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Viola couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. She’d thought she’d been careful, but the Fox was wearing a triumphant look on his ugly face. She’d thought she had everything under control—Nibsy and Paolo and the danger the Order posed. But if her brother knew about Cela and Abel…

“Ah yes, the eggplants you’ve been visiting.” Paolo flicked his cigarette to the ground, then snuffed it out with the sole of his polished shoe. “When, exactly, were you planning to tell me about them?”

She took an instinctive step back.

It was such a stupid thing to say. Eggplants. It had been a joke in her family, a bit of absurdity that they’d used between themselves to pretend they were only having a bit of fun. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t the sort of evil you had to confess to Father McGean before you went to mass. It was a joke.

But it wasn’t. It never had been.

It turned Viola’s stomach now to realize how easily she’d been a part of that ugliness, how easily she’d allowed herself to use their hatred as a way to belong. When her family had arrived in this country, they’d had so many troubles—and for no reason at all. They’d been hated by the pale Germans who had long ago made themselves into members of the community, and by the freckled Irish who already spoke English when they stepped from the boat. They were too strange with their rosary beads, too dark, too unwanted, and so her family had reveled in the small knowledge that it could be worse. That at least they were better than some.

Viola had never thought anything of that reasoning, because when her mother and her brother were talking about others, they weren’t focused on her. They weren’t focused on her faults or the whispers that followed her through the streets, strange, unnatural girl that she was. She’d been wrong to go along with their ugly joking. Viola saw that now so clearly, but there was nothing she could do. It wasn’t the time to correct Paolo, because the word he used was nothing compared to the threat behind it—the knowledge it implied and the sure danger it meant for Cela and Abel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Paolo. And anyway, you listen to this one now?” she asked, jerking her chin at Torrio in a show of defiance. Hoping that he didn’t scent her terror. “I thought it was the other way around?”

Torrio’s eyes glinted in a way she didn’t like. He knows too much.

Paul ignored the slight. “Now, now, mia sorella, the time for lies is at its end. I’ve given you too much room to run free, I think, and now it’s time we talk about how you’re going to repay me.”

“What is it you want from me?” Viola asked, fighting to keep her composure, even as her mind was already spinning.

“I want the thing that everyone wants, Viola. I want the ring James Lorcan is so keen to have.” Paolo shrugged. “I also want to make Lorcan sorry for trying to double-cross me with that blaze in Tammany’s firehouse, and I want the Order to pay for what they tried to do to me at the gala. I want their precious treasures, and I want their power, and unless you want your friends uptown to find their way into the river, you’re going to help me get it.”

Viola had been trying to protect her brother from Nibsy Lorcan because she’d still been holding on to what she’d been raised to think about family. Blood wasn’t water. Blood was important. Family was all that a person could rely on when the world would rather see you dead.…

Except, that sentiment wasn’t exactly true. Viola was more than the blood in her veins—she would be more. Perhaps she had been too late to save Dolph, but she would not let Paolo touch Cela or Abel. She would not let her brother touch Theo or Jianyu. Even if it broke her mother’s heart in two, even if it severed any connection to her family or her past, Viola vowed that she would destroy Paolo herself.

NOT NEGOTIABLE

1952—San Francisco

Nearly fifty years. Esta had cost Harte almost half a century. It seemed an impossible amount of time to lose. Harte knew people who didn’t even get to count that many years in a single lifetime.

“Mr. Jones?” The doctor was frowning down at him. “I asked whether you have any other questions for me.”

Harte had a million questions, but none that this particular man could answer. He shook his head and closed his eyes, wishing they would leave him be. He needed to see Esta. He needed to understand. Eventually, the ruse worked. The two men left, but unfortunately, the click-clack of the nurse’s heeled shoes remained.

“We’ll have you fixed up in no time,” she clucked. “More fluids and plenty of rest, and you’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Harte wanted to be out of there now.

Allowing his eyes to open a crack, he watched the nurse as she fluffed his pillow and checked on a tube that seemed to be attached to his arm. He hadn’t noticed that before either. Now he could almost feel the ache from where a gleaming silver needle had been inserted into his bruised skin. It connected to translucent tubing that wound up to a glass bottle hanging above him.

“Would you like me to fetch your wife?” the nurse asked before she went.

“My wha—” Harte caught himself before he finished. “My wife…” The word felt strange in his mouth, especially when it was connected to Esta. And yet the rightness of it rocked through him. Considering what he was, what his affinity could do, the idea of ever being married had not seemed realistic. It still wasn’t realistic, but somehow he couldn’t stop the idea from taking root.

“Well, it’s not visiting hours for a little while yet, but the poor lamb has been so worried about you that I think we could make an exception.”

“Yes,” Harte said, trying to keep his voice measured. “Please. I’d very much like to see my… my wife.”

“Only for a few minutes, mind you,” the nurse tutted, waggling her finger at him playfully. “Dr. Calderone has ordered plenty of rest, and we can’t go against the doctor’s orders.”

It didn’t take long for the nurse to return with Esta, but it might as well have been hours.

“Just a little while, now,” Nurse Bagley reminded them as she escorted Esta to Harte’s bedside.

Now that Esta was standing and Harte had the time to look, he allowed himself to really take in what she was wearing—her full skirt was a soft lavender blue that came only to midcalf, and her cream-colored blouse was capped by a soft-looking woolen cardigan that skimmed the curves of her body. It cut in at her waist and accentuated her figure better than any corset he’d ever seen her in. It was enough to make him completely lose his train of thought.