“You know, maybe I should take your place, you grump,” Kate said to me. “I could talk up my shop to all your rich friends. Or at least make some good contacts to pick up product. I bet a lot of these guys toss out their Armani like it’s day-old chicken.”
“No!” Frankie and I both chimed in unison.
I stood up, suddenly ready to leave. Frankie grinned at me, and for the first time in weeks, I managed to smile back. Yeah, a night out was definitely what the doctor ordered.
That feeling, however, had completely disappeared by the time we were walking up the steps of Jane and Eric’s brownstone after an hour and a half on the subway.
“Frances. Francesca,” I said.
Frankie rolled her eyes as we approached the double doors to the big townhouse off Central Park West. “I know you’re nervous when you use my full name. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lied, then nudged her on the shoulder. “You just look pretty tonight.”
And she did, too. I forgot sometimes that my sisters were all lookers in their own right. Especially Frankie. She was the shortest of all of us, taking most after Nonna with her slight build that barely even reached my shoulder at five-three in heels. Usually she lived in a uniform of child-friendly jeans and t-shirts, maybe a nice sweater if she had a staff meeting that day. Tonight she’d actually taken the time to let down her dark hair over her shoulders in soft curls, put on a black satin dress, and looked like a lady for a change.
I wasn’t sure what I thought about that, but Frankie’s cheeks pinked as she patted her dress. “Nonna let me borrow it. She said it reminded her of Audrey Hepburn when she bought it.”
I nodded in approval. “Yeah, you could be on the set of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
Frankie beamed. “Thanks, big brother.”
I knocked on the double doors, which were opened by one of Jane and Eric’s security guards.
“Zola. Good to see you.”
“Been a while,” I confirmed as I shook hands with Tony, Eric’s head of security.
The big man looked down his list of people—the guestlist for this shindig was tight. No surprise there. Eric didn’t take any chances with his family’s security.
“Who’s this?” he asked, nodding at Frankie.
“My sister, Francesca Zola,” I said, waiting for him to locate Frankie’s name on the list. I’d messaged Jane about bringing her as a plus-one earlier this week.
“Got it. Have fun.” Tony winked at Frankie, who immediately turned red.
We walked into a party in full swing, and our coats were immediately checked by someone who introduced herself as Eric’s assistant. The party was also apparently a dual Christmas housewarming party of sorts since Eric had surprised Jane by purchasing the entire building and remodeling it top to bottom. They had been staying primarily with Eric’s mother since the shooting last May, returning here only when they needed space.
“Wow,” Frankie breathed as she looked around the massive dining room, which had been decorated in Jane’s signature eclectic style. The furniture was a mix of classic mid-century pieces combined with punches of color and textures, including several mural-sized pieces of modern art on the walls.
“See that one?” I pointed across the room. “That’s an original Gustav Klimt.”
Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s the most comfortable museum you’ll ever visit,” I confirmed. “But I promise, the de Vrieses are good people.”
“Drink, sir?”
We turned to find one of the cater waiters holding a tray of champagne flutes.
“Please,” I said, taking two for Frankie and me. “Hold on a second, kid.”
As one, my sister and I both downed the contents of the glasses like they contained shots of Cuervo, not Cristal. I quickly exchanged them for two more.
“Thanks,” I told the waiter. “Keep ’em coming.”
“I can’t believe you hang out with these people all the time,” Frankie said as she accepted her other glass.
I shrugged after taking another sip of champagne. “I wouldn’t say it’s all the time. I see them occasionally. Not for months, now.”
She continued looking over the crowd, then turned to examine me. “You know, you fit in here.”
I snorted. “Pull the other one, why don’t you.”
“No, you do,” she insisted. “We always make fun of you for your hats and your suits, but I’m looking at you. And in here, with all these fancy people. You blend right in, Mattie. You really do.”
“Give or take a billion dollars,” I joked back.
“It’s smaller than you think.”
Frankie turned to the crowd, who were all busily chatting and laughing. Eric and Jane were buried somewhere near the back. I caught Jane making large, animated movements with her hands. Her gold-rimmed glasses glinted under the lights of a modern chandelier, and when she saw me, she raised one hand and waved wildly, indicating for me to join them. I waved back, but I wasn’t in the mood to shove my way back there.
“Is she here?” Frankie asked.
“Who?”
Frankie gave me a look. “You know who. Her.”
I swallowed. I guessed I hadn’t been as discreet as I’d thought. Because no, I wasn’t scanning the crowd looking for famous faces from the Post. I was only interested in one face. A perfect face that had been scowling at me just a few days ago.
I frowned. We were almost two hours past the start time of the party. The visible living room and dining rooms that had been cleared for guests were jammed with people. Still, nowhere did I see the telltale gleam of bright blonde.
“I don’t think so,” I said. The churning in my stomach didn’t stop.
“Good. You deserve a night off from the misery that woman brings you.”
I looked down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
But before Frankie could answer, we were interrupted.
“Francesca?”
At the sound of her full Italian name (she was Frankie, Fran, or Frances pretty much everywhere but at our grandmother’s house) spoken in a suspiciously deep, clearly British voice, my sister froze. We both turned to find the tallest man in the room,
