Chapter 4

"Put the phone down," he said. "No one's coming for you."

In the depths of my despair, a deafening crash erupted from outside.

The metal shutter was forced open, and people stormed in.

"Let her go! Hands where I can see them!"

The officers pulled him away from me. My emergency call had got through.

Paramedics took me to the hospital, where I was treated and monitored while the police took my statement. A nurse found me a coat from the hospital's donated clothing.

I borrowed a charger. Once I could think clearly, I sent my grandfather a message: I need to come home. I'll call when I'm discharged.

The next morning, I called the calligraphy studio where I worked on invitations and memorial cards and told the owner I was leaving.

After I was discharged, I bought inexpensive clothes from a shop nearby and booked a flight home to Port Sirena.

But the second I stepped out onto the sidewalk, several of Vincent's soldiers closed in and blocked my path. Two of them stood at my back. One kept his hand inside his jacket.

"Miss Falcone, Mr. Russo is throwing a party at the Sovereign Grand today. The crew's celebrating his two-year anniversary with Miss Marchetti."

"He specifically asked that you come and put on a little show for Miss Marchetti. If you'll follow us, please."

I frowned.

"Get out of my way, or I'm calling the cops."

The one in front, Rocco Bruno, Vincent's lead muscle, let out a contemptuous laugh and stepped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

"Go ahead. We'll file a report of our own."

"Mr. Russo says the coat you burned was worth a hundred grand. Destruction of property. Want to explain that to the cops?"

"It was a gift, and he said it cost two thousand. You know he's lying."

He smiled. It wasn't a legal argument. It was a threat.

"Fine. Two thousand. I'll transfer it if that gets you out of my way."

Rocco cracked his knuckles, one finger at a time, then snatched the phone from my hand and smashed it on the concrete at my feet.

"Still giving orders?"

"You're not his wife. You're nobody. Remember that." He jerked his chin at the others. "Take her."

They dragged me into the back of a black sedan and sped off.

When we arrived, the entire ballroom had been decorated to the nines. Russo men in rented tuxedos lined the walls, and associates from every front business Vincent owned were drinking his liquor and laughing too loudly at his jokes.

Gina, dripping in designer couture and jewels, hung on Vincent's arm as they greeted guests together.

She looked every bit the role of his real wife.

The irony cut deep.

Vincent had said he wanted something private. Yesterday's celebration had been dinner with a handful of friends, followed by drinks at his mansion. Most people in his circle hadn't even known we were planning to marry.

I'd understood. I knew how hard he'd worked to build his crew. Besides, once I brought him home to meet my family, we'd throw a proper celebration. The whole East Coast would hear about it then, at every Family table and in every society column.

So I hadn't minded.

The Sovereign Grand was one of New York's most exclusive hotels. Its private ballroom belonged to the Castellano family's hospitality business. Booking it required connections Vincent liked to believe he'd earned on his own.

And he'd booked it for Gina's anniversary. He'd even invited the press.

When Vincent spotted me, he walked over with a frown. The men near him went quiet and drifted a step back.

"The owner of that studio says you quit. Says you're leaving town. Where do you think you're going?"

My voice was flat. "Home. To take care of my grandfather. Is that a problem?"

A smug, superior smile spread across his face, and he gave the knot of his tie a satisfied tug.

"So you've finally figured it out. Without my protection, you can't survive in this city. Your only option is crawling back to the sticks to slop pigs."

"Wash Gina's underwear in front of everyone, and I'll forgive you. We can reschedule the ceremony. Start fresh."

He had one of his couriers bring out a small basket. There had to be at least a dozen pairs inside.

My family had encouraged my work since I was a child. They understood what my hands meant to me.

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Vincent Russo, is your brain screwed on backwards? Every word out of your mouth is garbage."

"You spent last night with her, and now you want me to wash her underwear?"