SIMONE'S POV
I knew something was wrong before the phone rang.
Before Carlos's tires screamed against gravel in the driveway.
Before the blood.
I knew because the wine glass shattered in my hand for no reason at all.
One moment I was holding Irene's delicate crystal stem, listening to her drone on about how easy death comes for mafia wives and lovers.
The next, razor-sharp pieces were cutting into my palm, burgundy wine mixing with my blood on the Persian rug.
"Clumsy," Irene observed, not even looking up from her book.
But it wasn't clumsiness. It was something deeper, more jarring. Like my body had reacted to a threat my mind couldn't yet process.
"Something's wrong," I whispered, staring at the blood welling between my fingers.
"The only thing wrong is yo
