Maybe it wasn't too late to reclaim that dream. The Genovese Family operated a medical school front in Washington territory. Perhaps they would take me in.
An hour later, I slipped out of the compound through the servants' entrance, nodding to the night guards who knew better than to question the Young Don's wife. I drove myself to the plaza downtown—a Volpe-owned shopping district that never truly closed—to buy myself something new.
Something for the woman I was about to become.
"Miss, this is the last one in stock. Would you like to purchase it?"
I nodded and handed the saleswoman my card. The dress was simple but elegant—black silk that whispered of new beginnings and quiet funerals.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said, her smile faltering, "but another customer is offering to pay extra for this piece. Would you consider letting it go?"
I followed her gaze across the boutique's marble floor.
A striking woman in red-soled heels was chatting animatedly with a man near the window display. Her laughter was bright and practiced, her hand resting possessively on his arm.
I stood and took two steps forward—then locked eyes with him.
Nico.
The air between us turned to ice. The ambient music faded to static.
Which meant the woman had to be Massima.
She was beautiful, I realized with a hollow ache. Dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, lips painted the color of arterial blood, a body that curved in all the places men noticed. She looked like a woman who had never been told no in her life.
Nico's expression hardened into granite. His lips parted, a muscle jumping in his jaw, but no sound emerged. He stared at me blankly for a long moment, then reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone, tapping the screen with his index finger.
I knew that gesture all too well. It was our method of communication—the only bridge across the chasm of his silence.
My phone buzzed.
"What are you doing here?"
Another buzz.
"Are you following me?"
A third.
"Go home."
Three messages in rapid succession, each one a small death. My last shred of hope crumbled to ash.
Massima wrapped herself around Nico's arm like a serpent, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. "Nico, who's this? A friend?"
She swayed against him, pouting prettily. "Can you ask her to let me have this dress? I really want it."
And then—
Nico smiled.