Deception (Infidelity #3)(29)

I couldn’t stop the grin, though my chest felt as though my heart might break. He was right. He hadn’t disappointed me yet.

I stood nude in the darkened room, the evidence of our lovemaking fresh upon my thighs as Nox disappeared through the door, leaving me alone.





I PUSHED THE chicken salad around my plate, separating the grapes from the nuts. I liked them all, but I wasn’t hungry. Lifting my gaze from my plate, I stared out of the breakfast-nook windows toward the water. The afternoon sun looked warm as it shone not only on the crystal blue pool, but also beyond the deep green lawn to the sound. The scene was beautiful, calming even.

I needed something to calm me as I waited for Nox’s call. How long did it take to fly from New York to DC? Considering the time it took for my shower and now lunch, he’d been gone for nearly an hour. Rationally I knew he’d also need to be driven back to the city, but that didn’t stop my heart from aching.

My phone sat beside my plate. If I weren’t waiting for his call, I’d turn off the sound. From the clamor of noises—notifications, emails, and tweets—I suspected that my name had been discovered as one of the people leaving the scene of a shooting.

What did that even mean?

We couldn’t be suspects, could we?

With a huff, I pushed back the plate, grabbed my phone and the tall glass of iced tea. Even with the shower, I’d like something else to wear. My capris and top seemed jaded by the memories of the scene in the park. As I walked around Nox’s lovely home, I didn’t notice the elegant furnishings or the stately architecture. My mind was desperately trying to replay the morning scene.

In the photo I was looking beyond the bodyguards, looking out to the crowd. Yet I couldn’t recall seeing the victim.

My nearly empty stomach twisted.

The woman’s only crime was jogging. I jogged in the park every Saturday. I’d just been talking to Nox, telling him how we should run in the park instead of on a treadmill. That was all she’d been doing—exercising, and with her child no less.

I was an English and political science major. Physics was never my thing. After calculus I went into micro-and macroeconomics. I understood math as a property of finance, not angles and projections. Somehow, a bullet aimed at either Nox or me was shot from a gun with one of us in the sights and by a person who I would venture to guess was good at what he or she did, when at just precisely the right moment, this woman stepped into its trajectory.

How ironic was that?

The shrill ring of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. I recognized the tune. It was my mother. I took a deep breath as I turned the screen toward me and confirmed the name.

I could let it go to voicemail, but eventually I’d need to talk to her. Had she seen my picture? Did she know I was—at the very least—connected to a violent crime in Central Park?

Taking a deep breath, I swiped the screen and held tightly to my midsection. With my phone to my ear, I said, “Hi, Momma.”

“Alexandria, I’m sending a plane. Where in the fuck are you? You’re coming home today.”

The phone didn’t need to be at my ear. Silvia, no matter where she was in the house, could probably hear. It wasn’t the words that set my nerves into overdrive. It was the voice.

With the small hairs standing at attention on the back of my neck, I sucked in another breath. “Alton, where’s my mother?”





“FAMILY,” CARMINE COSTELLO said as he hugged Angelina.

“Zio,” she replied with a smile.

“Oren,” he said, his hand extended.

“Sir, we’re happy to be here today.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Costello replied as he walked through the house, his arm around my wife, his niece.

What I’d said was partially true. Angelina and I would never decline an invitation to her uncle’s home. That wasn’t only because he was her family, her father’s brother, but because he was the head of her family. No one declined an invitation.

It wasn’t as easy as it had been to get to the Costello home. When we’d still lived in Brooklyn, we could walk. Now we had our house in Westchester County. Sometimes it was as though they had forgotten that we’d moved. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d received late-night phone calls requesting my presence at a family meeting. Thankfully, late at night, the traffic was more forgiving.

This wasn’t late at night. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and the tree-lined street was filled with cars. We’d practically needed to walk from our old brownstone in order to find a place to park.

Angelina’s Uncle Carmine had met us at the top of the tall steps at the threshold of his home. As we made our way down the long hallway toward the beautiful courtyard out back, the other guests came into view. In the world where Angelina was born, this was an honor to be amongst these people. We were on the inside, along with family that was either blood or who’d earned their way to the inner circle. Earning that right came with the same price—blood.

Blood in, blood out.

The backyard was festive with voices and laughter. Angelina made her way over to Vinny’s wife, Bella, and offered her congratulations. We weren’t celebrating her accomplishment, but that of her daughter. We were all gathered to celebrate the first communion of Carmine’s granddaughter and Vincent’s daughter, Luisa, the princess.