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I blink rapidly, but a tear slips down my cheek anyway.

"I didn't mean to hurt anybody."

Daniel gives me a moment before asking whether I'd ever met Valentina Moretti.

"Not until tonight. Believe me, if I'd known my boyfriend had a wife, I wouldn't have been sleeping with him."

The words come out sharper than I intend, but I'm too exhausted to apologize. Daniel studies me for a moment before asking how long I've been seeing Enzo and where we met.

"Three weeks. At my best friend's wedding. The groomsman who was supposed to walk with me got sick and started puking everywhere. Enzo stepped in to take his place." I give a humorless laugh. "Romantic, right? Nothing says true love like a stranger rescuing you from a man throwing up on five hundred dollars' worth of flowers."

Daniel's expression softens, although he doesn't laugh.

"Did Mr. Moretti ever tell you he was married?"

"No."

"Did you ever ask?"

I think about the wedding, the dinners, and that stupid ring.

"Not directly. He wore a gold band on his right hand, but nothing on his left. I asked about it once, and he said it'd been part of his life a long time. I thought it was some kind of family heirloom."

I remember touching that ring while we were lying in bed together in Malibu. My stomach rolls, and I set the coffee aside before I embarrass myself by throwing up in a police station. Apparently, there are limits to how much humiliation one woman can survive in twenty-four hours.

Daniel makes another note.

"What did Mr. Moretti tell you about his work?"

"He manages entertainment properties and investments for his family. Restaurants, venues, business stuff." I frown. "Why?"

"Did he give you the name of the company?"

"No. I didn't exactly ask for his tax returns over dinner."

Daniel leans back, studying me more carefully.

"Bridget, how much do you know about the Moretti family?"

I give him a disbelieving look. "Well, I know one of them is married, and I apparently stabbed his wife. Is there something else I should know?"

He doesn't smile.

That's when I start getting nervous all over again.

"Lorenzo Moretti isn't simply a wealthy businessman. He's associated with a criminal organization that operates here in Los Angeles."

I stare at him.

"What kind of criminal organization?"

"The Moretti family."

I blink. "You mean his actual family?"

"I mean organized crime. Lorenzo is one of the organization's senior men, a lieutenant who reports to Dario Moretti."

For several seconds, my brain refuses to process the information.