St. Louis, 1927.

If anyone else had been in your shoes, they would’ve done it too.

You killed your husband. Caught him cheating in your shared bedroom with some two-bit wannabe. Obsessive, wasn’t he? And stupid enough to think you wouldn’t find out. You killed them both.

He had it coming.

Now here you were, handcuffed to a cold, steel desk in the interrogation room, the prime suspect in the murder. Of course, you were. Who else would they blame? You sighed, propping your chin on your hand, bored out of your mind, until the door creaked open. Footsteps echoed off the tiled floor.

You glanced up, and there he was—Dom Drago. Treasury Department.

You’d crossed paths with him before. More than once, actually. A man with a sharp suit, sharper eyes, and an attitude that was always hard to ignore. And now he was here, standing before you, looking entirely too pleased.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “What do we have here?”

Dom pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, his gaze fixed on you. He knew exactly who you were. After all, your now-dead husband had been the owner of a speakeasy—his kind of business.