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Maybe a few years ago that might have been enough to water the seed of suspicion I had about my wife. When she had first come to Chicago, the daughter of a recently dead ex-rival. It was the reason I had locked my door to her. The reason she wasn’t allowed to speak with anyone from Sicily.

If anyone suspected I had anything to do with the deaths of Vincenzo, Ricco, and Beppe Cavallaro and told Fiammetta their suspicions, she would have been in a prime position to exact revenge. Of course, the truth was more complicated than that. I hadn’t been the man to pull the trigger, but Lo Spettro had been a tool in the Outfit’s arsenal for so long, it was a wonder no one had linked the two.

But that was years ago now, our sixth wedding anniversary just around the corner.

There was no reason to think my pretty, sweet wife wanted me dead.

Which left everyone else under my roof and close to me in high suspicion.

Something caught my eye outside the one-way mirror to the casino floor.

My wife.

Fiammetta crossing the floor on purposeful strides, her gaze cutting up to my window even though it looked like an unobtrusive part of the wall from her perspective.

It seemed my little doll had the wherewithal to slip her protection.

Interesting.

But if she was on her way up here, I needed to wrap this up.

Under no circumstances would I let Serena Nenci get her hands on Fiammetta.

“I don’t suppose you’ll just tell me who you’re working with,” I drawled, bored by this game.

Serena laughed, a little manic, and I suspected she was on something. Her weight shifted from foot to foot, and that yellow smile was too wide.

“Haven’t you ever wondered when your past will catch up to you, Dario?” she whispered, stepping closer until her thighs were pressed to the opposite side of my desk and the gun was only a couple feet from my forehead. “Haven’t you ever wondered if you are the wrong man for the job?”

Those words pierced me like a knife driven into the center of my chest.

The wrong man for the job.

The words my father had often offered me, shaking his head in regret that the wrong son was seated on his precious throne.

Before I could question her further, the door swung silently open once more, and Fiammetta appeared. She was wearing all black, a soft turtleneck and pants with tall black boots, her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Under other circumstances I might have laughed because she looked dressed as if she had watched one too many spy thrillers.

But my amusement fled when I saw the small gun in her hand, and she raised a finger to her mouth to urge me to stay quiet.

For fuck’s sake, was my wife trying to save my life?

“This is for the Sicilians,” Serena said softly.

And then her finger moved on the trigger.

Even though I had been briefly distracted by Fiammetta, I had killed too many men, pulled too many triggers, and faced too many gun barrels to be cowed by the moment.

Two shots fired nearly simultaneously.

A third followed on their heels, but the damage had already been done, Serena’s aim off due to the metal buried in her chest cavity.

One through her back and the other through her left breast.

She blinked at me, a little mew of surprise on her mouth as if she couldn’t believe there wasn’t a bullet between my eyes.

I smiled at her, a mean thing that felt like hot metal in my mouth. “You bemoaned that you are underestimated as a woman, Serena, but it seems you have done the same to my wife.”

Summoned by my words, Fia stepped forward, close enough to shove her boot into Serena’s back, sending the wounded woman tumbling to her knees before my desk.