My mafia boss husband called to say he was spending the night drinking with old classmates.

by

Chapter 6

THEME:
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Henry looked up from his desk. For the first time in my life, I saw genuine pride gleam in the old man's eyes.

"Take six cars, Julian," Henry ordered softly. "Tell Michael to bring the red folder."

The Bella Luna was a low-slung, red-brick Italian restaurant in the heart of the near Southwest Side. To the public, it served the best osso buco in the neighborhood; to the Chicago underworld, the windowless dining room in the basement was where territories were drawn, debts were collected, and death sentences were ratified.

When our convoy of black Maybachs pulled up to the curb, the street went instantly quiet.

Two Moretti lookouts standing near the front awning dropped their cigarettes, their eyes widening as six identical luxury sedans blocked the entire curb lane. Before they could reach for their jackets, four men in tailored charcoal coats stepped out of the lead and chase vehicles, flanking the entrance with practiced, terrifying precision.

I stepped out of the middle car.

I wore an emerald-green silk blouse under a midnight-black wool coat, diamond stud earrings my mother had given me, and black Saint Laurent heels that struck the pavement with sharp, rhythmic clicks.

The lookouts didn't move. They couldn't. One of my cousins, Michael, stood behind them, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, but the sheer presence of four Bennett security specialists behind him made the sidewalk feel like a courtroom.

I pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Bella Luna.

The restaurant was closed for "private events." The chairs were turned upside down on the front tables, the scent of garlic and floor wax hanging in the air.

At the back of the dining room, the heavy steel door leading to the basement stairs stood slightly ajar. Low, shouting voices floated up from below.

"...can't freeze the accounts without a federal subpoena!" Vincent’s voice was unmistakable—frantic, strained, losing control. "Dad, who gives a damn about Henry Bennett? He’s eighty-two! He doesn't have soldiers on the street! We have two hundred guys ready to—"

"Shut up, you complete fool!" Salvatore’s roar cut him off, followed by the sound of a fist slamming against a wooden table. "Do you think the feds are doing this? It's not the feds! It’s the maritime bank in Zurich! It's the commercial leasing firm that owns the title to our three distribution warehouses in Cicero! The Bennett firm filed an emergency equity audit this afternoon! If they pull their backing, our entire legitimate front collapses by Friday!"

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Table of Contents
My mafia boss husband called to say he was spending the night drinking with old classmates.
TABLE OF CONTENTS 11
01 Chapter 1 02 Chapter 2 03 Chapter 3 04 Chapter 4 05 Chapter 5 06 Chapter 6 07 Chapter 7 08 Chapter 8 09 Chapter 9 10 Chapter 10 11 Chapter 11

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