forward, my hands on my hips. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

Luca’s hand shoots out to grab my bicep. “What my husband meant to say, Contessa, is that I am a happily married and very monogamous man—”

“Hell, yes,” I put in. “And extremely sexually satisfied.”

Luca’s fingers tighten on my arm. “—so I’ll have to decline.”

In La Contessa’s lap, Andreas turns over like a sulking child, and hides his face in her skirts. La Contessa regards us both, and I don’t like the amusement in her eyes. “I see,” she says at last. “Well, that’s a shame. When Andreas is unhappy, so am I.”

“Perhaps this will cheer you up,” Luca says, and from inside his coat, he produces an envelope and hands it to her. “Thank you for your time, Contessa.” He gives a nod, takes my hand firmly in his, and leads me out of the room.

“Can you believe the nerve of that slinky little bitch boy?” I demand as we walk along the balcony. Outside, the party has continued and there’s no trace of the IFF assassin at all. La Contessa’s men have done their work discreetly and well.

“She’s the one who put him up to it,” Luca tells me. “He’s been checking me out all night, giving out those fuck-me vibes while going up and down the stairs. But he would never do it without her say-so.”

“You think it was a test?” I ask slowly, as we head downstairs. “What was she trying to do?”

With a scornful huff of laughter, Luca says, “I think she wanted the measure of me. So whether I accepted or whether I turned her down, she still learned something. Still, it was a crude method. The contents of that envelope will tell her more about me than any ill-advised honeytrap ever could.”

The contents of that envelope are the remaining photographs of La Contessa meeting with a Clemenza Family member, plus the negatives. I was opposed to the idea of Luca just handing them over, but he insisted it would be the wiser move. I decided to trust him on that.

He pulls me close as we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Anyway, as if I could ever want another man with someone like you beside me, uccellino. Or rather, Arlecchino. Suits you.” He ruffles my newly-pink hair. He’s barely been able to keep his hands out of it since this afternoon.

My hairstylist back in New York is going to be pissed when he sees what I’ve done—bleached it myself and then stained it hot pink in the bathroom of our palazzo. But Luca was so damn happy when I came out of the bathroom looking like the love child of a punk and a clown that I don’t even care. He’s been hinting that I dye my hair pink again for years. And who am I to say no to what he wants?

I grin as we hit the ballroom floor, looking up at Luca. “That IFF guy pushed right past me after I took off the plague doctor outfit—did you see?”

“I did.”

I look down at my boots again. Luca was right; shoes are the hardest thing to change on the go. “You’re sure it was the right move to give La Contessa those photos back?”

“I am.”

“You could have kept the negatives, at least,” I sigh, as we make our way out to the back pier of the palazzo, and take one of the water taxis bobbing there against the poles.

Luca leans in to speak in my ear as the motor starts. “I want people to understand that my power does not rely on blackmail, or underhanded dealings. I want them to know I’m a man of my word. That it is more profitable to be my friend than my enemy. That they can trust me.”

It’s a bold thing to say, the idea that trust could ever exist in Luca’s world. But it’s my world, too. And I trust Luca. I let him pull me into his arms and we watch Venice go by as we dart down the Grand Canal, back to our home base.

I just wish I could know who else was worthy of my trust. Because my mind keeps going back to the mole. Al Vollero is the obvious pick, but he just doesn’t have access to the level of information that this mole seemingly does. So who is it? Are my choices really limited to my best friend’s boyfriend, or my own damn sister?

The idea that either Teo or Tara has been hiding a deep hatred of me—of Luca—could be working with our enemies—it spins my head around. But someone is spilling information.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Luca says, smiling down at me. “We had a good night, didn’t we?”

I’m not sure how to answer that, so I just ask, “What next?”

“Next? Next I shake your soul again, all night. And tomorrow, we travel to Florence.”

Chapter Sixty-Three

FINCH

Florence is one of my favorite cities in Italy, although Venice comes close. Especially after all the fun we’ve had in the city of canals. But Florence, a place I first came to only a year before I met Luca, holds many good memories for me. As far as I even have good memories before I met Luca.

Florence was the first place I felt truly free, the first place I’d been where I could walk the streets and not worry about someone tracking me down. That was because I’d managed to give my father’s spies the slip in Naples, and jumped a train for Florence while they were still looking for me. I had a glorious two weeks to myself before they figured out where I’d gone. In those two weeks, I did a lot of living.

The first time I went to the Accademia Gallery to see Michelangelo’s David, I was more interested in the unfinished sculptures that lined the room leading into the David like a guard of honor. Michelangelo’s prisoners and slaves, eternally trapped and unable to pull themselves out of their marble blocks. No hope of freedom for them, because their master was long dead.

I might have identified an unhealthy amount with those sculptures, feeling like a prisoner myself in those days. A slave of my own making—chained by drugs and grief and fear.

When I met Luca, I felt, for the first time, that I had a chance at real freedom. That he was the master sculptor who might pull me out of my bonds. Now he’s here with me in Florence, and I think we both have a similar sense of freedom. We are as anonymous as we’re ever going to be. Luca is more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a very long time. It’s as if concluding his business with La Contessa allowed him to regain mental space to devote to fun instead of worry.

That’s what I think, anyway, and when I tell him my theory, he laughs and tells me that maybe I’m right, but that what it means to him is that he has more time to devote to solving the mystery of the rosary.

“It would be a good title for a book,” I muse as we unpack in the hotel room. We’ve returned to a budget option in Florence, and although it’s nowhere near as bad as the Roman hotel, I already miss our palazzo in Venice. I pull out the rosary from the hidden pocket at the bottom of my suitcase and hold it up to look at it once more. “The Mystery of the Rosary: Finch and Luca Investigate.”

“I prefer genres with a little more erotic content.”

I grin across at him. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of that.”

But we spend the morning doing touristy things, and then in the afternoon we have an appointment with a Dr. Bonaventura, the lead art historian and restorer at a small, private company that works for the most prominent galleries in Italy and Europe. Our interest in their work has been sudden, but extremely profitable for them; just under a week ago, they received a sizable donation on our behalf, with more promised over the next five years.

Luca seems genuinely pleased that he can now add Patron of the Arts to the list of his achievements.

I just hope they can actually help us.

On our arrival, we’re shown into the boardroom, where we have to sit through a presentation on the work of the company, and which is performed twice over—every sentence stated first in Italian, and again in English, for my benefit, I assume. Luca is almost literally on the edge of his seat, hanging on every word, asking questions that sounds intelligent and appropriate.

I have to struggle not to yawn too obviously, smothering each wave of tiredness behind a hand. At least the coffee is good, and it helps keep me awake.

“Your donation to our work has come at a most fortunate time,” Dr. Bonaventura says at last, once Luca has finally exhausted his questions, and the rest of the senior company staff have vacated the boardroom. We’re making our way toward the door, having been promised a tour of the facilities. “You cannot imagine how grateful we are. It will allow us to—”

“I’m so glad,” I say, seizing the initiative. “Really thrilled. We’re super into art. And since we’re here, I wondered if you could take a look at something for us. As a favor?”

Dr. Bonaventura beams. “But of course! Please, send any artifact straight to our laboratories and we will be delighted to—”

“Actually, I have it right here.” I take his hand and shove the rosary into it. “There. What can you tell me about it?”

He peers down at it, glasses flashing as he turns it this way and that in his hands. He frowns, begins to say something, and then hesitates. He gives me a faltering smile. “Is this some American joke, perhaps?”

“No joke,” I tell him. “It belonged to my mother.”

“But sir, you understand, this is not…” He gives an awkward, nervous giggle. “This is not an artifact that needs…special consideration. It is very precious to you, no doubt,” he adds hastily. “A precious gift passed down in your family, but—”

“It’s not the rosary itself,” I try to explain. “We think—we think there might be something in it. In the crucifix?” My voice goes high and thin. “But, like, I don’t want to destroy it to find out. If I’m wrong, I mean. You must have something that could look at the different layers under the top layer, like they do with paintings? Or if not, you could check the density, or—or something?”

“But what makes you think—” Dr. Bonaventura begins, bewildered.

“Please, doctor,” Luca interrupts, in that no-nonsense tone that even I listen to. “We understand that it’s probably a fool’s errand. But will you indulge our curiosity?”

The man’s eyes blink rapidly behind his glasses as he thinks it over.

“As patrons of your work,” I add, because I can’t stand waiting any longer.

“Of course,” he says at once. “Forgive me, I did not mean to suggest I would not—of course, of course.” He gestures us out the door, then follows us out. “We can go now.”

Luca follows him towards the staircase, but I hang back.

“Now?” I ask.

The art historian, his foot already on the first step down, looks back at me with owlish surprise. “If you are in a hurry to leave, sir, I would be happy to send you a report, instead. But it won’t take long.”

“It’s just…” I start, but then I look at Luca. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

It’s just that I feel real fuckin’ nervous now that we’re about to find out if this whole trip has been a waste of time, or that my mother has hidden bone fragments from some murder victim in there, or something equally horrifying.

Luca holds out his hand, and I take it. He gives it a quick squeeze, searching my face until I give a slight nod. It’s okay.

He turns back to Dr. Bonaventura. “We’d love to see the work of the laboratory,” he says. “We didn’t realize it would be permitted.”

The professor, leading us down the stairs, laughs. “Oh, we have no secrets here,” he says, breathing hard as we make our way down three flights. “None of our work is restricted. In fact, most people find it quite boring. People outside our sphere have little interest in art restoration—unless it’s a Michelangelo or the Mona Lisa, people simply do not care.” He puffs as we reach the bottom landing, slowing his pace as he walks, and we slow down behind him. The hallway is quite narrow, but door after door comes off of it. It kind of reminds me of the bowels of Harvard. I sucked more than one post-grad dick in similarly windowless, tiny offices before I got myself kicked out.

Dr. Bonaventura stops abruptly in front of one door, opens it, and feels around for the lights inside. “Here we are,” he says, gesturing us after him. “Come in, come in.”

It’s a sizable room, reminiscent of a hospital or medical research lab or something, with various machines and workstations that include test tubes, Bunsen burners and chemicals. Dr. Bonaventura is headed straight for one particular machine.

“What does this do?” Luca asks curiously, looking it over.

“X-rays,” the art historian replies, back to his jovial self. “A little crude, but effective. It will show us at once if there is anything deep inside your rosary. If not, I can use other methods to examine the layers of glazing…” He devolves into technical talk, so I stop listening.

Dr. Bonaventura turns on the machine, muttering about letting it warm up, and pulls across a chair to sit in front of the viewing screen on the other side. I turn to Luca, and we have one of our silent conversations. I’m apprehensive, and he cups my cheek in a reassuring way and gives me a smile. Then he takes my hand in his, warm and comforting.

“Ah,” Dr. Bonaventura says in surprise, still staring at the viewscreen.

My fingers contract hard around Luca’s.

“Yes, there is something in here,” the art historian continues, sounding curious now.

Luca clears his throat. “May we see?”

“Please, please—” Dr. Bonaventura motions us over, and we crowd around the screen. “Here we are,” he says, pointing on the screen at the outline of something within the cross. It’s not as clear an x-ray as I’ve seen even at airplane security checks, but it’s clear enough, and I suck in a breath. “Do you see?” Dr. Bonaventura asks. He peers even closer, leaning into the screen. “It looks like—I think it might be—”

“It’s a key,” I say.

Chapter Sixty-Four

FINCH

We arrive back in New York with a new purpose. Teo has managed to pull the mansion together enough for us to stay there, and although I can’t help feeling an initial sense of dread as we walk into it again, I shake it off.

The place has changed—and somehow hasn’t. It looks like it was always supposed to look, I think. The furniture and rugs and paintings are all back in place, and there are huge vases of artistically-arranged flowers in almost every room, filling the air with their scent. The mansion is old-fashioned in style, but not dated. Just…classic.

I like it a lot.

I bet Tino Morelli must have loved it, too. I only met him a few times, but he seemed like the kind of guy who’d appreciate wallpaper and wainscoting.

Luca takes his time walking through, getting the tour from Teo, who mostly points out the new security features. I’m more interested in the interior decoration. “Well, baby bird?” Luca asks me once we’re alone. He lifts me up by the waist and spins me around in the empty ballroom in which we ended the tour. The floor is restored, shining parquet and I’m already planning the kind of parties we could hold in here. A masquerade ball…

Of course, I remind myself, we’re only staying here while the townhouse is rebuilt.

“It looks amazing.” I smile down at Luca, still hoisted in his arms. “But be careful—”

“I’m perfectly well,” he tells me, scowling.

“—of my outfit,” I finish, and grin at his face.

He sets me back on my feet and tugs my clothes straight for me. “We’ll be safe here,” he tells me afterward, running a hand through my paling-pink hair. It’s faded since Venice; the color I bought at a dollar-store equivalent wasn’t exactly salon quality. It’s more cotton candy than magenta now, but Luca loved it so much that I’ve decided to recolor it for him.

I like it as a fuck you to the people who want us dead, as well. See how much I care about their threats? Pink hair tells them exactly how much.

Luca’s hands are still on me, massaging my shoulders in light circles. “While you went wandering, Vitali told me he’s located the bank and branch.”

Once we knew there was a key inside the rosary, it was easy enough to find out the kind of key it was: a safe deposit box key. Dr. Bonaventura opened the crucifix and dug it out so carefully that he was even able to put the cross back together afterward. I can give the whole thing back to Róisín some time. Maybe mail it, since she doesn’t want to see me again.

The safe deposit box key had a three-digit number engraved on it, the same three digits that appeared in the middle of the number string in Mom’s note. Once we took them out, there were enough leftover numbers to identify a high-security Swiss depository bank, and its branch in Manhattan. Turns out the numbers were written backward, but that was as clever as Mom had gotten.

And now, apparently, Teo has confirmed everything.

I feel the smile disappear from my face. “Okay. Well. Good.”

“So we can go check it out tomorrow,” Luca says. “Or,” he adds, touching his lips to my forehead, “whenever you’re ready.”

I don’t want to look in that box. I know it’ll just be more disappointment; nothing will be in it, or it’ll be money, or diamonds, or something equally useless to me now. But there’s no point dragging this shit out. “Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”

Luca takes a long look at me, then nods. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

Once we make our request to access the safe deposit box, there’s a flurry of activity in the bank, and we’re taken to see the manager in his big swanky office. Marble urns flank his desk, almost funereal, and there’s a large oil painting behind him in the style of Vermeer.

It might actually be a Vermeer. It’s that kind of bank.

I’m prepared to start arguing with the bank manager about my right to access the box, but he just checks my passport—my real one, this time—and smiles in the same smarmy way I’ve come to expect from people who suddenly discover I’m a super-rich motherfucker.

“So pleased to be able to accommodate you, sir,” he says. I bet I’m the first person with pink hair that he’s ever called sir. “I’ll take you down myself.”

Luca rises from the chair to follow me, but the suit frowns. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he says to Luca, “but only named people may enter and view the contents of the safety deposit box. Mr. Donovan’s mother’s instructions were quite clear.”

“No,” Luca says calmly. “I will accompany my husband. And his name is Mr. D’Amato.”

The bank guy frowns deeper and opens his mouth, and I can tell he doesn’t understand how much danger he’s in right now.

“If you could give us a moment alone,” I say over the top of whatever unwise statement he was about to make.

He’s all smiles again in an instant. “Of course. Please take as much time as you need to discuss.” With that, he leaves us alone with the maybe-Vermeer.

“I’m coming with you,” Luca says simply.

“Listen to me.” I take both his hands in mine.

“I’ll stand to the side if you want. I won’t look into the box—”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“No, your safety is what it’s about. Your mother had so many secrets, baby bird. She was mixed up in terrorist activities, for Christ’s sake. Who’s to say that safe deposit box isn’t fixed with an explosive? What if she assumed your father or someone else would find it, and—”

“No, babe,” I say. “She wouldn’t rig something up if there was any chance it’d hurt me, or any of her kids. She just…wouldn’t do that. She meant for me or Tara or Róisín to open that box.”

“Or Maggie,” he says darkly. “She must have known there was a possibility Maggie would find it, too.”

He makes a good point, but I still don’t believe—even after all the revelations of my mother’s past have come out—that she would ever hurt me, or Tara, or Róisín.

Or even Maggie.

All of the memories I have of my mother are tinged with the sense of her love for all her children. “Even with the possibility of Maggie finding it,” I say, squeezing his hands, “I just don’t believe my mother would ever set a trap that might hurt us. Besides, this asshole is not going to make it easy for you in there with me, Luca. He’s going to keep you out.”

“He can try,” Luca says, with an arrogant lift of his head. I only love him more for it.

“Apart from all that,” I go on, “you’re supposed to be trusting me now. You can’t tell me you’re willing to dangle me as bait in front of the IFF but not let me go alone into a secure room in a bank.”

That, finally, seems to reach him. After a moment, he gives a sigh and a nod. “Alright.”

“Thank you.” I lean in, standing on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Love you.”

“I love you, too. And I want you to be damned careful opening that box, even if you think it’s fine. Please. Open it facing away from you, at the very least.”

* * *

I think about Luca’s advice when I’m there in the silent room, the walls gleaming with row on row of bronze-gold plates on the front of each deposit box, all of them hiding wealth and secrets. My mother’s safe deposit box is in front of me on a plain table. There are chairs, but I’m standing up, ready to bolt if I need to.

The box is small. I know good things come in small packages—like me—but I can’t help thinking about the chocolate box bombs that took off Frank’s hand, killed my bodyguard, Marco, and took out several members of the old Commission. They were smaller than this.

I swivel the small, flat, metal box so the flap will open facing away from me. I put the key in the lock carefully and deliberately, and turn it. The box unlocks.

Nothing blows up.

Using the key, I gingerly ease the lid back. By the time it’s halfway up, I’m pretty sure nothing is going to explode, that no gas is suddenly going to fill the room, and that it’s not laced with a Novichok agent.

When the box is fully open, I walk around the table and look into it without touching it.

There is only one thing in there, and when I see it, I understand why the box itself was so small. There’s no letter, no explanatory note. Just an old CD-ROM in a plastic cover.

I take a chance and pick it up, turn it over. There’s no label on it and nothing to suggest what it might contain. And there’s definitely nothing else in the box. I’ll have to put this thing into a computer to find out what’s on it.

I don’t even think we have a computer at home that takes disks.

“Dammit, Mom,” I mutter. “Way to be fucking infuriating.”

* * *

Back at the mansion, where we have instinctively made our home base in the kitchen again, Luca stares intently at the disk lying between us on the table as though he can transmit its contents into his brain by glare-power.

“And she never said anything about it?” he asks for the third time.

“Honey, if I knew what was on it, I would have told you already. Believe me.”

We’re waiting for Teo Vitali to come over. He has a laptop that will hook up to a CD-ROM external drive, and the laptop has various encryption programs on it—just in case. Mom was never what I’d call technology-forward, but I also had no idea she was secretly a member of an Irish terrorist group, either, so you never know.

I can’t stand sitting around waiting, so I go try to figure out our fancy new coffee machine, and feel my way around the still-unfamiliar kitchen. I wonder whether Connie Taylor ever wandered around this kitchen making coffee for Tino Morelli, and the thought of it makes me smile. For just a moment, I feel a warm glow at my back, as though Luca’s snuck up behind me, about to hug me, but when I glance over my shoulder, he’s still at the kitchen table.

Huh. Weird.

Teo, when he arrives, refuses a coffee, which is probably smart, based on the way mine tastes. Teo is all business today, after answering my questions about how Aidan’s doing. Luca puts a comforting hand over mine on the table, because he knows what I’m doing.

Procrastinating.

“Okay,” I say glumly. “Let’s do it.”

Teo makes sure his laptop isn’t connected to the internet before he picks up the disk and prepares to put it in the drive. “Just so you know,” he says casually, “I’m kind of expecting this to destroy the computer.”

“Teo,” I sigh, “can you just get on with it?”

We all hold our breath as he slots it in. The light on the drive lights up and it begins to whir and buzz—a good sign, based on Teo’s expression—and then he opens the drive from the desktop, and clicks into the disk.

His face goes into frown mode.

“What is it?” I ask. “Has it fucked everything up?”

“No,” he says slowly. “It’s just…they’re pretty old files. If they’re still compatible, I can open them—but I might need to save them in a different format…”

Luca and I wait impatiently as he works, saving the files from the disk to the hard drive and then finding the right program to open them. After a few minutes, I see a file pop open on the screen. It looks like a standard spreadsheet.

“This is just the first one listed on the disk,” he explains, turning it around to show me and Luca. “See anything interesting?”

I find myself frowning as I scan it myself as well. “It’s a list of names and numbers…oh wait, and…” I trail off as I start reading the notes next to the first name. “Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, shit.”

Luca pulls the laptop sharply towards him, reading intently.

Teo’s eyebrows go up. “Okay,” he says, disconnecting the external drive and putting the CD back into its plastic case. “I set it up so you can just double-click the files from the desktop and they’ll open. So I think my job here is done?” He looks at me. I’m still too shocked to take it in right away. “Mr. D?” Teo prompts me.

“Thanks, Vitali,” Luca says dismissively. “We’ll call again if we need you. You can leave this here with us.” Once Teo has left, Luca finally looks to me. “Your mother must have been one hell of a woman,” he says, admiration tugging up one corner of his mouth.

I lean in to take another look. It’s not a note to me, or any of my sisters. It’s not any kind of explanation for what my mother did in her life, or a message about what she hoped I would do in mine.

But it might just be better than any of those things.

Chapter Sixty-Five

LUCA

It takes us several hours to go through the files. Finch got bored fast, so eventually, I took the laptop up to the study and let Finch wander in and out of the secret door to the library at will while I pored over the lists. But when I come across one name buried deep in the documents, I slam a fist down hard on the desk, making him jump where he’s laid himself out on the sofa across the room.

“What is it?” he demands, coming back to the desk to look over my shoulder.

I jab a finger at one particular name.

“Well, shit,” Finch breathes.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Finch pulls out his phone, but I grab his hand before he can call the person I know he was going to call—his sister. “No,” I say gently.

“But Tara needs to know.”

“Yes, but we can’t trust this information to a phone conversation.”

Finch puts his phone down on the desk, his eyes intense, and leans over me. “She’s my fucking sister, Luca. I’m not going to leave her there like a sitting duck—”

I stand, pulling him into my arms. “Of course not. She’s my sister too, you know. So we’ll go ourselves, together, right now. Drop in unannounced. Explain the situation to her and…” I know what I’d do if it were one of my own, a rat in my own ranks. But Tara’s Family is her own to control. “And let her take care of it,” I finish. “It’s her problem to manage.”

Finch’s eyes are hard and green when he tells me, “Well, if she doesn’t kill the fucker, I will.”

* * *

When I told Finch we’d go together, I meant it. Our time in Italy together reminded me about the things I love most about this business: the adrenaline; the big-risk, big-reward opportunities; working in the shadows as an effective partnership, no one else involved.

We take one of the bullet-resistant town cars and I drive us myself, having told only Nick Fontana and Teo Vitali where I’m going. No bodyguards. No forewarning. And when we get a few streets out from Hillview House, our way is blocked by a large van—one of the checkpoints set up by the Donovans.

My window is approached by a man I recognize from guard duty at Hillview, and I crack the dark window enough so that he can see my face.

“Fuck me,” he says in surprise.

“Married,” I tell him. It takes him a second to get the joke, and then he just gives a terrified smile. “I want an escort into Hillview, but keep it quiet. Need-to-know only. Understand?”

He gives a hasty nod, and then motions another guard over, speaking into his ear. Things move quickly after that, and within minutes we’re pulling into the underground garage beneath Hillview House.

Conor O’Hara comes down to meet us, wariness in his eyes despite the width of his smile. “Well, this is a surprise.” I give a cool nod. Finch says nothing, just slams his car door shut. He can’t quite bring himself to look at O’Hara, whose eyebrows inch up. “You’re here to see Ms. Donovan, I take it?”

“Correct,” I tell him.

He pauses, then says, “I’ll have to ask you to hand over any weapons.”

“Not a chance.”

“Don Morelli,” O’Hara says, looking me straight in the eye, “I know you’re a friend to the Donovans. But this visit is unexpected, and frankly, neither you nor your husband look all that friendly today. So I’m not letting you in to see Ms. Donovan without surrendering your weapons.”

For all O’Hara’s geniality, he doesn’t mess around when it comes to protecting his Boss. I pull out my Sig Sauer, ignoring Finch’s sharp, “Luca,” and hand it over.

I turn back to Finch, looking at him over the roof of the car, and he holds my eyes for a moment before rolling his own. “Fine,” he says. “Better fucking take mine, too.” He stalks over to O’Hara and hands over his gun. O’Hara’s twitching brows are the only sign of surprise that Finch was armed as well.

People really do underestimate my baby bird.

“Well?” I ask, once O’Hara has patted us down.

He looks us both in the face, his eyes still troubled, and then gives a nod. “Follow me.”

* * *

Tara Donovan is in the sitting room near the front door of Hillview House. She greets us warmly, and I wish, once more, that I didn’t have to be the bearer of bad tidings. But better she find out from us than wake up dead one day.

“This is such a lovely surprise,” she says, waving us to sit down on the lounge suite opposite her chair. “And I can’t wait to hear all about your time in Italy. But what on earth are you doing here?”

We are not alone. In the room with Tara and us are Byrne and Murphy, and O’Hara stands by the door. “We need to talk,” I tell her.

“Alone,” Finch adds.

Tara goes still, except for her hands, which squeeze at the arms of the lounge chair. “Alright,” she says softly, and nods at the men.

But O’Hara hesitates. “Ms. Donovan, I’m not comfortable leaving you here alone.”

“You can stay, Conor, of course.”

“No.” My voice cracks loudly through the quiet room. “Alone, Tara. We mean it.”

Her confusion morphs into concern. “Whatever you have to tell me, you can say in front of Conor, surely.”

Finch puts a hand on my arm. “ Luca,” he says softly. “He has a right to hear what we have to say.”

Finch is right, but if we let Conor stay and the other two leave, it’s hard to tell what might happen. “Fine,” I say, and plow ahead. “We have information on a leak in your family, Tara.”

No one speaks, although Murphy and Byrne move a little closer to where Tara is sitting, as though my words are a threat to her.

“A leak?” Tara repeats.

“Someone in your Family has been working as a double agent for the IFF.” There’s no point sugarcoating it, and I want this over and done with as soon as possible.

Tara looks to Finch, who gives a short nod. “How do you know this?” Her voice is no longer warm.

The atmosphere in the room changes, too. O’Hara comes closer to us as though we might suddenly attack. Murph and Byrne, on either side of Tara’s chair, take a step forward.

“Because we found what the IFF has been looking for all this time,” Finch tells her. “It’s a list that Mom made before she died. A list of every member of the Irish Freedom Fighters that she knew of, and everyone even remotely associated. All their crimes, any evidence she had against them, anything that implicated them. It’s a fucking powder keg. I can see why they wanted it back.”

“Wanted it so badly that they were willing to sacrifice any number of men to get it,” I add, taking up the story. “And when I went through the information, there was one name on there that was familiar to me—and will be to you, too.”

I’m as tense as every other person in the room, preparing for any eventuality. Someone will make a move soon. They’ll have to, if only to break the tension. Tara is gripping the arms of the chair so hard that her fingernails are digging into the brocade.

“I think you’d better tell me who it is,” she says slowly. “But first, perhaps you’re right; I’ll send the men away. This is a private conversation.”

“I don’t like it,” O’Hara says at once. “I’m sorry, Ms. Donovan,” he adds, wincing at her cold, imperious stare, “but it—it feels wrong in here.”

“Yes, it does feel wrong in here,” I say softly. “Because someone in this room is a rat.”

Tara turns her eyes from O’Hara to me. “That’s a serious accusation. You’re telling me one of my closest security advisers is actually a plant from the IFF?”

“Yeah,” Finch says. “That’s what we’re telling you.”

I see O’Hara’s fingers tightening on his gun, and I take a step in front of Finch. I can’t help myself—it’s instinct. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to stop me.

“Alright,” Tara says, paler than I’ve ever seen her, so pale that the light dusting of freckles across her nose stands out in sharp relief. “Then who is it?”

Chapter Sixty-Six

LUCA

I can see Finch’s reflection in the large antique mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and I feel like I’m sitting in the audience of a play as I watch him silently lift his arm and point. Tara follows his finger, turning her head to stare at the man next to her, disbelieving.

Rory Byrne blinks. Laughs. “Are you for real?”

“Bullshit,” O’Hara growls in a low voice.

Tara looks back to Finch with a wordless question. He nods.

“No,” O’Hara says roughly. “There’s no way—”

“You motherfucker,” Murphy says, turning to Byrne in astonishment. “But I should’ve known.” His face darkens. To one of the Donovans, at least, the news sounds about right. He looks at Tara. “I never felt right about him, ma’am, not since that attack on Shanahan. Byrne had too much blood on him, right from the start.”

“I did all I could for that asshole Shanahan,” Byrne says indignantly. “Cradled him while he was dying, and that’s when he bled all over me. What did you do, Murphy?” Byrne spreads his hands in appeal to O’Hara. “Conor, come on. You’re going to believe these Italian fuckers over me?”

Conor’s lips tremble, but before he can speak, Tara stands up from her seat and glares at Byrne. “Would you like to rephrase that?” she asks, and even I get a little quiver down my backbone at the tone in her voice.

“I’ll apologize for my language, Ms. Donovan,” Byrne backtracks, “but I won’t let anyone slander me like this, because that’s what this is, it’s slander. Accusing me of being a rat when they have their own problems in New York—yeah, that’s right,” he laughs when I give him a closer look. “Everyone’s heard that Capo of yours running his mouth, trying to take you down. You want to find a leak? Look no further than Al Vollero.”

Finch and I exchange glances, and Finch slides a hand into his back pocket. “The thing is,” he says, “we brought a copy of the intel with us, Tara. You can check it yourself if you don’t believe us. So can you, Conor.” His voice on that last addition is gentle, too gentle perhaps, because Conor’s jaw clenches like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

Finch holds up a USB, and all attention in the room swivels to him—except mine.

And except for Rory Byrne’s.

I don't have my weapon with me, thanks to O'Hara. If only he’d used that same attention to detail on his lover. But there’s no time to blame the man now. Byrne has seized his opportunity, and jumped forward to grab Tara, turning her around and holding a knife to her throat.

“Rory!” Tara gasps, as O’Hara immediately goes into a shooting stance, his handgun trained unerringly at Byrne’s head. O’Hara says nothing, but the fury in his face says more than words ever could.

Murph holds out his hands, placating. “Calm down, now, Rory. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Sure, I’ll leave the stupid stuff up to you, Murph. You’ve never been all that bright. You know what, fuck it, you were right—I killed Shanahan, and it was only seconds before you came around that corner. But you believed me alright when I said I’d seen someone running away. Christ, you’re an idiot.”

His eyes are bright, almost feverish, the delight of a man who’s been playing a part and finally gets to drop the mask. “What do you want?” I ask, before Murphy can get out of hand. If he tries to jump Byrne, Tara will only get caught in the crossfire.

“Me?” Byrne spits. “I just want out of here alive. Whether or not Ms. Donovan stays alive as well…that’s up to the rest of you.” He sends a cocky smile O’Hara’s way. “I really am sorry, Conor. We had a good time, though, didn’t we? But put the gun down, now. You know you don’t want to shoot me. And you definitely don’t want to shoot Ms. Donovan, here.” Byrne pulls her even closer, making sure O’Hara doesn’t have a clean shot.

But O’Hara doesn’t move, keeping his sights fixed.

“Drop it, Conor,” Byrne warns. “I fucking mean it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see O’Hara’s gun waver, just slightly. Tara mouths a furious, Do it, at him, but Byrne is keeping her so close that it’s a tricky shot. I have no idea how good O’Hara’s aim is. If it were Vitali, Angelo, Nick Fontana, I’d tell them to drop the asshole and be confident they’d get it done.

But I don’t know O’Hara’s skills.

“Let her go,” O’Hara says at last. “I will shoot you, Rory.”

Byrne gives a humorless laugh. “So much for the love of your life, eh?”

I clear my throat, drawing Byrne’s attention, and ask, “How exactly do you plan to get out of here? The entire block is full of men who are loyal to the woman you’re holding hostage. You’ll catch a bullet as soon as you step out of this house. Probably when you step out of this room, if we’re being realistic.”

There is desperation behind Byrne’s feral smile. Despite his desire to seem calm and controlled, he’ll panic any second. That’s not good. I don’t want him panicking with a knife to Tara’s neck. “I plan to phone a friend, since you ask. If the crews out there let him through, and you let me walk out of here, we can all live. And I’ll take that USB with me, too.”

“Conor,” Tara says softly, and gives a very slight nod.

“Okay, so the thing is,” Finch says loudly, before Byrne can turn his attention back to Tara. My husband looks as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him, and if it weren’t for the slight shake in the hand holding the USB, I’d believe he wasn’t affected at all by the scene in front of him. But I know how much he loves Tara, and I know how scared he must be. And how determined, despite it all. “The thing is,” he repeats, “we’re living in the future, buddy. This is not the only copy of the information. Plus, how do you know we haven’t already done the IFF some damage with it? Dropped it off to FBI headquarters, maybe? You’d be better off running instead of haggling.”

“Still, I suppose if they have it,” I say conversationally, as Tara gives an encouraging stare at O’Hara, “they can check how bad the damage will be, pull out the men they need to before the Feds come down on them—not to mention the NSA, the CIA, Interpol, and, well, all those other organizations who must be looking forward to catching up for a chat.”

“Stop talking,” Byrne says, between his teeth. “I told you what I want. And if I don’t get it, I will kill this bitch.”

I can see Finch’s face morph into outrage at the idea that anyone would dare to speak about his sister that way, and unfortunately for Byrne it’s the last thing that ever comes out of his mouth.

O’Hara fires two shots, deafening in the small room. Byrne takes one of them to the forehead, the other in the cheek. He collapses immediately, and Tara dives away toward Murph, who gathers her up and shields her with his own body in the best tradition of all the bodyguards I’ve ever seen working for the Morellis.

Conor O’Hara stays rooted to the spot, staring at his now-dead lover.

I take the initiative and go over and kneel next to the body, make absolutely sure he’s dead. I kick his gun away with my foot, then take an absent pulse.

I almost want to compliment O’Hara on his marksmanship, but I don’t think it would go down well.

Finch has already rushed over to Tara, making sure she’s unharmed. He and Murph are trying to pull her out of the room, but she resists them, tugging her arms out of their grasp. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’m fine, let me go.” She brushes off their concerns and steps quickly to O’Hara instead. “Conor, are you okay?”

Her voice pulls him out of his reverie.

“I should’ve seen it,” he says blankly. “I should’ve…”

Tara looks across to Murph and flicks her head at him. “Make sure everyone knows what’s happened. But keep them out of this room until I give the word.” She looks to Finch and me, her face creased with regret. “Please,” she says softly, while putting an arm around O’Hara‘s shoulders, “give us a moment.”

Finch takes my hand and leads me out of the room, following Murph as we go, then heading toward the library. But when I glance back over my shoulder, I see Tara pulling her second-in-command into a warm embrace.

It’s never easy being betrayed. God knows I’ve discovered that myself over the years.

* * *

We have quite a wait before Tara comes to speak to us again in the library. And when she does, it’s clear she’s been crying. She turns her face aside when she sees Finch sympathetically looking at her red eyes and says, “I really was happy for Conor, you know. I really thought…” She shakes her head. “And the way Rory spoke about the IFF, the absolute hatred he showed…but I suppose who he really hated was me. He must have been thinking about me, about the Donovans, every time he pretended to be talking about the IFF.”

She takes a breath and pulls herself up to her full height, which is still several inches shorter than Finch. “Don Morelli,” she says formally, looking me straight in the eye, “I want to thank you for what you’ve done. You have proved once again that you’re a great ally—a great friend. But I think it’s best for now if you—if you leave. A-and you, Howie,” she adds, her voice breaking a little. “I mean, I hope you understand I’m grateful, but—”

“We get it,” Finch says gravely. “We really do. And Tara, if there had been another way, we would have taken it. But you can understand why we didn’t want to send any communications about this. Rory was in charge of comms here, so…” He spreads his hands. Tara nods, and Finch goes on tentatively, “Is Conor okay?”

“No,” Tara says. “I think he’ll blame himself about this for some time to come.”

“Love is blind, as they say,” I tell her with a shrug. “But O’Hara’s actions today demonstrated without a doubt where his loyalties lie. He has no reason to blame himself.”

I’m not sure I fully believe it, that he shouldn’t blame himself, but it seems like the right thing to say. Besides, that’s Tara’s problem, not mine. God knows I have enough trouble without borrowing more. I’ll have to manage this Al Vollero situation as soon as we’re back in New York. It’s become much too volatile if even our enemies in Boston have heard about it.

Tara turns to Finch. “The USB—may I have it?” Finch hands it over and she turns it around a few times in her fingers. “Have you done anything with the information so far?”

“I’ve used a couple of names as collateral,” I say. I made sure Detective Gina Garcia got a few crumbs to keep her interested. Not through the Morellis, of course, but through the new backchannel of Baxter Flynn. “But I wanted to discuss it with you, since the IFF is a problem for both of us. We could hold onto it, use it as blackmail material to keep them in check. Or…” I shrug.

“Or we can turn it over in its entirety to the authorities and destroy those bastards for once and for all,” Tara finishes, her eyes flashing.

“Maybe,” I say. “There are benefits to both avenues. We can discuss it in more depth at a later date.”

“We don’t need to discuss it later,” Tara says, and I can see in her face which avenue she intends to take. I’m glad, because it’s my preference as well. Blackmail’s an ugly business, and it only causes more bad blood.

Much better to lance the boil and let the infection drain away completely.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

LUCA

Problems beget problems.

It’s something Tino Morelli said to me once, and I never forgot it, musing over it from time to time when it floated into my mind during times like these.

Problems beget problems. My own have become legion over the last few years, and Tara Donovan must now be feeling similar, I thought, as we drove away from Boston.

Finch was uncharacteristically quiet during the drive. Like his sister, he really had been happy for Conor O’Hara, too. There was one thing he said, though—one request he made, out of the blue.

“Luca? I think I want to stay in the mansion. Permanently.”

Perhaps solutions spawn solutions, too. The mansion was only supposed to be a stopgap place to live, but there’s something that seems right about his suggestion. Tara has Hillview. I want my baby bird to have a place to call his own, too.

And I want a palace from which to rule. The townhouse was where I found my feet, and where Finch and I began our marriage, but things have changed now. For me. For us. For our partnership.

“I think that’s a great idea,” I told him.

The other thing I like about the mansion is that it has at least three exits: front door, back door, and the tunnel, which Vitali is quietly extending back into its Prohibition-era route, to exit at the river. If we get firebombed, God forbid, we’ll have options.

And I’ve also allowed Vitali to install panic rooms on every level.

Solutions spawn solutions.

A place to live—done. And as we drove back to New York, I received a call about another solution: my financial advisors, telling me I’d been granted permission to buy up the stock I wanted, making me a majority shareholder in the company Louis Clemenza relies on. It seemed that La Contessa, as controlling partner of the objecting board faction, had done me a favor.

She knew as well as I did that the “assassination attempt” in Venice was not what it seemed, but perhaps I’d amused her—I wouldn’t dare to think I’d actually impressed her—or perhaps she was as tired of the Clemenzas as I was. In any case, she’d gone ahead and withdrawn her objections, which allowed me to put Lou Clemenza’s entire holdings in danger. He’d made some bad financial choices over the last five years, and also some stupid ones. Now I could take advantage of that fact.

“Did we do the right thing about the IFF?” Finch asks when the call is finished.

“I believe so.” We agreed to leave it in Tara’s hands. Let the Irish deal with Irish problems. I have enough Italian problems of my own. “We need to deal with this Vollero business,” I say to Finch. Manhattan is in sight. We’re nearly home.

“We do,” he agrees, rousing himself from his thoughts. He stretches as well as he can in the car, and reaches a hand up behind my neck to massage it. I smile and lean back into his kneading fingers. “Tonight?” he asks.

“Not tonight. We’ve seen enough blood for one day, and I want to speak to the Commission about it first, too.” This day has felt like an eternity, and when we get back to the mansion, all I want to do is to fall into bed with Finch and hold him close.

“Fuck the Commission,” Finch sighs.

“I’m not going to take out a senior Family member without their say-so,” I insist.

“Fuscone did. Clemenza did.” The venom drips from his tongue.

“Yes, and look at the consequences. I’m not going to destabilize New York any more than I have to. I might be the head of the Commission, but I always intend to consult them on decisions like these.”

Finch is silent for a while, squeezing at the knots in my shoulders now. He has a wonderful way of knowing exactly where all my physical tension is bunched up. “I want to be there when it happens,” he says after another minute.

“Naturally.”

“But I also need to go see how Kismet’s doing for a few nights this week,” he reminds me. “See how Hudson’s managed in my absence.”

I give the same theatrical groan Finch gives whenever I tell him I need to go back out to work after dinner. “It’s always work with you, baby bird.”

It gets a laugh out of him at least, and then we lay our plans.

I remember Nick Fontana talking about how he preferred having Bianchi more deeply involved in the business, because he didn’t have to watch his words so much. But it’s not just that, I see now, or maybe I just understand better what Nick really meant.

Like everything else in life, it’s about trust.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

FINCH

Having Louis fucking Clemenza over for dinner on a Thursday night is not my idea of a great time, but the situation in New York is becoming exponentially dangerous. The city is on a knife-edge, the tension making its way even to my own nightclub. There was an altercation outside Kismet on Twinks Tuesday, a bunch of Clemenzas and a group of Morelli soldiers throwing down. No deaths, but a lot of hurt pride and wounded feelings. I didn’t like it any more than Luca. No Mob Business is the unspoken but strongly enforced motto at Kismet. I know better than anyone that half of Kismet’s patrons come there because of the allure of who I am—who my husband is—and the thrill of being danger-adjacent.

But the reality of Family business will only put them off…and the Clemenzas are out of control.

So on Thursday night, having recovered from our jet lag, we have Lou Clemenza around for dinner. It took a lot of negotiating, a lot of sweet-talking, but in the end, he agreed. On his arrival, Luca’s bodyguards patted down Clemenza, and Clemenza’s bodyguards patted down Luca and swept the formal dining room for any stashed weapons.

“No one wants to pat me down?” I pouted, fluttering my eyelashes at Clemenza’s biggest bodyguard. He made a visceral face of disgust, and Clemenza actually laughed.

“I’ll do it,” muttered the second guard. “Keep the fuckin’ peace.”

Once everyone was satisfied, Luca and I entertained Clemenza privately in the dining room, just the three of us. Meanwhile, the Clemenzas made nice with the Morellis in the sitting room closer to the entrance.

My takeaway from this night so far is that Lou Clemenza is angry.

He ate angrily, drank angrily, made angry small talk. I said nothing, and smiled sweetly whenever he glared at me. I acted every inch the perfect Mafia Wife, because I knew it would piss him off even more. Luca sat through the whole dinner with his lips slightly curled in the suggestion of amusement.

“I must say, Don Clemenza,” my husband says now, “you’re very exercised by this business deal I’ve made. It’s perfectly legal.”

“It ain’t the legality I object to,” Clemenza growls. “And you fucking know it, Morelli. That company is three centuries old and it’s important to my Family!”

“Then you should have made that clearer to your business partners in Italy. Or had contingency plans in place.”

“Oh, yeah? Like Tino Morelli had contingency plans? Look where he is now.”

My hands clench beneath the table. That was a direct fucking threat. But Luca remains calm. “I can’t help it if it suits my purposes to break up that company. It will be very profitable for me. If it hurts you, your investors, you need to get better financial advice. I can give you the name of the firm I use—”

“You must think you’ve done Tino proud,” Clemenza snarls. “Is that right? Well, perhaps you have. Yes, I think Tino would be pretty proud of himself, seeing what you’ve done to the city. To the Morelli Family.”

“I like to think he would,” Luca replies mildly, ignoring the bitter twist to Clemenza’s words. “But Lou, let’s put your feelings about finance aside for the moment. There’s something more important that I want to discuss.”

Clemenza barks out a laugh. “More important? What could be more important than—”

“Your life,” I tell him, because I can’t help myself any longer. “Your life, Don Clemenza, is hanging in the balance. Has been, all night.”

Clemenza’s rheumy eyes have swum from Luca to me and back again. “You gonna let this kid speak to me like that, Morelli?” Clemenza asks. For a moment I get a glimpse of the man he once was, the most feared Mob Boss not just in New York but on the whole East Coast. I can see in those wet red eyes exactly what he’d do to me if he had the chance.

Luca bangs a fist down on the table, making both Clemenza and me jump along with the silverware. But when he speaks, his voice is still calm. “You will respect my husband, Don Clemenza, or you will regret it.”

“Your husband just threatened me!” Clemenza struggles to his feet. “You invite me into your home—you show me hospitality—” He’s spluttering so hard I wonder if he’s going to just stroke out and save us some time and trouble.

But then I get it. He’s just playing a part, the same part that has suited him since Luca came to power: a doddery old man, no threat to anyone. But he’s been working hard to undermine the Morellis for a long time. Since before Luca became Don Morelli.

He’s a little like me in some ways, Louis Clemenza. He likes to appear harmless.

“Sit down, Lou,” Luca says, relaxing back in his chair. We wait, and Clemenza eventually reseats himself, but there’s a wariness to his face that wasn’t there before. “I think it’s time we all laid our cards on the table,” Luca continues. “I know that you’ve been working against me for some time. I know, for example, about your attempted hit on my lawyer, Carlo Bianchi. I know about your plant in the law firm, feeding you information.” He leans forward, his voice soft velvet. “I know you were there the night Tino was murdered. And I know you helped.”

Clemenza snorts. “That’s bullshit, Morelli. Tino and me, we had our differences, sure, but he was a good man.”

“He was a great man,” Luca corrects him. “Sometimes I think that’s more important than being a good man, in this city at least. He reshaped New York in many ways. Didn’t he?”

But Clemenza is still stuck on Luca’s accusation. “I had nothing to do with Tino’s death!” he protests. “That was all Sam Fuscone. He was a loose cannon, Sam.”

I take out my phone and scroll through it. Without preamble, I hit play on the video of Tino Morelli’s last moments, which Luca has sent to me, and I play it for Clemenza. Luca watches him unblinkingly, but Clemenza just stares the video with an expressionless face. Only the light of glee in his eyes as Tino smiles his last smile gives away what’s going on in his head.

“Looks to me like he died relatively happy,” is all he says. “Would that we could all expect the same.”

“I don’t think you’re paying attention to the right thing,” I tell him. I play a portion of the audio again, putting my hand over the video so he can concentrate only on what is being said. I hit stop again, and raise a questioning eyebrow.

Clemenza shakes his head, brows creased as though he’s puzzled. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says. “It’s a terrible thing Sam Fuscone did that night, but he did it without permission from me. Any of my guys who were there, they went out on their own.”

“I’ll play it one last time for you.”

I see the moment when Clemenza realizes what he’s supposed to be listening for. His eyes grow hooded and his fingers clench into fists. He might be an old man now, but those fists are the same ones that beat men to death in his youth. If he still had his strength, or his gun, he wouldn’t hesitate to attack me.

Or Luca.

Clemenza is definitely nervous now. And when Luca and I stay silent, waiting, he knows, at last, that he’s in trouble. “What’s going on? Why are you two staring at me like that? What the hell’s going on?”

“What’s going on, Don Clemenza,” Luca tells him quietly, “is retribution.”

“Huh?” He’s blinking rapidly, sweat trickling over his wrinkled forehead. “What retribution? You trying to give an old man a heart attack?”

“That’d be the easy way to go, wouldn’t it?” I observe. “Tino Morelli didn’t get the easy way out. Neither will you.”

“I told you,” Clemenza insists, “that business had nothing to do with me.”

“But you heard it, didn’t you?” Luca asks. “Because it certainly sounds like you there in the background. ‘Let me down there, I want to kill that motherfucker myself.’ That’s you, isn’t it?”

“That ain’t me.”

“Of course it is,” Luca chuckles. “And I know for sure, Lou, because you shot your mouth off to the wrong man.” He leaves space for a response, but Clemenza just looks mutely back at him, sheer hatred in his eyes, undisguised. “You’ve been bragging to the wrong man about the fact that you put a bullet into Tino Morelli and let Fuscone take the blame,” Luca goes on. “You thought you were untouchable after Fuscone disappeared—” I have an unbidden flash of memory: Luca breaking Fuscone’s neck to protect me. “—and you thought I wouldn’t find out about your role. But you were wrong, Lou. You were wrong.”

“Vollero’s a rat!” Clemenza shouts. “You can’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth! He’s been telling me all about your business, things he shouldn’t—”

He breaks off as Luca smiles.

“I didn’t say it was Al Vollero,” he points out. “And yet you knew exactly who I meant—which means you must remember having that conversation about Tino.”

Clemenza bares his teeth in a snarl. “You can’t do this, Morelli. You do this, the Commission will have your head.”

Luca sits back again in his chair with a sigh. “Well, I can’t deny, you have me there, Lou. I’ve spoken to the Commission about you, and they agreed with me that your time is over.” Clemenza’s face goes gray and slack, his forehead beading with sweat. “Unfortunately,” Luca continues, drawing circles on the tablecloth with his fingertip, “they refused to give me permission to eliminate you. The Commission was not entirely convinced by my evidence. Big Gee, in particular, spoke up for you.”

The Giulianos have always had the Clemenzas’ backs. I was furious when Luca told me the outcome of the meeting: that Rossi had backed him, but Big Gee and Joe Alessi were reluctant to kill Clemenza. Two against two.

Luca had agreed to compromise, for the sake of stability.

Clemenza is smirking now, relief making him bold. “Damn right,” he mutters. “No evidence at all, you got nothin’ on me.”

“However,” Luca says, and Clemenza stops smirking. “The Commission has grown tired of your games, Lou. So our decision is this: you’ll step down as head of your Family. You’ll get the hell out of New York, and if you know what’s good for you, out of the country. You’re officially retiring, Lou. Congratulations.”

Clemenza takes it in, rubbing a finger over trembling lips. “And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, I have their backing to remove you myself. Permanently.”

That was the only outcome of the meeting I was happy about. If Clemenza refuses to step down, the Commission have granted Luca permission to execute him, personally, for the good of the city as a whole.

I really, really hope Clemenza will refuse.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

LUCA

There is a drawn-out moment where Louis Clemenza weighs up his options, and Finch and I sit there, watching him. Under the table, Finch is jigging his thigh against mine, nerves getting the better of him, although his face is serene.

At last, Clemenza shifts in his chair. “Fine,” he says. “You might think you’ve outplayed me, Morelli, but the fact is I’ve been done with this life for a long time. It will be a relief to leave it. And denying you satisfaction in your misguided vendetta, well. That will be a pleasure I cradle to my heart for years to come.”

I can’t deny I’m disappointed. I honestly thought Clemenza would refuse, let me settle things tonight. Because I still intend to pay him out for what he did to Tino. Next to me, Finch has gone stiff with anger. I put a warning hand on his knee.

We will have other opportunities. Once Clemenza is gone from this city, I can go after him quietly. So I smile now, and say, “I’m glad you saw sense, Lou.”

He sneers at me. “Sense? Fah. I want you to swear to it, Morelli, that you’ll honor my decision. That you won’t come after me, send some assassin in the night, get around the Commission’s wishes that way.” When I say nothing, he growls, “So you’re not a man of honor. I always knew it.”

“I am a man of my word,” I tell him, my anger rising. Lou Clemenza, of all people, dares to question my honor? Finch’s eyes are flashing dangerously as well in response to Clemenza’s insult. “And I’ll swear to it, Clemenza, if that’s what it takes to get rid of you.”

“You don’t even respect tradizione enough to do this right,” he grumbles. “Didn’t Rossi tell you how it’s done? Or Alessi?”

“Tell me what?” I’m getting impatient, but I refuse to let it show.

“You can’t just give your word,” Clemenza scolds me. “You want me gone, you gotta drink with me, and that seals the deal. Capisce?”

The last thing I feel like doing is showing this old asshole any respect. But I know as well as anyone that there are traditions around our business. Traditions, expectations, ways of doing things. So it’s out of respect for my Family, for the old ways, when I agree. “Alright,” I say, standing. “We’ll do it right, Lou. I’ll drink with you.”

Finch stays sitting there in stony silence, until Clemenza turns to him. “You, stand up. I want you to see this. To act as a witness, eh?”

Finch stays where he is, looking to me. At my nod, he stands, but slowly, his jaw clenched.

“Not whiskey,” Clemenza snaps, when he sees me lifting the decanter from the silver tray that sits on the drinks cabinet. “None of this Irish shit. Where’s your sambuca? It’s gotta be sambuca, that’s how it’s done.”

“Underneath, Luca,” Finch tells me. He looks down at the closed glass doors of the drink cabinet, and I wait for Lou to shuffle out of the way so I can open them. But I keep an eye on Clemenza, because even now, I don’t trust him.

In fact, I trust him even less in this moment than I have the entire time I’ve known him. It’s too easy.

It’s just too easy.

I bring out the bottle of sambuca, show it to him, and ask, only half sarcastically, “Does this meet with your approval, Don Clemenza?”

He takes it from me, looks it over. With a grunt, he nods. “It’ll do. Coffee beans?”

Finch looks puzzled, but this request is familiar to me. It’s a common Italian tradition to add three coffee beans to sambuca, symbolizing health, happiness and prosperity. I wish none of those things for Clemenza, but there’s no harm in pretending.

Still—there’s something wrong.

I don’t like the way Lou’s eyes are flitting back and forth from me to Finch. But Clemenza is an old man, and unarmed. I can take him if I need to. Hell, Finch could take him. And I know there’s no way Clemenza has brought a weapon in here with him. My men patted him down themselves.

Clemenza’s holding onto the bottle still, peering at the label.

“You want me to get my bartender in here from Kismet?” Finch asks, his voice cold. “Drink up and get the hell out of my house, Clemenza.”

Clemenza shakes his head. “That’s your problem, right there, D’Amato. Outsiders, they don’t understand tradizione.”

“Enough!” I snarl, and Clemenza gives a satisfactory cringe at the tone in my voice. “Let’s just get this done.” We have coffee beans stored in the drinks cabinet as well, for this very purpose in fact, and I pull out six, dropping three each into small tumblers.

“Not those glasses!” Clemenza wheezes. “Do you know nothing? Those ones there—those—” He grumbles on in Italian under his breath, nodding at the glass-fronted drinks cabinet, at the martini glasses he can see in there.

I hesitate, just for a second, as old insecurities rise up. Martini glasses? Surely not.

But I needed so much help from Finch in the early days—I had no idea how to dress, how to speak, which goddamn fork to use at dinner. My eyes go to him automatically, questioning, seeing reassurance. He gives a tiny shrug, his mouth twisting. And although I just threatened Clemenza for saying it, it’s not untrue—if I don’t know the Italian traditions here, I can hardly expect Finch to know them.

Maybe Clemenza is just trying to make me ridiculous, but I’ll play along for now. I want him out of here as fast as possible, before Finch says or does something unwise. So I squat down in front of the drinks cabinet with a sigh, and reach out for the glasses.

From the corner of my eye, I see Clemenza make a sudden movement.

I glance up at him; with hatred and vengeance twisting his face, he’s taken the neck of the heavy sambuca bottle in both hands like a baseball bat, and is swinging it straight for my head.

My arm goes up defensively, but before the bottle contacts my skull, there are three loud explosions, and the sharper sound of shattering glass. The bottle hits my shoulder, but lacks force, thudding to the ground unbroken.

Clemenza staggers into the drinks cabinet before falling to the ground, gasping like a fish out of water. His shirt is turning red before my eyes, blood pooling underneath him on the floor.

There are shouts and running feet deeper within the mansion, and I pull myself to my feet and stare at Finch. He’s coming around the table, gun still in his hand, and once he’s standing over Clemenza, he puts two more bullets directly into his head.

“Are you alright?” he asks me calmly.

In two seconds, Clemenza’s bodyguards will be here. I leap at Finch, grab the gun from him, and shove him behind me.

“What the fuck?” booms the first of Clemenza’s guards, who has arrived in the doorway at the same time as Vitali. The bodyguard stares at his dead Boss, locks eyes with me, and makes an assumption.

“Don’t,” I warn him, raising the gun, but he begins to move toward me despite it, a snarl on his face. From the doorway, Vitali shoots him dead immediately. He drops, his blood seeping across the floor to join the puddle from his master.

Two more bodyguards have arrived, one shoving into Vitali before sending a punch toward his jaw. But before I need to intervene, the other Clemenza bodyguard, the same one who patted Finch down at the start of this evening, wraps an arm around his compatriot’s throat, pulls him away from Vitali, and breaks his neck.

It’s as efficient a kill as I’ve ever seen.

He lets the guard’s body drop to the floor, and puts his hands up at once when I turn the gun on him. Carlucci and Tramonto have also appeared now, weapons out, waiting for instruction.

“Don’t shoot, Boss,” Vitali calls out to me, rubbing his jaw. “This is the guy, the one Vollero sent. He’s with us.”

It’s not just the Rossis and the Morellis who had a problem with Lou Clemenza. Many factions within his Family wanted to get out from under his thumb. Now, I suppose, they can.

When I decided to break up the Clemenza Family, it seemed the best option was to find all those pre-existing fissures and put pressure on them. Al Vollero, who had previously made his grievances with me and the other Morelli senior members well known in the wider community, was the perfect plant. A disaffected, disgruntled, aging Morelli Capo who demonstrably preferred the Old Don’s way of doing things? Clemenza ate up everything Vollero fed to him, never stopped to think about whether it was true.

Never stopped to question why everything that came out of Vollero’s mouth fit so well with what he wanted to hear.

And along the way, Vollero managed to turn more than one Clemenza member into a friend of the Morellis.

“You’re the one Al Vollero turned?” I ask the lone surviving Clemenza bodyguard, who nods vigorously, hands still high in the air.

“Prefer to say I came to my senses,” he says, then adds, “and there are a lot more of us…Boss.” He dips his head.

I keep Finch firmly behind me. “Good to hear. But I’m sure you won’t object to staying under watch for the time being.” Carlucci and Tramonto are already hustling him away from me.

“Happy to help,” I hear him call back down the hallway.

“What happened here, Boss?” Vitali asks, indicating Clemenza‘s body with his gun. His eyes go over my shoulder to Finch, then back to the body.

“Clemenza wouldn’t take the deal,” I say at once. “Went for Finch. I had to put him down.”

Vitali is no fool. He knows my shooting style better than almost anyone else in the Family, and a cursory glance at Clemenza would tell him this wasn’t my work. But he pulls his eyes away from the corpse and shrugs. “Well, that’s a real shame. You’ll have to get new carpet in here. And after all those renovations I just did.”

Finch steps out from behind me, pulling my arm around his shoulders, looking wide-eyed and innocent. “Thank goodness Luca was here to protect me,” he says, and looks up at me, so guileless that for a moment, I almost believe my own lie.

“Thank goodness,” I echo him, looking down into his face.

Finch gives me a very small, knowing smile.

Chapter Seventy

LUCA

Once Vitali and the others have left the room, I take Finch with me to the other corner, push him up against the wall, and lean over him.

“He was going to kill you,” he says, before I can speak. “He was going to bash your fucking brains out, and he wanted me to see it. So don’t you tell me I did anything wrong, Luca.”

“You didn’t.” That surprises him. I tip his chin up and kiss him, a soft press of my lips. “Don’t get me wrong,” I say afterward. “I wanted you to have that gun with you tonight to protect yourself, first and foremost. But it also gave me options with Clemenza, if it came down to it. And, well…” I glance over at Clemenza’s body. “It gave you options, too. Thank you, angel, for defending me. But I couldn’t have anyone knowing—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I know the score. If Clemenza refused to step down, you and you alone were supposed to kill him. All that tradizione shit that I don’t understand, right? Guess Clemenza was right about that.”

He gives me a wicked grin, but I’m not ready to smile about tonight just yet. I pull him away with me, heading for the door. “Let’s get out of here. It’s over, baby bird.”

Finch gives Louis Clemenza’s corpse a dispassionate look as we pass by. But when we get outside to the hallway, his face goes from stony cold to exhausted. “Is it really over?”

“I believe it is. Clemenza’s dead. The money is gone. His Capos will fall into in-fighting, and we’ll see if we can scoop up the most useful leftovers, the ones Vollero recommends, and make them Morellis.” We both turn as the doorbell sounds, and Carlucci jogs past us to get the door. I pull Finch to me and kiss him softly. “Go on,” I murmur. “Go wait in the kitchen for me.”

I don’t want Finch to see the next part, watch me showing off the corpse of Don Louis Clemenza to my men, so they can see for themselves that the work we’ve put in has paid off. It’s important to me, to them, but I don’t want Finch to see us gloating over his handiwork.

I’m a monster, and I know what I am. But Finch will always be my anchor to a brighter world. I want to make sure, despite everything, that he does not lose the light that I see in him.

* * *

Once Finch is safely stowed in the kitchen, I bring my Capos into the dining room and show them the proof. Carlucci has already looked his fill, so he stays standing guard over our new Clemenza friend in an upstairs room instead. Vitali saw it, played a part in it, but says he wants another look. “Need to make sure I have the details down, Boss,” he murmurs to me, “so I can back you up if anyone asks, you know what I mean?”

I do know what he means.

As for the rest of them, Nick Fontana and Snapper Marino are eager to witness the scene, and Al Vollero comes in last of all, pride lighting up his face.

“See for yourselves,” I instruct them. “I don’t want there to be any doubts. And I want all of us to remember tonight. What we achieved together.”

But Vollero is not interested in looking at the dead Lou Clemenza. He takes my hand, bends over it, and ostentatiously kisses the Morelli ring. “Don Morelli, may you live forever.”

I pull him upright and into an embrace, kissing him on each cheek. “You did well, Al. Very well. Thank you for putting your reputation on the line for the Family. And your life, too; it was a dangerous play.”

“No need to mention it,” he says with false modesty.

“Hell, yes, there’s a need to mention it,” Nick says, coming over to clap him on the shoulder. “And I gotta tell you, Al, you make a much better rat than I ever would have.”

They laugh together. I’m glad to see it. I’m relieved everything has worked as planned, because without loyalty, without teamwork, none of us will survive.

“We can kiss each other’s asses later,” I say, shaking off the formality. “Let’s get rid of this mess first. Al, there’s a Clemenza bodyguard down there who claims he’s been working with you these last few weeks. Just confirm he is who he says he is, will you? I don’t want any surprises tonight. Snapper, call in the cleaners. Nick, get word to Rossi and Alessi, and to Big Gee, of course. Let them all know. Make sure they understand that I did this, that I had no choice. I’ll give them a full report tomorrow night at the meeting. And tell them we’ll divide up Clemenza’s territory between the four of us. Best to do it soon, before the Clemenzas get it into their heads to regroup.”

They all nod and set about their work. I catch Vitali, taking him aside.

“Let Angelo know it’s done, too,” I murmur in his ear. Vitali stifles his grin, and nods.

“Will do, Boss.”

As for me, I want to make sure Finch is alright—but when I go down the hallway to find him, he’s disappeared from the kitchen.

Chapter Seventy-One

FINCH

I’m standing in the cellar, hands on my hips, looking at the place where Tino Morelli died when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Angel?”

“Yeah.”

Luca comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. He doesn’t ask why I’m down here, and I love that about him. He knows. He gets it. We stand there together, breathing in and out, coming to terms with what we’ve done tonight.

I told Luca more than once that I wanted to be there when we ended the man who ended Tino Morelli. He was resistant at first, but when the Commission laid out their objections, he agreed I could be there at the dinner—as long as I had a gun with me. “I like my husband armed and dangerous,” he told me, “and able to defend himself.”

“No arguments from me,” I told him. Vollero was the one who fed us intel about when a sympathetic bodyguard would be on duty—Thursday night—and everything fell into place. When that bodyguard patted me down, he said nothing about the gun strapped to my ankle.

And so the stage was set.

I didn’t go into that dining room intending to kill Louis Clemenza. But I’m sure as shit not sorry that I did.

“Did I really fuck things up for you with the Commission?” I ask Luca now in a small voice. That’s my only possible regret about tonight. I know Luca thinks stability is important—for us, for the Family, for New York.

“Ah, I’ll smooth it over.” He gives a chuckle. “You know, Machiavelli believed that when a ruler is establishing his empire, even his most violent actions should be excused if the results are beneficial for the masses. I’ll play that card. Besides, I’m Capo dei Capi, for Christ’s sake. They need to accept that sometimes I’m just going to do what is necessary, and damn their personal feelings.”

I think what Luca is telling me—without actually telling me—is that he’s glad I forced his hand. He wanted Clemenza dead as much as I did. He was just trying to find the best way to make it happen.

The law was never going to be able to touch Louis Clemenza, and the Commission wasn’t willing to make the hard choice, either. But Clemenza was a danger—not just to Luca and me, or the Morelli Family, but to the whole of New York City. Now, with the Clemenza Family decimated, Luca will regain complete control of New York. He’s built up goodwill and influence in the other major cities as well, that insistence on making friends and cooperating has finally paid off.

There’s even a part of me that thinks Luca and I might be safe from now on. Or at least that we won’t have to live our lives in constant fear like we have these last few years. That’s not to say I plan to go waltzing around without protection, whether that means a bodyguard or a gun, but at least now the balance of power in New York will be in Luca’s hands.

And maybe I’m biased, but I really do think he’s the best man to hold that power.

I know that upstairs the senior members of the Morelli family are removing Lou Clemenza‘s body, cleaning down the blood, making it seem as though he was never here at all. Vitali’s probably ripped up the damn carpet already. When we first came up with this plan, and Luca talked about what might happen if things got out of control, he asked me if I was really sure that I could live in a house where murder had been done.

“Murder has already been done here,” I reminded him.

“Not by my hand.”

“Luca,” I told him, “let’s be clear about this. It’s not going to be murder. It’s going to be justice.”

And so it was.

* * *

Later that night, Luca brings up the idea of moving again when we’re in bed together, holding each other close. “If you want to leave this place forever,” he murmurs, “we can do that. We can go back to the townhouse as soon as it’s renovated.”

How to explain it to him? Death has always been a part of my life, for as long as I can remember. And tonight feels like a culmination of all that. I became Death myself. I let it move in me, act through me. I feel as though blood has washed away blood. One death has neutralized another.

But I can’t come up with a way to say all that without sounding delusional.

“I think,” I say carefully at last, “that Tino would have wanted us to stay here. I think he always meant for us to have this place. Don’t you?”

I am safe and secure in Luca’s arms, his fingers combing through my pink hair as he thinks it over. “I believe you’re right, baby bird. I know you’re not religious, that you don’t believe in an afterlife, so I haven’t wanted to say it before, but…” He pulls me even closer. “What we did tonight felt right. It felt to me like it was done…the way it needed to be done. That we laid Tino Morelli’s spirit to rest.”

That’s the thing I love most about Luca: despite our differences, we do think the same underneath it all.

* * *

Life goes on.

The dining room is re-renovated, and not even a shadow of that night remains there for me. Kismet nightclub has been well-managed by Hudson Taylor, enough that I promote him to manager part-time, although I beg him to stay on as my part-time assistant as well, because I’m a disaster at organizing myself—and because I just like the damn kid. I like him a lot.

In Boston, Tara seems to be doing well, although she tells me Conor O’Hara has taken some time off, and has left Murph in charge of security while he’s gone. “He’ll be back,” she assured me. “He’s definitely coming back.”

I hope it’s true and not just wishes. Tara came to visit New York soon after Clemenza’s death, to do some work on the New York arm of our charity, All One Family. While she was here, I told her what happened on the night Lou Clemenza came to dinner, because there are very few people in this world who I can talk to about things like that. Aidan O’Leary, as much as I love him, is not one of those people. But Tara held my hand as I told her, and she had a righteous fire in her eyes as she told me that I had done the right thing.

I wondered what kind of things Tara has had to do as head of the Donovan Family. How many awful deeds she’s had to sanction, if only to prevent worse. And I remembered a time when I thought she wouldn’t be able to handle it. That she had no idea what it really meant to head up a Family.

I was wrong. She really is her mother’s daughter.

We spent some time talking about Mom, too. Sharing our memories. Things that Róisín has since told Tara. “Speaking of Róisín,” Tara said, “she’s left the Poor Clares.”

“Left them? Is she allowed?”

“Well, they’re not a prison, Howie. She’s free to leave if she wants to.”

In my mind I always saw them kind of like the Morellis, or the Donovans. Once you’re in the Poor Clares, you’re in. For life. “What’s she going to do if she’s not on her knees all day?” I asked. “Praying, I mean.” I smirked, but Tara just rolled her eyes.

“Well—I wondered,” she began, and bit her lip. “I wondered if she might be able to work for All One Family. If you and Aidan agree, of course.”

I tried not to look too shocked. “Róisín wants to work in my charity?”

“Aidan’s charity, and mine, and yours,” Tara corrected me.

“Whatever. You’re serious? I don’t…I don’t know if Róisín would be down with it, but I’m fine with it, if Aidan is.”

Tara said, “She’s actually the one who suggested it. She hinted that it was something Luca had said that made her rethink her decisions?” Tara’s brow furrowed as I remembered that tense luncheon with Róisín next to Vatican City. Remembered Luca’s terse suggestion: If there are regrets you have, you should make up for them, not pretend they never happened in the first place.

“Weird,” was all I said to Tara.

“I might have it wrong; she wouldn’t elaborate. Anyway, she’s coming home to Hillview for Christmas, so maybe we can talk over the charity work while she’s there. I wondered if you and Luca might like to come out to Hillview for Christmas?”

I smiled at the offer. “That’s really nice, Tara. But—we were actually going to ask if you wanted to come here. Ro could come too, of course.”

She looked surprised and then pleased. “That sounds lovely,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

* * *

The weeks roll by very quickly. On Christmas Eve I arrive back at the mansion with bags upon bags of last-minute presents to wrap for all of my family and friends. But as soon as I walk in the front door, Luca appears with a sparkle in his eyes, and immediately turns me back around.

“I need to put a blindfold on you,” he says.

“Sexy,” I say, “but kinda dangerous to make me walk up stairs to the bedroom with a blindfold on, don’t you think?”

“Not everything is about sex, angel,” Luca snort-mutters, tying a strip of material over my eyes before I can say anything else. But the way he’s keeping his voice down suggests we have company. “And we’re not going upstairs. Your Christmas present has arrived early, and I want to surprise you.”

I think about cracking another dirty joke but I’m too intrigued. “What is it?” I ask, and let Luca turn me around and walk me slowly down the hallway in front of him, his hands on my shoulders.

Almost at the kitchen when I hear a simultaneously unfamiliar-yet-familiar noise. “Is that…is that a kid?”

I can definitely hear childish babble of some kind, and then something grabs me tight around the knees. I rip off the blindfold and stare down into the face of a toddler, looking delighted with herself, sandy curls tumbling around a cheerful, chubby face, her olive-green eyes staring back into mine.

I gaze down at her for a moment longer, although I know at once who she is. There are other people gathered here in the kitchen, too, watching my reaction, but I just can’t look away from this tiny girl.

This tiny piece of Tino Morelli.

I lean down, pick her up in my arms and spin her around, making her laugh, and then hug her close. “Hello, Marcy,” I say into her ear. “Hello, little sister. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Chapter Seventy-Two

FINCH

“You’ve met her before,” says another familiar and much-missed voice, and I put Marcy down so I can give Celia D’Amato the strength of hug she deserves.

“I missed you so much, outlaw sister,” I say past the lump in my throat. “And maybe I did meet Marcy before, but newborns don’t count. She was just a squishy little ball of tears and poop back then. She’s a real person now.”

That’s a terrible thing to say,” Cee laughs. “I missed you, too, outlaw brother.”

“Oh, my God, Cee,” I say, looking her over from head to toe. “You got chic over there in Italy. Are you seriously wearing Versace? Hot damn, you little minx.” I put her back at arm’s length and she strikes a pose.

“You like?”

Our reunion is interrupted by Brother Frank, who throws his arms around the both of us, squeezing us together and bellowing “Principessa!” in my ear. When he lets me go I see that Hudson and Gio are here, too, Hudson grinning ear-to-ear, and I’m so pleased. Marcella Constance Aïda might be my toddler half-sister, but she’s also the daughter of Hudson’s twin sister.

We’re a complicated family. But we’re definitely family.

Hudson looks teary but happy, delighted to entertain Marcy while I catch up with Celia and Frank, and when I hug him, too, it’s with special meaning.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him.

“Thanks, Mr. D,” he whispers.

“Tell you what,” I say, “how about you just call me Finch from now on? We are family, after all.”

He blinks back more tears as he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right, Finch. We’re family.”

Later, after all of the joy and hysteria has died into a bubbling warmth, and Marcy is playing with the decorations on the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, I finally find out exactly what Frank and Cee are doing here.

“Well, Georgie rules this town now,” Frank brags. “Me and Cee and Marcy, we can come back any time we like these days. So get used to visits, Principessa.”

“Visits? You’re not coming back full time?” I ask, trying not to let disappointment stain the merriment of the evening. I’m sitting with Luca on the sofa, his arm across the back of it, and he squeezes my upper arm a little as I speak, comforting me.

Cee and Frank exchange a glance. “Well, the thing is,” Cee says, “we decided we really prefer the European lifestyle. And there are so many good schools over there that Marcy can go to—plus, it seems a shame to uproot her again, especially when she doesn’t really understand English all that well.”

They have a point. What I thought was nonsense babbling is actually toddler Italian.

“She speaks Italian as well as you do,” Luca observes proudly.

“Hey!” I say, and poke him. Everyone laughs, but it’s a nervous kind of laughter. They’re still waiting for my reaction, although I’m not sure why they’re so concerned with what I think. I miss Celia very much, it’s true, but I think we can all agree that Frank is better off far away from New York.

I smile down at Marcy as she walks unsteadily across the room to me, showing me a golden star that she’s plucked from the tree. I hope it symbolizes a wonderful, joyful life for her. The next generation of Morelli-D’Amatos deserves a much better life than the one I had.

And I’ll make damn sure Marcella Constance Aïda gets that chance.

“As long as you’re happy for Luca and me to come visit you whenever we want,” I say, grinning over at Cee and Frank as I dangle the gold star from my fingers for Marcy’s amusement. I rub my thigh against Luca’s as I pretend to understand exactly what Marcy is telling me in jumbled Italian about the star she has pressed into my hand.

When she dashes off to retrieve another ornament from the tree, I think about how perfect today has turned out to be. Tonight, everyone except me will go to Midnight Mass, and I’ll have a chance to be alone with my newfound fullness of spirit. Maybe I’ll light a candle of my own, remember the people I’ve lost.

And then after mass, all of my favorite people will come back here to open the first presents of Christmas Day. Aidan and Teo will be here, and I’ll get to see Aidan’s face all lit up with the joy of the Christmas miracle, and tease him about it. Nick and Carlo are coming, after Carlo finally agreed he could take one night off work. And I’ll get to see Marcy enjoy the sparkly unicorn toy I bought for her with my own eyes, instead of by video call.

Tomorrow, Tara and Róisín will arrive from Boston for Christmas Day, and they’ll stay all week. I’m hoping Róisín and I will get a chance to move past our prickly détente—and if not, I’ll still have a chance to charm her during our time working together in All One Family.

Tara said she’s persuaded Conor to come with her as well. I plan to show him a great time, get him drunk and maybe laid at Kismet while he’s here. Poor bastard deserves it.

And the biggest news story of the holiday season has been about the dismantling of an Irish-based, internationally-active terrorist group, believed to be responsible for an attack on a New York hospital a few months back. A recent intelligence breakthrough has led to a seizure of assets and, various law enforcement agencies have promised, the beginning of an avalanche of arrests.

All in all, life really couldn’t be more perfect than it is now.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Luca asks as they prepare to leave for church. He’s pulling on his winter coat, and I make him take a scarf, too, because snow is forecast.

“I’m sure,” I tell him, smiling up at his frowny-brows. “It’ll give me a chance to chill. Literally, if it snows.”

“Okay. Well, the guards will be outside, front and back, like always, and you have your personal alarm—”

“Luca,” I say firmly. “Go and enjoy your boring church stuff and then come back fast so we can open presents. Love you.” I press my mouth to his, but have to back off halfway into an intense tongue kiss, because Cee is coming downstairs with a sleepy Marcy in her arms.

Once they’ve gone, I go out to offer the house guards some eggnog, and the presents I got for each of them. They’re way too excited about them, but it makes me happy. I make sure each of them has a hand-warmer heat pack, and then I go back inside and wander around the mansion on my own.

Luca doesn’t think of me as a loner, and it’s true that I’m naturally more extroverted than he is. But I think he forgets, sometimes, that before him, I spent much of my life alone—in hiding from assassins, kidnappers, even my own father—or the man I called Pops, at least.

Tonight I want to remember my other father, the one I never got to know. So I troop down the stairs, leaving the door at the top open so the Christmas jazz I’ve been playing through the house can pipe down here as well, make it less creepy. I take a bottle of Tino’s preferred whiskey with me, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs I walk straight over to the place where it happened.

We’re in the process of rearranging things down here. There’s a vast wooden wine rack covering the wall now, only half-stocked, but Luca is keen to keep collecting.

I picture Tino Morelli, his smiling face from that video, his confidence in the face of death. He thought of me in his last moments. Me, and Marcy, and Luca, too. He thought about the legacy he was leaving the world.

I unstop the whiskey and raise the bottle up. “Merry Christmas, Tino,” I say, and then, I’m not sure why—it just feels right—I pour out a measure of the golden liquid on the still-to-be-sealed cement floor. It puddles and then soaks in, the rich, boozy scent wafting up toward my face.

I wait a few minutes, just in case ghosts are real, and Tino has anything to say, but nothing happens except that my balls start shriveling up in the cool air.

But as I hurry back upstairs to the warmth, I’m smiling. Happy. Everything is going to be okay from now on.

I’m sure of it.

I exit the cellar door but as I come out into the hallway, I hear the front door opening. It’s way too early for anyone to be returning from church already, but no alarms have gone off, no guards have run in to hustle me to one of the safe rooms. Heart beating only a little faster, I make my way through to the foyer, where I find my husband hanging up his coat and scarf and pulling off his gloves.

Luca grins when he sees me, shaking his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, baby bird, I just couldn’t bear to see in Christmas Day without you. I hope that’s okay.” He holds open his arms, and I jump into them as the grandfather clock upstairs starts chiming midnight. I wind my arms around his neck, hugging him close. “Merry Christmas,” Luca whispers into my ear.

There’s no mistletoe over us, but I’ve never needed an excuse to kiss him—which is exactly what I do now, passionately, with my whole heart on fire for him.

Epilogue

FINCH

“Are you trying to trick me into reading?” I ask Luca suspiciously. He’s got me stationed in the library upstairs, next to his study.

“I would never dare,” he replies drily. “Now, stay there a second…” He uses the secret door between the rooms to go into his study, and shuts it behind him. I wait, arms folded, slumped on the sofa. He told me he had a surprise for me.

There’s a click somewhere overhead. “Can you hear me?” Luca’s voice asks.

I sit bolt upright on the sofa. “Holy shit, I can. What—”

“I figured an intercom would be easier for you than listening at doors from now on.” I charge through the secret door as Luca continues, “This way, you can sit comfortably in the library while you eavesdrop.”

He’s sitting behind his desk, and indicates the new ornament sitting on the right-hand corner—a small black marble bust of Julius Caesar. He shows me how pushing at a discreet button on the pedestal makes the intercom go on and off. “And I can make it one-way, so no one will accidentally overhear your nasty comments about them.”

“I don’t make nasty comments! That’s totally untrue,” I protest, but I crack up at the disbelieving look on his face. “So does this mean I’m officially your consigliere?”

He pulls me into his lap and kisses me. “You’ve always been my closest and most trusted advisor, angel, whether I liked it or not. Yes. You’re my consigliere. Just don’t go around shouting about it, okay?”

“I’m not an idiot,” I say, and purse my lips.

“You certainly are not,” he tells me fervently, and kisses me again.

After a while, I pull away. “You know what?” I ask with a sly smile, “I’ve got this fantasy I’d like to play out. A fantasy of blowing the Boss-Man in his office…” Luca laughs as I slink off his lap and down to the floor, pushing his knees open. “Oh,” I say, “but first—” From my back pocket, I pull out a small tube.

Luca’s eyebrow cocks. I keep his gaze as I take the lid off the tube of lipstick, wind it up, and then paint it carefully over my lips, blowing him a kiss afterward. “You didn’t let me do this in Venice, the night of the masquerade ball,” I say, “but I saw the way you reacted when I suggested it. Or the way your pants reacted, anyway…”

I lean into his crotch and rub my nose up and down his zipper.

“Do not get lipstick on my Armani, Finch,” he growls.

“If that’s what you’re thinking about, I’m really not doing my job right,” I snark right back at him, and yank open the button at his waist. “Some days I think you love Giorgio more than me.”

His mouth twists into an incredulous smile. He puts a hand at the back of my head and shoves it into his crotch, grinding my face into him. I pull up, gasping, to see deep pink lipstick smeared all over his suit pants.

“Oh, my God,” I say faintly.

“Proof enough of my love?”

I look up at him. “Seriously, that is not going to come out—”

“That’s fine,” he says calmly. “I’d buy a thousand suits to be ruined by your mouth, uccellino.” He reaches out tenderly to wipe the smudged lipstick from my chin. “Now, where were we?”

“I was about to suck your brains out through your dick,” I tell him, which is exactly what I proceed to do. He doesn’t even complain when I tear the zipper wide open, just to get better access to his balls. I stop mid-way through to reapply the lipstick to my spit-slick lips; the color has gotten everywhere, so his dick looks like it’s flushed an angry, frustrated red. His mouth is the same color, and I think he must have been chewing on his bottom lip as he fights not to come yet.

I return to sucking him with more delicacy, a slow deep-throating so I can leave a ring of dark pink right at the base of his cock, then another above it, and another, until he’s tired of my teasing and grabs my head again to face-fuck me with no restraint at all. I grunt my encouragement, cup his balls and roll them gently in a tender contrast to the thrusting in my throat. He unloads hard, choking out my name, his cream dripping back out of my mouth and adding to the mess all over his suit pants.

To Luca’s credit, he doesn’t even wince when he contemplates the complete ruin I’ve made of his clothes. “Worth it,” he pants, when he catches me eyeing the destruction myself. “Now, as for your pleasure, angel—”

“You can come to bed and eat my ass for a while,” I tell him, bouncing back up to my feet. “And then fuck me when your cock has revived from that amazing blow job.”

Still slumped down in his chair with his wet dick hanging out, he gives me a mock salute and a lazy grin. “I’m a lucky man. You really are the complete package.”

“That’s me, baby: ass, sass and class.” I wiggle my butt at him as I leave him there to recover. “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” I throw over my shoulder at the doorway.

“I really am a lucky motherfucker to have you, baby bird,” he calls after me, and I smile to myself as I head for the bedroom.

Sure, maybe he thinks that. But me?

I think I’m the luckiest little bitch in the whole wide world.

* * *

Coming soon:

His Lethal Desire (West Coast Mobsters 1)

His Lethal Desire

A mobster investigating the disappearance of a young woman is obsessively drawn to her charming twin brother, who seems to know more than he’s telling.

West Coast Mobsters is a new M/M romantic suspense series about a Mafia Family operating out of Los Angeles. Follow them as they find love, danger and mystery in the most unexpected places...

Expected release date April 2022

Preorder now

Heist of the Heart

Hudson Taylor loathes Gio Carlucci, but the mobster could be his only chance to make it to the new year.

It’s a snowy New Year’s Eve in New York City. The Morelli-owned Kismet Nightclub has just closed for the night, but before dawn there will be a theft, a betrayal, and a death.

Someone’s setting up Hudson Taylor to take the fall. If he and Gio can’t solve the crime before the Morelli Boss arrives, it could be curtains for all of them.

But Hudson’s in danger of losing something even more precious—his heart.

Heist of the Heart is a 24k-word novella set within the world of the Morelli Crime Family, available exclusively to newsletter subscribers.

Get your free book now!

Dear darkly devoted reader…

I hope that Devoted to the Don has left you with a truly satisfying and happy ending to Luca and Finch’s adventures, along with all the other members of the Morelli Family.

This book was intended as the final book in the Morelli Family series, and it does finish the story arc that began in Married to the Mobster. But…never say never. There are still a few more stories in this world that I didn’t get a chance to tell, and while I’m extremely excited about my next series, I might well revisit the Morellis of New York from time to time.

And speaking of my next series, I hope you’ll join me on the west coast—Los Angeles, to be exact—to meet another crime Family starring in a new romantic suspense stories with a Mafia edge. The first book of the West Coast Mobsters, His Lethal Desire, is coming soon—and it will be set in the same universe as the Morellis, so expect a few cameos and surprise visits from familiar faces.

Make sure you join my newsletter to get updates about this new series. You’ll also get access to deleted scenes and a whole stack of free books and stories when you sign up to be my VIP.

Finally, it would be great if you could leave a review of this book on Amazon, Goodreads, or anywhere else you might hang out online. Reading is so important for so many reasons, and your reviews and ratings will help others find and enjoy my books.

Yours,

LJ

Also by the Author

LEARN THE RULES

(Rough Love Book 1)

Benjamin Ballard always assumed he was straight—in every way possible. They invented the term 'vanilla' to describe him. But if Ben's so straight, why can't he get his inscrutable coffee-shop co-worker Xander Romano out of his head? And how come Xander's rough-housing on the basketball court gets Ben so flustered?

Xander Romano keeps his private life private, and lives by a strict set of rules. No fooling around with straight guys, and definitely no fooling around with vanilla guys. Been there, done that, got his heart broken. All Xander wants now is to focus on his acting career, and keep his darker desires under wraps.

So what is it about Benjamin Ballard that makes Xander want to break all the rules? When Ben begs for a chance to experiment, Xander can't resist taking him in hand. It's just one quick session, after all.

But Ben has other ideas...

* * *

WINTER WONDERS

(Friends of Friends 1)

Faking their way through Christmas...

This holiday season, Cooper Kincaid finds his perfect Christmas gift on the side of the road: Jonathan Ashe. So perfect, in fact, that he can't resist unwrapping the gorgeous present and playing with him a little early, after taking Jon back to his cabin to recover from a minor car accident.

Jon seems to bring out something deep inside Cooper...something he's tried to keep hidden from previous boyfriends. But their merrymaking is complicated when Cooper lies to his meddling mother, and tells her he's dating Jon.

Jon has no interest in a new relationship after getting his heart broken. Definitely no interest in the heir to the Kincaid estate, where Jon is working for the holidays. And especially no interest in a guy who's so new to finding his bossy side in bed.

Still, maybe a fake relationship could be fun, just for the holidays?

But Cooper has made up his mind: it's his Christmas mission to heal Jon's heart. He's determined to work out exactly what Jon wants, and give it to him.

Meanwhile, Cooper's disapproving mother not only invites his ex to their Christmas Eve event, she digs into Jon's past to prove to Cooper that they're totally unsuited.

Can Cooper and Jon admit that they might be each other's winter wonderful, or will their differences and outside interference prove too much?

* * *

TAMING TRISTAN

(Friends of Friends 2)

Tristan:

I'm a trouble-maker.

Everyone at the club knows I don't kneel on command.

So what?

I’ve never met a man who’s worthy of my full surrender. I’m bored of all the wannabes who think they can expect perfect obedience without proving themselves first.

But if I don’t play nice, I’m gonna get banned from the scene.

And that’s when I meet Seth, the one guy who might have a chance at bringing me to my knees.

Seth:

I'm not interested in a relationship. I like it hard, fast, uncomplicated.

But then a Hollywood producer and his plaything bet me I can’t tame a notorious trouble-maker by Valentine’s Day.

I can’t refuse—not when it comes with the promise of big money when I win. I’ll be able to pay off my family's debts.

Tristan Taylor is an enticing gamble. Whip-smart, big blue eyes, cheeky as they come. I like a challenge. I'll bring out Tristan's primal needs.

I’ll make him beg. I’ll make him obey. I’ll make him kneel…

But it'll take more than one night to train Tristan, and each session leaves me wanting something more.

Something I wasn't prepared to gamble on.

Taming Tristan was meant to be a bet. I never thought I’d wager my heart.

* * *

About the Author

www.leightongreene.com

After spending some time writing in academia, fanfiction and corporate reporting, Leighton Greene decided she should probably do what she actually wanted to do, which was to write commercial fiction. So she did. She writes gay romance and, when the mood strikes, erotica as LJ Greene.

Leighton lives with her partner and her cockatiel on the east coast of Australia. Keep in touch via her VIP Readers newsletter.

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