Chapter 20 Aiden
TWENTY
AIDEN
The next evening, streetlights bathed Paris in a soft, honeyed glow, flickering against the cobblestones as I neared the Marchetti venue where Reina Romero’s fashion show was set to begin.
The night air was thick with the scent of distant jasmine, car exhaust, and that uniquely Parisian cocktail of aged stone and cigarette smoke.
My shoes clicked against the pavement as I neared the Marchetti venue, knowing full well that this was going to be a waste of my time, but I was doing it as a favor to my sister and her husband.
As the head of the DiMauro family, Luca had become a de facto member of the Omertà, but his bad blood with Enrico Marchetti had him sticking to Sicily and ruling from his island.
I assisted him with Omertà relations while running the Callahan mafia, and in both cases, the only vow that counted was the one given to the mafia.
Over the last few decades, the Omertà had changed and adapted, allowing it to flourish.
The five ruling families—Marchetti, DiMauro, Agosti, Romero, and Leone—had developed a finely honed sense of loyalty among their citizens, but also made powerful alliances with the Irish, namely the Callahan mafia, through me.
But that was not where it stopped. Alliances were also made with the Russians, Brazilians, Greeks, and, through Kingston—the infamous Ghost—with the Ashfords.
I stepped inside the venue and noticed that the show had already begun. Perfume hung in the air while music floated through the space and spotlights cut through the dim haze, highlighting the makeshift runway.
Picking an empty corner, I leaned against the wall, sliding my hands into my pockets and settling into the role of disinterested observer.
Young women strutted, showcasing the Romero girl’s collection. Blonde. Redhead. Blonde again. Each moved like they were born to be worshipped, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. There was only one shade that did it for me.
Cutting my train of thought, I shifted my mind to tomorrow’s checklist instead: a meeting to discuss a shipment of a product, resolving the issues we’d been having with one of our Greek contacts, and a delivery to Albania.
I was halfway through my mental audit when another round of applause burst through the air.
I stifled a yawn, checking the time on my Patek Philippe watch.
Fuck me, I thought, realizing that only five minutes had passed. This night was going to drag, but I knew appearances mattered and some business deals were better off made at shows like this than in offices.
My gaze darted around the room and I spotted Amon Leone just a few feet down, staring at the stage like his life depended on it.
I pushed off the wall and approached. “Amon.”
He turned with a stiff smile. “Callahan.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I remarked, keeping a keen gaze on my surroundings. You could never be too careful, even among allies; they could just as easily become enemies in the next breath.
“Likewise.”
I shrugged.
“Luca called this a shitshow,” I said, glancing at the stage, just as a raven-haired woman stepped into the light of the stage, “so of course he thought I’d want to see it.”
She turned her head, just slightly, and my heart kicked into overdrive.
No, it couldn’t be. My eyes and mind were playing tricks on me again.
The light was messing with me. That hair color wasn’t that rare.
The same shape of the jawline, the subtle fullness of her mouth, and that fiery, purposeful stride. A low hum filled my ears, drowning out everything else. My stomach twisted itself into a knot so tight it hurt.
No, it wasn’t possible. My wife was dead. I’d seen the wreckage, stood over the ashes, buried what was left.
My mouth went dry while I gave myself a pep talk.
And yet…
My hands trembled, useless at my sides. I told myself to look away, to stop imagining her. People resembled each other all the time.
And then she turned around, facing me, and my heart stopped.
It was her.
She wasn’t a dream. Not a ghost. Not some cruel hallucination dredged up by grief.
It was my wife. Alive. Breathing. Standing there—proud and happy—as if the grave had never claimed her.
My knees almost gave out under the sheer impossibility of it, my heart hammering so violently I thought it might tear through my chest. Every memory, every night spent mourning, every promise I’d whispered to the dark was shattered in an instant.
How was it possible? How could she be here, alive, when I had watched her casket lower into the cold ground?