Page 8 of Pretty Lies

TWO

THE CLICK OF Della’s red, six-inch Giuseppe heels took her up the marble stairs to the entrance of a building in downtown Chicago. The towering skyrise housed hundreds of offices by companies that rented space for their own purposes. When the sun came around to the front of the building later in the day, the glass had a shimmer of gold.

It certainly made for an interesting sight.

She might have cared slightly more about the building and the companies using the place had she been there for any reason other than work. Despite the way she looked in designer shoes, black, high-waisted, skinny-legged pants she’d paired with a cream-colored silk blouse tucked into the waist, and a Hermès bag hooked around her inner elbow, she wasn’t there to sit in any boardrooms or even behind a desk of her own.

Della still liked to look the part.

It helped in her career to … blend in.

Just beyond the entrance of tower’s front doors waited security. Tightening her arm around the ten-thousand-dollar bag to keep it close, Della chose the guard on the end with a familiar face. It wasn’t the first time she’d come to this building to do her business, and she seriously doubted it would be her last.

Something else that was good in her field?

Knowing people.

Or making sure people knew her.

Either worked.

That was why when the security guard turned to greet the next person going through his line, his smile deepened a bit at the sight of Della stepping up to bat. So to speak.

“Miss Costello,” he greeted.

“Jethro.” Della glanced down at her shoes, knowing the custom was to take them off if the guard asked. Safety, and all that. Crime in Chicago was higher than ever, and one couldn’t be too careful. Problem was … well, she was also part of that crime. “You’re not going to make me take these off, are you?”

“Probably not. Business today?”

“Unfortunately.”

It was always going to be an unfortunate workday for someone else when she was called in to have a chat with them.

“Shame,” he murmured. “Bag in the container. ID on the counter for me. Then, you may step through the scanner, please.”

“Right, thanks.”

She gave him another beaming smile and did as he asked. Stepping through the large scanner, Della kept her eye on the man while Jethro moved behind his desk to watch her bag go through the conveyor. Of course, the scanner blinked red. A couple of years ago, however, the building switched their systems so it no longer alerted the rest of the room to the fact someone was carrying metal into the building.

Like the gun and knife in Della’s bag.

Or the blade at her thigh.

Jethro eyed her over the edge of the screen, and then wagged a single finger to invite her to pick up the designer handbag from the container when it was spit out the other side. As was custom for the arrangement she made with this man the first time she’d needed access to bring a weapon into this building, when she pulled out her bag, she made sure to leave a small roll of cash in the container that would disappear before he replaced it with the others.

“Lot of money in that bag today, huh?” he noted.

Della smiled. “Is it? I’ve not really counted.”

Lie.

In the business of loansharking—her father’s main source of income as a Capo to the Chicago mob—and collections when a client defaulted on their payment, Della had to know every single penny she had on hand, where it came from, and that was that.

Whose money it was, on the other hand, couldn’t be questioned once she had been called in to retrieve it—the Costellos made sure of that.

“I hadn’t realized you were only twenty-three until today,” he noted, glancing down at her ID.

“And?”