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When we finally made our way into the museum, Dario shifted his hand to the small of my bare back and ushered me into the main gallery, where an enormous T. rex skeleton overlooked the party.

I didn’t have to ask to know why we were there.

Within minutes, I’d spotted them all.

Maksim Aslanov was sipping Scotch by the bar with a gorgeous woman on either arm and his head bent toward Igor Mattson, his right-hand man.

Patty O’Shea, the wealthiest member of the Irish mob and nephew to the current boss, was holding raucous court with a variety of young, beautiful people near the dinosaur’s tail.

A collection of the Camorra, including a surprising visit from the New York capo, Dante Salvatore, and his wife Elena, were scattered throughout the hall, and Aurelio Viscardi from the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta was flirting with the mayor’s much younger wife in a shadowed corner.

It was a veritable Where’s Waldo of Chicago’s crime world.

Dario, it seemed, wanted whoever had sent the severed ear or even heard about his momentary disappearance to know that he was alive and well.

. . . and furious, if his cold glower was anything to go by.

“Son?”

Dario and I turned in tandem to face Lando, who was staring at his child as if he’d seen a ghost. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to touch Dario’s cheek, but my husband stepped slightly back and out of his reach before he could complete the oddly paternal gesture.

“Lando,” Dario greeted coolly, then looked over his shoulder as his mother approached, “Carla.”

“Darling,” she crowed, her hands shaking like birds in the air as she skipped forward to haul Dario’s face down for cheek kisses.

She continued to hold it for a moment, searching his face.

“You’re okay,” she said softly, a question in her tone.

“Better than ever,” he assured her.

She bit her lip just as it trembled and then nodded curtly, stepping back into Lando’s side. Still, her eyes traced over every inch of him, lingering with a little frown at the hickey I’d printed on his throat and then skirted over to me to find a matching one on my neck.

“I see your wife is happy to have you home,” Lando noted with his typical 1950s joviality, obviously noting our matching marks too.

“As am I,” Carla added. “Though I did tell everyone you were fine. No one can take down my son.”

“And you?” Dario addressed his father. “Were you certain I was fine?”

Lando’s smile was thin. “Of course.”

Tension sizzled like butter in a hot skillet.

“You’ll excuse us as we make our rounds,” Dario said after a moment, tucking my arm in his to lead me away.

I tipped my head in goodbye to my in-laws, but they were both fixed on their son as we walked away.

“You don’t think your parents had anything to do with the ear?” I whispered softly.

Dario’s shoulders were tense, but he rolled them away from his ears and forced himself to relax as we passed by people we knew enough to smile at.

“I wouldn’t put anything past Lando,” he murmured, continuing his uncharacteristic candidness. “I had to wrest power from him like a jungle animal. Survival of the fittest.”

“Well, he’s still alive, so not quite like that,” I joked.

It fell to the ground at our feet, flat and heavy.

“For now,” he agreed with faux lightness before he greeted the mayor and started an easy conversation about taxing local businesses.