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“This is Lando and Carla Ferretti we are discussing. They’re not exactly typical.”

“No,” I agreed, and then remembered something. “Did you know Dario had a brother at one point?”

Alessia widened her eyes at me, sipping her coffee before answering. “Only because I grew up in the Outfit. His name was Luca. He died in a drive-by shooting outside La Rosa Cucina when he was just a kid. Nine or ten years old, maybe. Lando and Carla were devastated. He was the eldest, I guess, and had a bright future. Cesare’s told me before that Lando makes pointed comments sometimes about Dario being the wrong brother in power.”

I flinched in sympathy. I couldn’t imagine Papà ever saying something like that to me. I wasn’t very useful to him as a daughter, other than my marrying power, but he never for a moment made me feel less than Ricco or Beppe. Different, sure, but still special in my own way.

It explained a lot about Dario to know his parents were always comparing him unfavorably to a dead sibling.

“Do you suppose anyone in the Mafia is well adjusted?” I asked tiredly.

Alessia laughed, the bright, bubbly sound automatically making me smile. “Oh no, definitely not. But the successful ones know how to harness their issues for good. Look what you’ve done here, Fi. You’ve always been a nosy bitch, and you’ve turned it into a seriously profitable business. It’s too bad women can’t be head of the Family, because you’d do a better job than any of the male Ferrettis ever have.”

It was my turn to laugh and thank God for giving me friends like Less.

“Let’s hope my nosiness lands us some answers,” I said. “Get Hank on the phone for me before my first meeting, okay? If anyone can help me figure out this puzzle, it’s the boys in leather.”

Dario had told Stefan and Luigi to have me home by five to get ready for our night out, but I got caught up talking to Mr. Ryan Horace, a financial investor who suspected his business partner in the Loop was embezzling money. I’d taken on the case, assuring him I would have answers for him within the week, and then promptly fell into a rabbit hole searching through Bill Wellington’s life online. Finn was my number-one private investigator, and we’d spoken for hours that afternoon about the case and the mystery of the severed ear. He agreed it was suspicious as hell and swore he would stay on his contact at the lab until they processed the testing.

As for the financial files pertaining to Lo Spettro, he promised he would look into them, but it would take time. Over the years, I’d pinned a dozen seemingly random murders back to the hit man, but Finn would have to go through the records with a fine-tooth comb to link the money transfers to the date and times of each death in order to find any kind of pattern within the mess of shell companies Blue Water Financial Corp. and their clients used to move money without alerting the authorities. I’d started to go through some of the files myself, but the work was outside my area of expertise, and I found myself drowning in figures long after I should have been on the road.

So I was late as I scuttled through the tunnel and into the car park under my fake graphic design office. Late enough I wasn’t as aware of my surroundings as I should have been, because when I reached my car, a tall dark figure was there leaning against the driver’s door with his arms crossed.

“Dario,” I gasped, eyes threatening to fall out of my skull from shock.

Unbidden, my hand flew to my hair, checking to make sure I had taken off the red wig and mask as I always did in the public restroom in the middle of the tunnel.

“Wife,” he greeted on a low growl. “You are late.”

I realized he was wearing an immaculate black tuxedo without a bow tie, the loose tail of one end dangling from the satin breast pocket.

“I was busy,” I said, recovering enough to shrug one shoulder flippantly. “Unlike you, I work for others, and my schedule is based on their needs, not my own.”

“You think I got to where I am today by being unaccommodating?” Dario drawled, but there was a dangerous light in his eyes, a tightness around his mouth as he glared at me.

At my back, Stefan and Luigi shifted restlessly. They were my men, inducted into my inner circle of trust and the only bodyguards on staff other than Ruben who knew about my double life as the Oracle. We’d bonded over six years of late-night cards when Dario was God only knew where, eating takeout together during late nights at the office and bailing me out of trouble when clients got handsy or angry with the results of their investigations. I knew Stefan had six sisters who all lived with their parents in an old brownstone in the Near West Side. He survived on a diet that consisted mostly of pizza and pasta, with as few green vegetables as he could manage, which was hilarious given he had a whipcord-thin build, and he lived with Luigi in an apartment down the street from our house.

Luigi was a first-generation immigrant from Sicily, having come over two years before I married Dario as a gesture of goodwill between the Cavallaro family and the Ferrettis. He’d proven his loyalty first to Lando and then to Dario, but he had a soft spot for all things Sicilian and delighted in talking to me in dialect about our homeland whenever he could.

But they were still made men, inducted into that secret society long before they’d met me. If I was their queen, Dario was still their king, and seeing his unhappiness set them on edge.

I hoped fervently the day would never come where my knights’ loyalty would be called into question over who they truly served.

“I married you, didn’t I?” Dario added, the words like a slap to the face.

I decided the best course of action was to ignore the insult. “Why are you here? I’m just on my way home.”

“We don’t have time now for you to change at home. If you’d been on time, then, maybe, but we have dinner before the event, and I know how cranky you get when you haven’t eaten.”

“Do you?” I asked. “That’s funny, I wouldn’t think you’ve spent enough time with me to know my moods.”

His chuckle was low and dark as he pushed off the car and stalked toward me, stopping only when the tips of our shoes were touching and he was looming over me. “Fiammetta, do not mistake your influence in my life. You may think we do not spend time together, but even when you do not go outside, the weather affects your life. You are my weather system. The sky above my head even when I do not have the time or inclination to check the forecast.”

“I’m not sure,” I murmured, a little dazed by his words and the intensity of his focus. “But that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

His grin was so small, it was only a flicker. “You are a storm, wife. Not always easy to withstand, but always glorious to behold.”

“Oh,” I said, because that was the only word in my mouth.