Page 63 of Forsaking All Others

“He barely even looks at me, let alone pays attention to what I’m doing with my life,” I explained patiently, even though a small part of me that was still a young dreamy girl from Sicily ached to speak such a truth. “Trust me, he doesn’t give a shit what I do, and if he hasn’t noticed after two years, then he won’t ever notice.”

What I didn’t say was that if he didn’t think to question how I knew about the problems at the casino, about how I had ferreted out Tony and Serena and then calmly put a bullet in the latter’s back, then he wasn’t going to question anything else I did.

To Dario Ferretti, I was still the pretty, vapid doll he had put on a shelf six years ago. A toy to use when he needed to slake his lust and that was all.

For a few precious moments in the office of his casino last week, I’d thought he had really seen me for the first time in our marriage. As he fucked me, pinned me to the floor beside a body we’d killed together, I thought it might have been the start of a new chapter, one where I was as valuable to him as I was to so many others in Chicago.

But the moment ended as dreams always did, with the cold slap of reality.

“I’m sorry, Fi,” Alessia said softly, reaching out to brush her hand down the side of my head. “You deserve so much more. Sometimes, I think every single woman in this godforsaken Outfit deserves so much more than what we’re allowed. If I think about it too long or too hard, my blood pressure goes through the roof.”

“I deserve what I earn for myself,” I corrected her with a crooked smile. “And I created this life. It suits me. I like the danger and intrigue. Don’t ask me to give it up.”

Because I won’t.

The words went unsaid, but they were written between us in invisible ink.

Alessia bit her lip again but nodded. “Okay then, Walter’ll be here in fifteen. Better get going, Oracle.”

I shot her a jaunty salute and slipped out of the bathroom on the way to find my target for the evening.

Johnny Bellocchi was the kind of Italian American man who could have been featured in a cartoon. Floppy dark hair that fell over his broad forehead, a square jaw perpetually ink stained by incoming dark stubble, a little dimple in the chin, and dark, fathomless eyes framed by mink lashes. He was very beautiful but not very bright. Even his parents, owners of Blue Water Financial Corp., knew this and kept him happy with a fat allowance and no responsibilities.

They were out of town for work in South Africa, brokering a deal with an arms company out of Cape Town and a rebel group in Yemen, and Johnny had the two-story penthouse in Streeterville all to himself.

Obviously, he’d thrown a party and didn’t care who the hell was invited as long as they were pretty and a good time.

We moved in some of the same circles, but I had never met the man personally.

So I had the opportunity to make an impression.

In my red corset and matching high-waisted trousers, cinched at the waist with a black leather belt to highlight the hourglass shape of my figure, my hair out to there in curls and waves that spilled over my shoulders and down my back, I was ready to knock him off his feet.

Alessia was in the kitchen keeping tabs on him when I entered, so it was easy enough for her to accidentally dim the lights with a nudge of her elbow and wink a little too obviously in my direction.

Johnny’s eyes swung to me on instinct and widened.

I ignored him, rolling my hips as I moved across the room to where a few people loitered at the coffee machine making espresso martinis.