Were Italian villas supposed to haveturrets?
Admittedly, she was not an architectural critic. But the scale seemed off somehow, the proportions wrong. Like a Disney version of an Italian villa, rather than anactualItalian villa.
Or maybe this house was perfect in every way and she was just jealous because it probably had massive closetsanda walk-in pantry, while she had to share a closet with her husband and keep half her wardrobe in plastic bins under the bed and switch everything out when the weather changed.
She got out of the car, straightened her shoulders, and clicked her key fob. Party or not, she needed to go inside and get this over with.
She wove through the cars that lined the cul-de-sac, an odd assortment of high and low, with BMWs, Mercedes, and Teslas parked beside Ford Fiestas, Dodge Darts, and a Honda Civic that had clearly seen better days.
Her eyes narrowed. Not a single minivan.
None of the cars sported bumper stickers, either, touting the Mount Vernon Soccer League, the Potomac Landing Gators Swim Team, or Ollie the Owl, the Hollin Terrace school mascot, who sat on a pile of books clutching in his talons a scroll emblazoned with the wordsLearning isFun.
Ahead of her, a very attractive couple in their early twenties climbed the steps to the front door, which stood wide open.
She followed behind them and stepped into a raging party.
Either Alex Orlov lived in the Barbie Dreamhouse or her daughter was being harassed by the Great Gatsby of Hollin Terrace Middle School.
Had she somehow wandered into one of those really hip whiskey commercials that ran during NFL games? Or an old Benetton ad?
The young people were an arresting mix of global beauty, like a Miss Universe pageant for men and women. Even the White people didn’t look likedomesticWhite people. They looked European somehow—Scandinavian or possibly Russian.
Maybe one of the Bright Young Things could help. She tapped the shoulder of an elegant woman with lush dark hair in a strapless dress. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the people who live here.”
“You mean Bruno?”
Did she mean Bruno? Bruce and Irina Orlov were listed in the directory as Alex’s parents. Bruce could be Bruno.
“Yes. I think so,” she said, almost shouting to make her voice heard above the music.
The woman raised a bare shoulder in a half shrug. “Try the basement.” Then she turned back to her partner and continued her conversation.
Piper gave her a tight smile. “Thank you.”
She’d faced armed and dangerous people over the years, but she’d never realized before that beauty could also be a weapon. She hoped that when her own daughter grew up to be impossibly gorgeous, she would also be kind.
Maneuvering through the crowd, she made her way down the stairs and into a rec room with a billiard table in the center of the room. Six television screens hung on the main wall, each displaying a different sporting event.
A soccer match took pride of place on the biggest screen, in the center of the wall. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at Cyrillic lettering on the back of the jerseys. A team with a lion logo played a team with an ornate letterDon their uniforms.
She approached a group of men clustered in front of the screens, picking up snatches of conversation peppered with phrases like “parlay” and “over-under.”
Sports betting. Not illegal. Necessarily.
She cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Bruno.”
The group went silent; then a large man with small eyes stepped forward. “I’m Bruno.”
He had the face of a boxer. His nose had obviously been broken, possibly more than once, and his features were thick, as though he’d been drawn with a Sharpie instead of a pencil. Blond, with sharp blue eyes, he looked like a henchman in a Bond movie.
He wore a blue polo shirt with an ornateDembroidered over his heart, the sameDworn by the soccer players running across the TV on the wall.
“Lovely party,” she said, fabricating her most disarming smile.
He moved closer. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
The alcohol on his breath tickled her nose, but she couldn’t read his tone or his expression.
