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VICTOR

T he damp, earthy scent of the basement seeped into my clothes as I descended the steps. The last time I was down here, Joey Rizzo was still breathing.

This was Phil’s domain.

A single bare bulb swayed slightly, casting long, wavering shadows on the rough concrete walls, which gave the space an eerie, subterranean glow.

Phil stood at his usual post—a makeshift workbench cluttered with ledgers, an overflowing ashtray, and an old adding machine.

The faint scratch of his pencil was the only sound in the otherwise oppressive silence.

I cleared my throat, and Phil straightened. He had a towering frame, broad shoulders, thick hands, but a mind sharp as a straight razor. His eyes met mine—cool, calculating—but always carrying that spark of loyalty I had come to rely on.

“Victor.” A nod. No more words were needed. He knew why I was here.

I walked over, my leather soles scuffing lightly against the concrete floor. I glanced at the ledger filled with meticulous columns of numbers, every figure carefully noted in Phil’s steady script. Detail work bored me to tears, but it was essential for keeping the machine running.

“How’s it looking?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Phil was nothing if not thorough.

“Solid,” he said. “The new establishments are paying out better than we expected.”

I allowed myself a small smile. “Good. We’ll need that cushion while I’m…away.”

At my words, Phil’s brows creased. He didn’t press, but the pause in our conversation was weighty. The distant hum of the furnace and the occasional drip of water from the pipes above made the lull in our discussion feel like the calm before a storm.

“You understand why I need to step back for a while,” I said finally. “Until my divorce is final, I need to be squeaky clean.”

Phil’s eyes never left mine. He didn’t need to say anything.

I continued, “Private investigators, depositions… If they find any of this, it could get messy.”

The bench groaned as Phil leaned on it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Say no more, Boss. You’ll be clean as a whistle. One hundred percent aboveboard.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Phil. There’s no one I trust in this more than you. I trust you with my life.”

Phil cracked the faintest of grins. “I’ve gotcha, Boss. You go walk the straight and narrow, and I’ll hold down the fort.”

The single bulb above us swayed again, making his face flicker in and out of shadow, like a statue coming to life in brief flashes.

“So,” he said slowly, “exactly how much are you giving me?”

I met his gaze. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

I flipped on the foyer light of my penthouse apartment. The warm glow illuminated a space of sharp angles and minimalist furniture, all in muted tones of gray and white.

I walked straight to the wet bar and poured myself a bourbon, neat.

Another night alone.

I made my way to the kitchen, drink in hand, where a tidy stack of sorted mail sat on the marble countertop.

The first delicious swig of bourbon slithered down my throat as I leafed through the envelopes—bills, advertisements, more bills, a letter from my cousin.

One letter caught my eye—handwritten with no return address.

The handwriting was unmistakably Barbara’s.

My stomach tightened. I took the envelope and my drink to the living room and set the glass down on the coffee table. I opened the envelope carefully, almost reverently, and pulled out a piece of thick paper. It was a sketch of a dress—sleek and modern with lines that screamed glamorous elegance.

I held it up, letting the light catch the faint pencil strokes. Barbara had real talent. It was easy to see why she felt so stifled in her life as it was. Who in their right mind would want to keep Barbara’s brilliance bottled up? It was a crime.

This dress belonged on the silver screen, on a woman who turned heads when she entered a room. On Barbara.

I pictured it—her blonde waves cascading over one shoulder, those blue eyes sparkling with that beguiling mix of fiery ambition and tender vulnerability that had first drawn me to her.

Beneath the sketch was a folded piece of stationery. My pulse kicked up as I unfolded the page, bracing for bad news.

Wednesday, May 9, 1951

Victor,

I hope you like the design. It’s one of my better efforts, I think. I was thinking of you when I drew it. Maybe I’ll sew it up and wear it with you for a jazzy night on the town.

I miss you. Every day seems longer than the last, and life feels so colorless without you. I miss our afternoons together, our talks, your touch… I miss everything about us.

Frank is more insufferable by the day, and I’m not sure how long I can keep up the act.

Victor, I’m so afraid that by the time we’re both free, we’ll be different people—that this waiting will change us in ways we can’t predict. I need to believe that this pain is temporary, that it will all be worth it in the end. Please tell me you believe that too.

All my love,

Barbara

PS: Mother knows. Sorry…

I let the letter drop to my lap, staring blankly at my warped reflection on the surface of the glass coffee table.

Barbara’s words clouded my mind like smoke. I tipped my glass, watching the bourbon catch the light in slow, amber ripples before draining it and returning the glass to the coffee table with more care than it deserved.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in on you and slowly suffocates. I picked up the letter again, reading Barbara’s words once more, as if rereading them might change them. Might soften them. Might make them less desperate, less real.

Mother knows. Sorry…

“Damn it.” The curse slipped out, low and rough.

This complicated things. Barbara’s mother was Los Angeles old money—back when that meant something.

The kind of woman who hosted charity galas, sat on museum boards, and crushed men’s careers with a single phone call.

Worse, she was a moral crusader from another century.

A woman who believed marriage was a life sentence, no matter how miserable the prisoner.

If she had any sway over Barbara, we were in trouble.

I rose from the sofa and walked to the large windows that framed the city skyline.

Los Angeles glittered below me, a sprawling sea of lights stretching to the horizon.

A thick marine layer had rolled in from the Pacific, muting the stars and casting a spectral glow over the city.

It was alive and vibrant—everything I longed to be.

I loosened my tie and undid the top button of my shirt, sighing as the constriction around my neck released. A million dark solutions flitted through my mind. It wouldn’t be hard to get Barbara free. One call to Phil, and I’d be reading about the unfortunate event over breakfast.

I shook my head, banishing the idea. No, that wasn’t the way. Barbara would never forgive me. And neither would the man I was trying to become. Barbara was my fresh start. This had to be done right. Clean. For both our sakes.

Damn, I was getting soft.

I picked up Barbara’s sketch again. My fingers traced the elegant lines of the dress, imagining her hand as she drew them.

I pictured Barbara’s breasts filling the bodice, the dress hugging the beautiful curves of her hips, and the creamy skin of her long, slender leg peeking out through the thigh-high slit.

The ache in my chest deepened. Six weeks. Just six more weeks until my divorce was final. Then I could extricate her from her marriage, and we could start our life together properly.

An idea took root. It was risky—potentially disastrous if it went wrong—but it might just work. I reached for the phone on the side table and dialed a number I knew by heart.

“Phil? It’s me. I need you to do some digging. Find out everything you can about Frank Evans’s finances.”

Phil’s gravelly voice came through the receiver. “Can do, Boss. Didn’t we already turn this guy inside out last year?”

“Yes, but I need you to go deeper this time. Find out everything, and I mean everything. Bank accounts, debts, investments, the works. I want to know if he has so much as a nickel hidden under his mattress. And put a tail on him.”

“Sure thing, Boss. What are we looking for exactly?”

I let the silence linger a second longer. Then, softly, decisively—“Leverage.”