Page 53 of The Silent Hour

Before I could respond, my father appeared in the doorway, broad-shouldered even in a simple linen shirt. He carried the scent of sweet hay, aged leather, and that sharp tang of berry soap from the stables—a combination that always reminded me of him at dawn, coaxing horses into line.

He rubbed his calloused palms together, then bent to kiss the crown of my head as if I were still small. Sunlight caught the silvery streaks in his dark hair, haloing him for a moment—though holy was the last word anyone would use to describe my Tato.

“What’s this about a woman?” he asked, voice warm but edged with that curiosity only he could muster.

I straightened and slid my glass closer. “Her name’s Lila Marino. She’s been at the firm just over two years. Started at the bottom—filing, assisting, all the little shit nobody else wanted. She’s sharp. Worked her way up steadily and is now shadowing Serena on the bigger briefs alongside some cases of her own. Toya read me her résumé during our call with Carmen and Meg this morning.”

Both my parents’ heads snapped in my direction. Mama’s knife clattered against the board; a half-chopped onion winked in the sunlight.

“Marino?” they said simultaneously.

My father’s hazel-green eyes—mine, too—narrowed as if appraising a racehorse. Mama’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“You didn’t tell me that part,” she said softly, the Ukrainian accent slipping in.

“I didn’t tell you any part until five seconds ago, Mama,” I replied, exasperated. “She wasn’t my problem until recently.”

Under her breath, Mama muttered something decidedly unladylike in Ukrainian. Tato gave her a mild look.

“Anya,” he chided gently. “They wouldn’t know the history.”

“Okay,” I said, leaning forward. “One of you to tell me what I’m missing.”

Mama paused, eyes on mine. “What does she look like?”

I described Lila in detail: about five-six, slim-thick, with dark hair; Latina with high cheekbones.

Mama exchanged a glance with Tato. A bitter half-smile quirked his lips.

“Sounds like the family,” he murmured.

“Who?” I asked, heart pounding.

“The Marinos,” Mama answered, resuming her chopping with renewed force—pepper bits scattering across the board. “The women in that line have a reputation.”

“What kind of reputation?” I pressed.

“Ambitious,” she said flatly.

Tato snorted; Mama shot him a glare fierce enough to cut glass.

“Aggressively ambitious,” she clarified, voice clipped.

“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Her mother’s a brilliant doctor. Her grandmother built a fashion empire on silk, secrets, and knowing exactly which powerful man needed flattery and discretion.”

“How do you two know all this?”

They exchanged another look that said I’d asked the one question they could never dodge. My father eased onto the stool beside mine, moving more carefully than he would have ten years ago.

“Because, my beautiful girl,” he replied, brushing a loose strand of hair from my forehead, “nothing that moves through this city stays underground forever.”

I breathed in the lingering scent of berry soap as Mama’s knife fell into its steady rhythm. The kitchen felt smaller, the light dimmer, and every unspoken secret in the room seemed to press in on me.

"Gianna Marino's fashion house wasn't only dresses and perfume. She made introductions. Brokered favors. Collected information. She knew which politicians kept mistresses, which businessmen moved dirty money, which wives knew and which ones preferred not to."

"Information is currency," Tato said.

Mama nodded. "And Gianna spent it very well."