They say people grow on you, and maybe that was true, because every time Marcella saw Tony, she felt the need to scrub him off her skin.

He rose and circled the desk, arms wide.

“Marcella, if beauty were a crime . . .” he said, reaching for her hand.

“Then I’d be running this city instead of you,” she said dryly.

Tony laughed, even as his attention flicked sideways. “And who’s this?”

“My niece, J—”

“Jessica,” cut in June, holding out her hand, her accent smothered to a soft edge.

Tony took it, his eyes wandering over her. “Good looks clearly run in the family,” he said, brushing his lips against her knuckles. With his

head bent, he didn’t see June’s eyes narrow to slits. Marcella wondered, again, what June had meant by personal business.

The two suits were hovering by the glass doors, hands resting on their holsters, but Tony waved them away. “Stand down, boys.” A wink. “I think I can handle things here.”

Amazing, thought Marcella. Hutch had obviously seen her handiwork at the poker game, and still he treated her like a prop, a pretty but powerless bauble.

How many men would she have to turn to dust before one took her seriously?

The security retreated, and Tony turned toward the sideboard.

“Sit, sit,” he said, gesturing at the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Can I get you girls a drink?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just started scooping ice into crystal tumblers.

Marcella sank into a chair, but June wandered the suite, restless, examining the art. Marcella turned her attention to Tony. “Did you know about Bethany?”

Tony tutted. “Oh, that,” he said, waving it away. “Look, I told Marc to get rid of her, but you know how men are. If dicks and hearts were in the same place—I mean, how many times have I tried to lure you away from your husband—but then, that’s not why you’re here.”

“Why am I here, Tony?”

He returned to his chair. “You’re here because you’ve got the sense to come when you’re called. You’re here to help me understand what the fuck is going on, because I’ve been hearing a lot of crazy shit, Marce, and all I know is three of my best guys are dead, and the other two seem to have the addled notion that it was you who killed them.”

“Because it was.”

Tony laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not in the mood for games, Marce. I know you and Marcus had a spat—”

“A spat?” cut in Marcella. “He slammed my head against a table. He pinned my body beneath fifty pounds of iron, and set our house on fire with me inside it.”