The Mafia Widow's Revenge

I walked into the casino, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the space. I hadn’t been here since my husband’s death, but tonight, I was here for answers.

As I walked past, heads turned. Men let out throaty murmurs of approval, while women cast secretive, admiring glances.

"Mrs. Russo, welcome—"

I turned toward the voice that had just called my name, though I had been heading to the lounge.

"Forgive my manners. My name is Marcel," he said smoothly. "I must confess, you look even better in person than in the papers."

I didn’t bother asking how he knew my name—that would be a lost cause. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, tall and slender, with tattoos on his arm that caught my attention.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He chuckled, then shook his head. "That sounds stupid, right? Since you own the place."

I decided to save him from his misery by laughing heartily. "Who says you can’t buy me a drink just because I own the place?"

He smiled sheepishly, and I had to admit—he had a nice smile.

"Give me your contact," I said. "Once I’m done with what I’m doing, I might just take you up on that offer."

I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find, but every investigation had to start somewhere. And what better place than the scene of the crime?

I flashed Marcel a polite smile before heading toward the lounge. The moment I stepped inside, a wave of revulsion rolled over me. Strippers swayed against drunk, glassy-eyed men. Cocaine lined the tables, disappearing beneath desperate noses. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and sin.

Then I saw him.

The man whose presence had unsettled me from the start. The man suspected of killing my husband.

He sat in Lorenzo’s usual spot in the high roller lounge, leaned back as if the chair had always been his. A crystal glass of Scotch rested in his hand, his fingers tapping lazily against the rim. He looked completely at ease—too at ease.

A knot formed in my stomach, but I forced my shoulders back and walked straight toward him. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. His eyes tracked my approach with an infuriating mix of amusement and expectation, as if he had been waiting for me.

"You’re in the wrong seat," I said, my voice calm but firm.

He swirls his drink before taking a slow sip, then sets the glass down with deliberate ease.

"Am I?" His gaze flickers over me, assessing. "Funny. No one else seems to mind."

My fists clench at my sides. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. "You already know the answer to that, don’t you?"

Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down my spine.

"Did you kill him?" The question leaves my lips in barely a whisper.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The air between us tightens, charged with something dark and unspoken.

"If I did," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, "what would you do about it?"

My breath catches. He’s taunting me. Testing me.

I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself. "I’d make sure you paid for it."

His lips curl slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. He picks up his drink again, taking an agonizingly slow sip before meeting my gaze.

"Then I guess we’ll see how this plays out."