Not the slim gold band she had stopped wearing after Gabriel died.
The other one.
The heavy platinum ring with the square-cut black onyx stone.
The ring that had belonged to her husband.
The ring that, according to the most feared man in Chicago, should have been lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean with a murdered man.
Rain hammered the reinforced windows of Gene & Georgetti, turning Franklin Street into a river of blurred headlights. Moments earlier, the steakhouse had been alive with the comfortable noise of wealth—crystal glasses, low laughter, knives cutting into expensive beef.
Now no one moved.
Leonardo Falcone had Clara’s wrist in his hand.
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