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Shamrock's over there by the raw bar. No Gravel, but that man standing by the piano is definitely Ginger.

I nod, noting it. These are the men who fucked her up.

“McCarthy?” My head jerks up. It's a name, a face, a former inmate I served time with. “Good to see you, brother,” he says, clapping me on the back. “Didn't know you were friendly with the Boston Irish.” He gives me a curious look.

I shrug. “Things change, don't they?”

Strangers eye us. Nobody makes a move. “Heard you got sprung from prison. How'd you manage that?”

I shrug. “Had evidence to prove I was innocent.”

I don't trust him. The way he's looking at me is unsettling, and I've learned to trust my instincts.

“Right,” he says, nodding, but something in his eyes doesn't sit well. “Enjoy your freedom, brother,” he says, in a way that makes me wonder if he's implying it won't last.

“You too,” I say, clinking glasses.

“Well,” Valentina says once he leaves, “here we are. This is familiar territory.”

“What's that?”

“Cordial enemies.”

I shrug. She's right. It's a way of life. “Let's mingle. Let's see who's here.”

I rise and take her hand as the music comes on, a slow waltz. Her eyes go wistful as they track to the dance floor.

“Suppose there's more than one way to mingle,” I say. I lead her onto the dance floor. She fits perfectly in my arms. I'm a good dancer, well taught and practiced. I clasp her fingers with one hand and slide my other hand to the small of her back. She rests her head on my chest, and we dance just like that.

She wordlessly takes some of her weight off her foot onto me.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I whisper in her ear.

“Oh, what a good idea,” she says with an eye roll. She likes that feckin’ eye roll, little brat. I pinch her arse, and she giggles.

“Do you see anybody?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding. “That man over there is a friend of my father's. We’ve been on his yacht, and he's almost like an uncle to me.” She looks away. “Good thing he'd never recognize me like this.”

“You look nothing like yourself,” I tell her, just to reassure her. No one's expecting to find her here. I know she knows it, but she still needs reminding.

“Anybody else?”

She nods, swallows, and looks around the room. “Gray-haired man over there. I saw him one day when I was in captivity. He wasn't one of the main ones, but he shoved me against the fucking wall.” I nod. “I heard a woman scream after he went into her room.”

I nod. Noted.

“There's a woman over there. You see her? Black hair, short, bright-red lipstick?” I nod and spin her around. The crowd presses in, hot and close. Behind me, somebody says something sharp. Someone else pulls out a knife. At a normal event, there'd be screams, maybe gunshots or cops. Here, nobody bats an eyelash. It’s business as usual.

I spin her to the other end of the floor. We have work to do.

“What about her?”

“She used to call my mother every once in a while. They'd have lunch together.” She gives a small, thin smile. “There are only so many mobs between here and New York.”

Then she goes stiff in my arms and stifles a gasp.

“What?” I whisper. The sudden need to comfort her is something I don't examine. “Is it one of those fuckers who hurt you? I can pull him into an alley right now. Say the word.”