Chapter 1
The private baby-shower salon was a vision of radiant perfection, awash in bright video colors and natural, cinematic lighting. There was no dull yellow tint to the illumination; instead, a crisp, pure light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the luxurious details of the Mafia-owned venue. Fabric bunting in soft, pristine pastels draped elegantly across the ceiling. Along the walls stood a collapsible stroller-display rack holding folded stroller frames, stacks of plush baby blankets, and woven wicker diaper caddies. A tall favor-shelf display showcased meticulously arranged ribbon boxes and crisp paper gift bags. The guests, all white American adults with fair and rosy skin tones, mingled with glasses of sparkling cider. Their sharp American accents filled the air with cheerful, albeit guarded, conversation.
Standing near the perimeter was Massimo Caradonna. At fifty-seven years old, he was powerful, deeply masculine, and intimidating like a veteran Mafia boss. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly, a crisp dress shirt, his heavy family signet ring, a luxury wristwatch, and polished leather shoes. He watched the room with cold, calculating eyes.
"The perimeter is entirely secure, Boss," whispered one of his capos, a broad-chested man in a dark suit standing to Massimo's right. "We have men stationed at every exit."
"Keep your eyes on the Hale family," Massimo replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Something about Adrian's demeanor today sits wrong in my gut. He is too tense for a man celebrating his unborn child."
"Should I have the boys pat him down?" the capo asked.
"No. Not yet. Let him feel comfortable," Massimo instructed.
Across the salon, Sofia Caradonna Hale stood near the gift tables. At twenty-five years old and eight months pregnant, Massimo’s daughter was usually the picture of radiant health. Today, however, her fair, rosy skin looked unusually pale beneath the bright lights. She wore an elegant baby-shower maternity dress that flowed gracefully over her swollen belly, her wedding ring and diamond earrings catching the cinematic light, and sensible low heels on her feet.
Hovering uncomfortably close to her was her husband, Adrian Hale. At thirty-eight, the Mafia-family associate wore an expensive tailored suit, his own wedding ring, a luxury wristwatch, and polished leather shoes. His mother, sixty-three-year-old Evelyn Hale, stood beside him in a luxurious baby-shower outfit, dripping in pearl jewelry, rings, and high heels.
"You need to smile more, Sofia," Evelyn said, her American accent clipping with sharp condescension. "People are beginning to stare at you. You look like a hostage rather than an expectant mother."
"I am just tired, Evelyn," Sofia murmured softly, her eyes darting nervously around the brightly lit room. "My back is aching. I just want to sit down for a moment."
"You will sit when we are finished greeting the senator's wife," Adrian hissed, gripping Sofia’s elbow tightly. "Stop embarrassing us."
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"Adrian, please," Sofia whispered, her voice trembling. "I cannot pretend everything is fine anymore. I am going to talk to my father."
Adrian’s fair face flushed with a sudden, violent shade of red. "You are not saying a damn word to Massimo."
