Uncle Vincent knew, and he’d blame me. I had no doubt. He never liked me, never made any bones about it. And there’d been an incident, maybe a month earlier. A family gathering. Family in both senses of the word. Tony got drunk. I got drunk. We did what we always did when we were drunk, only this time there was a full banquet hall to watch us go at it, with Uncle Vincent at the helm. Everyone there heard me tell Tony I’d cut his throat the next time he fell asleep. And now Uncle Vincent would be coming for me. Chances were he was already on his way.
“Jesus Christ, Tony,” I said. “What am I going to do?”
I was hyperventilating. I actually smacked myself. I wasn’t thinking about my dead husband anymore—I was calculating how long it would take Uncle Vincent’s men to get here.
I ran upstairs. I knew what came next, what I had to do to protect myself. Every Mafia wife prepares for flight. We come up with a plan and rehearse it as we lie awake in bed. We compare notes. In hushed voices. In back rooms. At birthday parties, bridal showers, barbecues. What would you do if it all fell apart? If the FBI came knocking? If war broke out between the families? If your husband was locked up? Murdered?
Bribes, I reminded myself as I threw together a travel bag. Bribes are key if you want to stay hidden from a man like Vincent.
You don’t go on the run so much as you buy your escape. You need capital, but it can’t be cash—the courts will strip you of cash. But they can’t take your property. Not unless they can prove it was stolen. And I happened to have a fat collection of very expensive, legally obtained jewelry.
Chapter 7
EXCEPT THAT my collection had vanished.
I kept the most valuable pieces—a Tiffany tiara, a double-row gem-encrusted bracelet, three pearl necklaces, a blue sapphire Heart of the Ocean replica, an 18-karat-gold locket, five sets of diamond earrings—inside a large cardboard box marked FEMININE PRODUCTS. I kept the box wedged between the piping and the wall of the bathroom sink, hidden behind columns of spare toilet paper. Burglars will riffle through your drawers. They’ll tear art from the walls looking for a safe. But they generally steer clear of toiletries. I’d thought I was being clever.
My heart started beating so hard I could feel it in my toes. Maybe, I thought, Anthony had moved my jewels. He always believed his custom-made safe was impregnable, had told me more than once that I was being ridiculous. I ran back through the bedroom and into the hallway, pulled up a corner of the carpeting, and spun the dial on Anthony’s sunken vault. Nothing inside but a ledger and some pictures of his late mother.
Maybe Anthony had moved my stash to a more conventional locale. I checked all the places jewelry might normally be kept: the engraved mahogany case on my vanity table, my dresser drawers, my desk drawers. All empty. Every last piece gone.
Who else would have known to look in that box under the sink?
I thought, Sarah.
I thought, Serena.
I thought, Sarah and Serena.
Had they teamed up to kill Anthony and rob me? The idea didn’t sit right. We’d always gotten along, even gone on day trips together when Anthony was away. But then I couldn’t remember the last time they’d both been absent on the same morning. At first I felt betrayed. Then I realized it went beyond simple betrayal. They knew my history with Vincent, knew Florida’s top crime boss would be only too happy to kill me limb by limb. They’d set me up. It was probably one of them who called Vincent from Anthony’s phone.
No more time for thinking. I heard a car pulling up the gravel driveway, moving at top speed, then hitting the brakes hard. I went to the window, peered through the blinds. Vincent had sent his top dogs: Mr. Defoe, a consigliere of long standing, and Johnny Broch, Vincent’s go-to muscle. I watched them jump out of their sedan and take the porch steps two at a time. At least they had the courtesy to ring the bell.
Anthony’s paranoia was about to pay off for a change. In addition to the obligatory panic room, he’d had hidden passageways built all over the house. The panic room wouldn’t do any good. Either they’d wait me out or find their way in: Anthony and Vincent shared the same architect. But the paneling behind the armoire in the front bedroom swung open if you touched it in just the right spot, and behind that paneling was a ladder leading straight to the garage. I hooked my travel bag over my shoulder, heaved the armoire out of the way, and started down.
We had twin cars, his and hers Bentleys—his a four door, mine a coupe. If Anthony had been really smart, he’d have kept some kind of low-profile getaway vehicle: a Ford Focus or a Hyundai Elantra—something that would blend in once you’d made it past the driveway. It’s hard to go unnoticed in a Bentley, but then I guess that’s the point.
I got behind the wheel of the coupe, tossed the travel bag on the passenger seat. Anthony must have searched far and wide to find the slowest-moving automatic garage door in Florida. I watched it inch its way off the floor, counted to fifty before it even cleared the front bumper. “Come on, come on, come on,” I begged. My nerves got the better of me. I hit the gas too soon, clipped the
