Gloria walked through the front door of the Echelon Hill manor she shared with her husband at a quarter to five. A swarthy, petite maid greeted her in the atrium and took her clutch and shopping bags.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Davenport,” she said in her heavily-accented English. “Did you have a nice day?”

“I did, Francesca, thank you for asking,” Gloria replied, giving her longtime maid a blithe smile. “In truth, it was downright delectable! More fun than I've had in ages! Well…except for one thing, but I have a feeling my husband the attorney can assist with that little snag.”

“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Davenport,” Francesca said. She held up the shopping bags. “Should I put these in your dressing room?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Gloria said. “Is my husband home?”

“In the sun room, Madam, reading the newspaper,” Francesca replied.

“Ah. Of course. Thank you, Francesca.”

As her maid went up the stairs with the shopping bags, Gloria passed through the parlor to the solarium at the back of the house. It was both her and her husband's favorite retreat. The double French doors stood open in welcome as she approached, and she paused at the threshold to take in the sunny haven in all its glory.

Three of the four walls were made up of wide, floor to ceiling windows, and most of these had been propped open to let in the pleasant June breeze. High above her, the sun shone through the multitude of skylights. A vast array of exotic plants ornamented the corners and side tables of the room, and delicate vines of ivy snaked up the windows to hanging fixtures on the ceiling. The visual and olfactory result reminded Gloria of a fairytale.

On the settee in the center of the room, her husband reclined across the cushions as he read the newspaper. His face was set in concentration, and his thick dark hair was smoothed back in the style of a debonair film actor. For a few stolen seconds, Gloria lingered in the doorway, her gaze fondly roaming the contours of his handsome profile. She had every centimeter of his angular jaw, high forehead, and straight Roman nose memorized, yet she never could help indulging in the sight each time they occupied the same room.

How she would miss this.

“You know, it's customary to announce oneself when entering a room, rather than ogling like a voyeur,” Mr. Davenport teased, turning his head and saddling her with his cheeky, knowing smile. The smile she so loved.

“I was admiring the view,” she teased back as she stepped over the threshold. “It's really something special today. The room is nice, too.”

He chuckled and got to his feet, setting the newspaper aside. “My dulcet darling,” he said, the beautifully rounded vowels of his words betraying him for the British import that he was. He held out his arms in invitation. “How lovely to see you. I'm so glad you're home.”

Gloria glided into his embrace and encircled her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against the lapel of his suit jacket. “Karl, dearest,” she murmured. “You simply will not believe the day I've had.”

“Oh, no,” he said, suddenly concerned. He took her gently by the shoulders and looked her up and down. “Not bad news?”

“No, no! There's no bad news! For me, that is,” Gloria assured him. “My day couldn't have been better. I wish that could be said for everyone I know, but… Well. Please, don't worry. I'm grand.”

“Are you really?” Karl asked, the corners of his eyes crinkled in worry. “So, your appointment this morning..?” He trailed off.

Gloria knew what he meant to ask, and why he couldn't get the words out. She graced him with an earnest, reassuring smile and laid her hand on his cheek. “The doctor is very pleased with my current health. He says the prognosis is brighter than he'd originally anticipated.”

“Oh?” Karl's eyes lit up. “Meaning?”

“I should have several more months of decent health before things take a turn for the grim,” she said. “He says, if I keep up as I am now, I should still mostly be myself at Christmas.”

Tears glimmered in Karl's eyes, and he hugged her to his chest. “Oh, my sweet girl. That is such good news. Such very, very good news. First it was summer, then autumn, now Christmas. Keep this up, and you'll thwart this bloody cancer altogether.”

“I couldn't do it without you,” Gloria whispered against his ear.

“And your friends, of course,” Karl added, laughter in his voice. “They provide the spice to keep life interesting, don't they?”

Gloria sputtered a chuckle. “Oh, you have no idea! Though I do think they find my relentless cheeriness exhausting. But how can I not be cheerful, when every day that I'm still here with you is such a blessing? Which reminds me: I made a new friend today! An honest-to-goodness nice one!”

“Did you really? Do tell!” Karl said. Taking Gloria by the hand, he returned to the settee and pulled her down next to him. “How on earth did you meet someone nice?”

“She's poor,” Gloria explained.

“Ah,” Karl mused. “That would do it.”

“I hope you don't mind, I bought a few items for her this afternoon,” Gloria told him. “Some dresses, shoes, hats, and whatnot. The poor dear simply cannot afford anything high end. She and I appear to be the same size. Well, we would, if she had a decent meal every now and then. Anyway, I'd like some of my clothes to go to her after I… You know.”

“After Christmas,” Karl supplied. “Anything you wish, darling. Introduce me to her, and I'll make sure it's done.”

“Thank you, dearest. However did I get so lucky?” Gloria remarked. She leaned in and brushed her lips across his in a sweet, chaste kiss. “Now, for the main event of the day.”

“The part I ‘simply will not believe’?” Karl asked, repeating Gloria's earlier words. He smoothed the backs of his fingers softly over her cheek.

“Yes, exactly! That part! Though, we may need wine,” Gloria said, tapping her chin. “Anyway, it all began when the maître d' at Delmonico's Bistro informed us that Camilla Otis was unable to lunch today…”

༺ ○ ༻

“Watch your head,” Karen instructed gently as she assisted Marcella into the backseat of a waiting taxi outside The Imp's Bottle. “Nice and easy. There you are.”

Marcella hiccuped and covered her mouth with the back of her hand in amusement. “Pardon me. Mmm. I really did not need that last drink. I'll be going to bed before Jefferson tonight!”

“Just get home safe,” Karen said. She smiled and handed Marcella her stylish clutch. “Glass of water, two pain killers, sleep, and one swallow of spirits in the morning. That's the remedy for a hangover. So I've been told.”

“To avoid a splitting headache, I'll try anything,” Marcella said. She pulled the taxi door closed and rolled down the window. “Thank you for your ear today, Miss Dwindle. Apparently, I needed to talk.”

“Please, call me Karen. And it's my pleasure.”

Marcella fixed her with a pensive stare and hooked her right elbow over the open window. “I'm sure I don't need to say this,” she began, her voice hushed, “but I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat anything we spoke about.”

Karen gave Marcella a patient smile. “You're right, you don't need to say that. But I understand why you would. And I can assure you that I'll never speak a word of it. To anyone. That's a promise.”

“You're a good egg, Karen,” Marcella said. Gratitude shone in her dark eyes as she slumped back against the seat. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it!”

With one last nod of recognition, Marcella turned to the taxi driver. “Echelon Hill, please. And take the turns slowly, will you?”

“No problem, ma'am,” the driver replied.

Karen stepped away from the taxi and waved as it pulled into traffic. She didn't envy the earful Marcella was likely to get when she arrived home, semi-inebriated and without her vehicle. Based on what Marcella had told Karen during their chat, her husband was a difficult man at the best of times.

Karen smiled to herself as she began walking back toward the police station where she'd parked her car. The sun was just beginning to lower in the evening sky, and it promised to be another mild, pleasant summer night.

Without warning, an incredulous little giggle bubbled up inside of her. Wasn't it strange, how the past had a tendency to repeat itself?

Marcella didn't remember, of course, but this afternoon was actually the second time she'd indulged in too much booze and poured her heart out to Karen Dwindle. The first time had been some months ago. That time, Marcella had been far more distraught, and had become far more intoxicated, crying to Karen about a ‘choice’ she'd made that caused guilt to creep into her dreams. Karen had listened to the emotional outpouring, and just as she had today, promised not to repeat a word.

She'd kept her promise then, and she would keep it now. Karen was nothing if not a woman of strong conviction. Words had meaning, therefore one's word meant something.

Yes, the past repeated itself. But perhaps this time Marcella would remember her.

༺ ○ ༻

“Antonio!” Paola Castellano's voice echoed through the massive house. “Antonio! Where are you?”

Antonio Castellano huffed a little sigh and made a gesture of irritation with his hand and shoulders for the benefit of his guest. ‘Women,’ his shrug seemed to say.

“Antoooooonio!” his wife's voice bellowed again, louder this time.

“In here, Paola!” he barked in return. “The office!” Turning to his guest, he offered a grimace of apology. “Forgive us the shouting, Mr. Contini,” he said. “Tempers are high today.”

Guido Contini shifted in his chair on the other side of the desk and gave Antonio a small smile. “Of course. I can't imagine how difficult this must be.”

Antonio made a non-committal noise and waved the acknowledgement away. “It is what it is.”

The office door burst open with a bang, and Paola stormed in, a murderous glint in her eyes. “Antonio, what do you think you're doing, hiding in here? We need to go—” She stopped short when she saw Guido Contini seated opposite her husband, and the fury in her eyes intensified. “Are you kidding me, Antonio? Veramente? Is this a joke?” she demanded. “Our son is dead, and you're having a fucking business meeting?”

“Paola, stop,” Antonio commanded. “I meet with Mr. Contini twice a week, every week. You know that.”

“And this week is hardly business as usual!” Paola argued. “You know that!”

Guido stood from his chair and grabbed his briefcase from the desktop. “I was just leaving, Mrs. Castellano. My heartfelt condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

The moment the office door closed behind Guido, Paola rounded on her husband. “You're still meeting with him?” she demanded, nostrils flaring. “Che stupido! His wife is friends with that cradle-robbing whore who murdered our son!”

Antonio tutted and ran his fingers through his thick silver hair in impatience. “Gigi Contini has nothing to do with the actions of Camilla Otis. Her husband even less so. Stop treating blame like an infection, Paola. It doesn't spread that way. Guido's Italian. He knows our business. I trust him.”

“Not all Italians are created equal,” Paola growled.

“Chiaramente,” he scoffed.

His wife threw her hands up in disgust. “How are you not more angry? How are you not livid?! Where's the ruthless mobster who had four men bound and tossed in the Hudson River because they lost the money from a shipment?”

“He's old and tired,” Antonio replied. Rising from the smooth leather cushion of his winged desk chair, he crossed the handsome mahogany office to the side table and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter. “I could be furious. I could burn down Camilla Otis' house. But would it bring Mario back? No.”

Paola gaped at him, her eyes wide and jaw hanging slack. “You coward!” she accused. “Sei uno sciocco! He was our son! Not some dime-a-dozen employee! We should burn her house down! Or pay her a visit! She's locked in a cage right now. We couldn't ask for a more perfect opportunity. You know Judge Loughran, you know the district attorney — make some calls! Arrange for Camilla Otis to have a ‘visitor’! Whatever it takes for her to get what's coming to her!”

“To what end?” Antonio asked. He polished off his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. “What type of ‘visitor,’ Paola? You want me to send someone to stab her in her holding cell?”

“Not ‘someone,’ no,” Paola negated. “Me. I want to handle this personally. I want to watch that murdering puttana's face while I slide a switchblade between her ribs. She killed my bambino! She deserves to die!”

Antonio's eyes grew hard. “You kill her inside the police station, and even my connections cannot save you,” he warned his wife. “You want revenge? Fine. Get revenge. But don't be stupid about it.”

“I cannot believe you,” Paola seethed. “He was your son, too, Antonio! You should want to raze this city to the ground! Why don't you care? Why are you acting like you lost a worthless trinket on the street?”

“Because we have three other sons!” Antonio exploded. “Older, smarter, and more capable than Mario could ever have been! They make money for this family; he only squandered it. I know he was your ‘baby,’ Paola, but he was a fuck-up! Errore dopo errore! All he did was spend my money, drink, snort snow, and seduce married women. Our other sons? Not a single brush up with the coppers among them. But Mario? Arrested three times this year! The only reason he wasn't behind bars this morning instead of getting shot is because I kept bribing the right people to let him off. For you! Because you begged me to! You coddled him, and coddled him, and look how much good it did. Is he grateful to you? No, he's dead.”

Paola recoiled from her husband as though his words had physically struck her across the face. “Are you saying what happened to Mario is my fault?” she hissed.

Antonio heaved a frustrated sigh. “No, I'm not. I'm saying spoiling him didn't help matters. He needed a firmer hand. You shouldn't have given him such a long leash.”

Her hands shook with rage, and Paola balled them into fists at her sides. “And you shouldn't have hired that goddamn P.I.! How did that help matters?”

“I wanted to see who Mario was shirking his responsibilities for,” Antonio said, not a hint of remorse in his voice.

“We have people for that!” Paola cried.

“Right. People,” Antonio scoffed. “People Mario would have recognized in a heartbeat. The P.I. I hired came to me highly recommended. And he delivered. Do you know that in addition to taking money from me, and skimming off the top at a bunch of our front companies, Mario was receiving an allowance from not one, but two of his married lady-friends? That stupid boy had turned himself into a thieving gigolo, and you're still going to defend him? He was an embarrassment to this family! As you said, Paola, not all Italians are created equal.”

For just a moment, Paola eyed the pointed, metal letter opener on her husband's desk. The edge was so sharp. She'd cut her hand on it more than once in the past. As the fury she felt over Antonio's cavalier attitude boiled inside her, she imagined grabbing the letter opener and slitting his throat. Phantom blood ran down the front of his fashionable suit, saturating the white shirt and gray suit jacket in a macabre fountain of vermillion.

But in her mind was where that image would stay. For all his faults, Antonio was a good husband. They made good partners. And they were far stronger together.

Besides, she loved him. At times.

Composing herself, Paola cleared her throat and smoothed the front of her designer dress. “Mario was our son. No matter what he did to disappoint you, that fact can never be altered. No one disrespects the name Castellano and lives to tell about it. Wash your hands of this if you feel you must, Antonio, but I will see justice done. The Italian way.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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