Julian's name had once opened every Falcone door. For the next week, those doors closed one after another. Former allies sent his calls to voicemail, and guards turned him away from the homes of elders who had backed him.
His gambling creditors followed. The Russian syndicate left a dead raven outside the grimy motel where he was staying. By then, he had little money and fewer places to sleep.
Chloe tried to sell my mother's gown. A contact in the Paris black market alerted me that an American woman was offering a unique Rostova original for a fraction of its value and asking how quickly she could reach Monaco.
My mother had woven a unique metallic filigree into the hem of every piece she considered a masterpiece. Only specialized scanners could read it, and the pattern on each garment
