Crystal drops. Crystal walls. Crystal everything.

You sat at the head of the table, your husband's chair conspicuously empty to your right, and watched the other wives pretend not to stare.

Every woman at the table saw it. The way your hand paused on your glass. The way your chin lifted, just a fraction too slow.

Then the door opened.

Every head turned. Every spine straightened.

Vincent Salvatore stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered and immaculate in a charcoal suit, his dark eyes finding yours across the table like a magnet finds steel.