The sprawling Russo estate loomed like a fortress on the outskirts of the city, its iron gates guarded by men with eyes like hawks and guns hidden under tailored black jackets. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of polished marble and old money, but for Ramona, it felt more like a gilded cage.
Victor Russo, her husband in name and her lover in fleeting moments, had been gone for three months this time. Some deal with the Colombians, he'd said in his last clipped phone call, his voice echoing through the satellite connection like a ghost.
'Stay safe, Mona. Alejandro's got you covered.'
Covered? The word mocked her now as she stood before the full-length mirror in her walk-in closet, slipping out of a crimson evening gown that hugged her hourglass figure too perfectly for solitude
