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I pressed my hands to the pane on either side of my face.
They didn’t shake.
They should have shaken.
I was the wife of Boston’s recently crowned Mob king.
And my new husband was on his way to a sit-down with some seriously shady scumbags. Yet my hands were surgical steady.
I smiled to myself as I stepped back from the window.
There was an explanation for my inner calmness: I was madly in love with the man I had married.
What was even more uncommon in our world of crime and evil deeds?
I trusted him.
I loved and trusted my husband—Lucifer Flynn—with my whole bloody heart.
Tonight, I would tell him how I felt. He’d come back to me. He promised he would.
Always.
I stood there a moment, alternating between feeling delirious with giddiness and overwhelmed by nostalgia.
If my father were alive, would he approve? Would he have given Lucifer and me his blessing? Would he have walked me down the aisle had there been one?
And my mother—my radiant, free-spirited mother, who’d spoken of love as if it were the cure for everything wrong in this world—would she have been happy that I’d finally found a love of my very own?
I folded my hands over my heart. My eyes fluttered shut. With each breath I drew, the images of my parents came to life in my mind. It had been a decade since I could recall their faces with such clarity. Da’s perpetually crooked grin and blue eyes that sparkled like gemstones. Ma’s crazy blonde hair. Her pastel-pink smile that never seemed to fade or smudge.
Aye—they would.
The answer to all the questions I could never ask my parents would undoubtedly be Aye.
The purr of an engine filtered through my daydream. My eyes snapped open.
A black SUV with custom-tinted windows parked in the driveway.
Mobster or Fed. Pick your poison.
Two of Lucifer’s men left their posts. They reached the vehicle at the same time a man and woman stepped out of the front doors. The man wore a dark wool trench coat and matching aviators. He brushed past the foot soldiers as he moved toward the rear of the SUV with a level of arrogance I could read from sixty feet away. He leaned against the tailgate so that he faced me, crossed his ankles, smoothed a hand over his flaxen hair, and then folded his arms. With the sunglasses, I couldn’t make out the direction of his focus, but it felt like he could see straight through me.
A knot formed in my gut.
I shifted my gaze to the woman.
Her sleek raven mane was drawn into a low chignon, and her fitted jeans were tucked into thick-soled boots that laced up her ankles.
She turned away from the mansion.
Neon-yellow letters—FBI—spanned across the back of her bomber jacket.
Panic pole-jumped into my throat.
Lucifer.
I rushed from the parlor, slipping and sliding my way across the foyer. I punched in the code to unlock the front door and threw it open.
