She found Molly already waiting for her, tapping her nails on the tablecloth in rhythm with the music from the nearby grand piano. Hope liked to keep people waiting for her. It made people think she was busy, when in reality, she had nothing going on in her life except constant rounds of beauty appointments, taking pictures for an Instagram profile that was going nowhere, and meeting various women for afternoon tea or expensive lunches, and always making snide comments so they’d be assured she was the superior one. The occasional charity event broke up the monotony, and inspired a good image. It also helped throw the scent off Hank and his Mafia activities.
Not that anyone would know, she often thought, and bitterly. He’s so boring you’d walk down the street without giving him a second glance.
She liked to walk in public with him, though, because every man turned to look at her. “They all want me, you see, Hank?” she’d say. He’d certainly notice and draw her a little closer. His jealousy gave her wonderful ammunition to manipulate him into buying her whatever she wanted, and not pressing her about doing mundane things such as housework, which were, of course, far beneath her.
Keeping people waiting for her also made her feel important, despite the fact she lived in quite an ordinary suburban home – she’d die if anyone saw it – and was in piles and piles of credit card debt for keeping up appearances. She had a few cards (maxed out) that even Hank didn’t know about.
“Hello, Molly,” Hope said breezily, taking off her white leather jacket and handing it to the waiter who had hurried after her as she’d strutted into the room in her towering high heels. She insincerely said, “I’m so sorry I’m late!”
Molly’s smile was sickly sweet. “It’s okay, honey. I know you have a super-packed schedule.”
“No, not really,” Hope said. “I was just enjoying my time in that exclusive new beauty salon on 7th. I’m afraid I drifted away into heaven during my authentic Thai full-body massage and forgot all about the time.”
“Never mind,” Molly said with the same fake smile still stretched across her face.
Hope nodded at a hovering waiter. “We’ll have the full champagne high tea.” Of course she didn’t make eye contact, of course.
Before long, their afternoon tea arrived. It came with two champagne glasses, a large bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, and two large cake stands, one with sweet bites and one with savory bites. Of course, there was the obligatory English tea, too, Langham’s own brand. Hope thought British afternoon tea was a mark of someone of her station and status in life.
“How’s Hank?” Molly asked.
“Fine, fine, thank you,” Hope said. “And George?”
Molly laughed a little. “Just wonderful.”
Molly was a golf widow, which made her resent Hank. But she didn’t hate her husband. Not like Hope hated hers.
“What do you think about Shirley Morris?” Hope asked. She hadn’t had a chance to gossip about it yet, and she couldn’t wait to do so. “She thought she was Marilyn Monroe, didn’t she?” She smirked. “Probably didn’t look so Marilynish with those scissors sticking out of her chest.”
“Hope!” Molly said, acting shocked, but then she smirked. “Maybe one of those ex-husbands’ families caught up with her. Do you think she really killed them all?”
“Probably,” Hope said. “I don’t really much care.” The truth was, she’d always been jealous of Shirley. Many a time she’d fantasized about doing away with Hank, so that she could live the same kind of lifestyle Shirley did. She had always rubbed shoulders with the most dangerous, good looking, exciting Mafia men. And they all loved her. Even the thought of it made Hope’s heart burn with jealousy.
“Well, I definitely don’t think it was suicide,” Molly said. “Apparently she confessed to feeling guilty in some kind of a suicide note they found next to her body. I don’t believe it for a second. That woman didn’t have the capacity for guilt.”
“I know,” Hope said, shaking her head in disapproval like she was a paragon of virtue herself.
“It had to be a hit,” Molly said.
Hope nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” Sometimes Hope had fantasies of Hank being the victim of a hit. Then she could sell the house, take the cash, go to Los Angeles, and snag a rich and exciting husband. But, unfortunately, Hank was so low on the radar with his boring personality that he attracted no attention whatsoever. Unfortunately, there’d be no tragic Mafia widow tale for her to tell.
If she’d been more involved in the Mafia’s business, she might have arranged the hit herself. But sadly, Hank had married ‘out’ of the Mafia. Hope had a normal upbringing in the suburbs of Chicago, and she had no Mafia connections of her own. Her only involvement with the mob was through Hank. She worried that she might ask the wrong person to take out Hank, and they’d tip him off.
“I still feel sorry for her, in a way,” Molly said, then took a delicate nibble of one of the cucumber sandwiches.
“Yes, it would be a terrible way to die,” Hope said, but she was secretly thrilled. Shirley’s very existence had felt like such an insult to her. Hope believed she was far prettier and far more refined, and thus far more deserving of having Mafia men shower gifts and affection and attention on her. “Still, life goes on. People die every day. Especially when the mob’s involved.”
“Well, that’s true,” Molly said. “Don’t you… don’t you ever worry about Hank?”
The concern in Molly’s eyes was infuriating to Hope. Molly’s husband George had been born into a Mafia family, but had gone ‘out of the business’ and trained in accountancy to keep himself safe. Hope pitied her for this. “No, not at all,” she said icily. “In fact, I wish he’d take more risks and challenges. I find that attractive in a man.”
“You always did like the bad boys, Hope,” Molly said with a laugh. “That’s why I was so surprised when Hank was the one you chose to marry. He’s so straight. I mean, George isn’t shaking up the world, but at least he has an edge. He’s got a commanding attitude that’s allowed him to rise to the top of his firm and become the CFO. On the other hand, Hank is a little…. blah, isn’t he? No offense, Hope. I don’t mean anything bad by it, it’s just an observation.”
Hope felt so humiliated and rageful she couldn’t respond for a moment. Instead she got out her little pocket mirror and reapplied her Chanel lipstick. Then, once she had a perfect red pout, she smiled a dazzling fake smile at Molly and made a tinkly little laugh. “Hank’s brilliance lies under the surface,” she said, quite unable to believe she was defending him.
“George may be a flashy CFO, but anyone could do that job. I don’t mean to belittle his achievements. It must be nice to have a small, unexciting life that revolves around the golf club. That works well for many people. But I would just die if I was trapped in that bourgeoisie world.” She saw an angry glint in Molly’s eyes, and it made her feel wonderful.
“Just a personal preference. Anyhow, just because people such as yourself aren’t familiar with what Hank does, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t do anything. On the contrary, in fact his work is top secret.” She took a sip of her champagne, feeling victorious. She looked over the edge of her glass at Molly. “That’s rather exciting in a way, don’t you think? I know I like to complain about him, but that’s just me being a little snarky. He’s a wonderful, wonderful man.”
Molly smiled. “Yes, as you’ve said so many, many times.” Hope knew Molly was alluding to all the times she’d complained bitterly about Hank and the boring, slow life they were living.
But Hope couldn’t confide in her any longer. There was a major shift happening in their relationship, and Hope found herself withdrawing into her own world.
She clinked her glass against Molly’s. “Cheers to Hank! Oh… and CFO George.”
Molly flashed a smile back that was as fake as her own. “Hope, you have a little lipstick on your teeth.”
CHAPTER 3
Sabazio Vinaccia, also known as Surly Sab, washed his face with cold water
and patted it dry with a towel. Even doing that made him angry. He had once been such a handsome man, but the adoring smiles of beautiful women had long ago come to an end.
The acid attack had come out of nowhere. Well, not quite out of nowhere. If one was in the Mafia, violence was a given. But acid? He’d always been looking over his shoulder, waiting for a possible attack, but he never expected that one. He’d had visions of himself opening his front door and getting a bullet straight to the brain from a waiting gunman. Often, he’d been unable to sleep thinking about it and had clutched his gun in bed at night like it was his favorite teddy bear from his childhood days.
Sometimes he wished he had been murdered. At least it would have been a quick one shot and then everything would have become black. As it was, he’d had more surgeries than he could count which were financed by his high-level drug deals. But even so, people still turned to stare at him when he walked down the street. He’d been used to heads turning when he was a young man, but for totally different reasons.
Where once he’d swaggered down the streets of Chicago like a peacock with his oiled black hair and tanned skin and sideways grin, feeling like he owned the world, now he burned with shame when people looked at him, which made him furious. It was easier to stay inside these days. The only time he went outside was on his way to and from work.
He didn’t want anyone to look at him. He didn’t want to look at himself, either, so when he’d moved into his new apartment, he didn’t install any mirrors.
Sab had broken the mirror in the mansion where he and his wife Victoria used to live, and threatened her with a broken shard of it. “I can still see well enough to kill you!” he’d yelled in her face, pressing the sharp edge against the delicate skin of her neck. When he looked back on the memory, he could still remember her pretty face contorting into fear, her red lipstick looking like blood. He’d grabbed her long dark hair and thrown her down the stairs with it.
He didn’t feel any regrets about it whatsoever. Why should he? While he was having dangerous surgeries to reconstruct his face to some semblance of normal, she was having an affair with one of his cousins who had come over regularly to oversee the building of a luxurious swimming pool in Sab’s backyard. It was going to have huge boulders brought in by crane, a waterfall, a lazy stream, and underwater lights that could be changed to Victoria’s favorite color, deep purple. He’d designed it himself as a special gift to her.
He’d always been on the hunt for ways to please her, because of a simple, and to Sab, deeply shameful truth. He couldn’t have children. In their courting days, he and Victoria had imagined having a huge family, just like the ones they themselves had grown up in.
Sab could still remember it now. They’d traveled outside the city for a weekend at a romantic getaway hotel. One night, they were out walking, enjoying nature, holding hands, and looking up at the starry sky.
Victoria had said, “Sab, darling, I want to have as many children as possible.” She’d laughed. “Why don’t we be like my grandmother back in Italy. She always said, ‘Leave the size of your family to God.’ Don’t you think that’s a wonderful attitude?”
Sab had felt it deep down in his heart. “Yes,” he’d said. Sab had visions of lots of little dark headed children padding around and screaming and giggling in the palatial mansion they’d picked out, but not yet bought. “I would love to.”
The moment they were married, they began trying. Their lovemaking was romantic and passionate and so deeply intimate he was sure they would be together forever. It felt like a made-in-the-stars type of love.
But month after month, Victoria would cry when she would find out she wasn’t pregnant. Each month her crying sessions got longer, until sometimes it took her days to find the energy to carry on with normal life. While Sab was out doing his Mafia work, he worried about her. She was becoming more and more despondent. He rushed home at frequent intervals to make sure she was eating and hadn’t done something terrible to herself. That was his worst nightmare.
After a year of trying, they decided to see a doctor about it. That began a long round of tests with no conclusive answers for yet another year. Finally, after drug treatments and all kinds of experimental creams and patches and injections, the doctor told them, “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Vinaccia. Mr. Vinaccia, you will never be able to have children. Your sperm is defective. You are infertile. The only way for your wife to have a child is with a sperm donor.”
They’d traveled home from the appointment in their large Mercedes Benz in total silence, as if they were winded by the shock of the punch in the gut life had just given them.
“We won’t use a sperm donor,” Victoria eventually said. “Will we?”
“No,” Sab said, shaking his head. The shame, the very shame it would be to have a child in his wife’s womb that wasn’t his. He would feel like an outcast in his own home, knowing they all shared blood that he didn’t.
Deep down he knew Victoria would have liked to go the sperm donor route, but she didn’t push it. And he was eternally grateful to her for that. That was why he was always thinking about what would make Victoria happy, all the while with guilt and churning shame just below the surface. He frequently told himself he was a failure as a man. There was something deeply wrong with him he reasoned.
But he watched helplessly from the side lines as Victoria grew and blossomed into other interests. She became a godmother to several children, and volunteered at a children’s center every Friday in an underprivileged area of Chicago. She hired a personal trainer at the gym and ran a half-marathon. She bought herself expensive gifts, and went on self-development luxury retreats in the Bahamas.
Everything was fine, as it turned out. Yes, the cavernous house was a little echoey and quiet, but they had plenty of time for just the two of them. Yes, she spent money like it was water over a dam, but he was glad to see a smile on her face. Everything was settled, quiet, and stable.
That is until Sab had a beaker of acid thrown in his face by Shirley Morris’ last husband, Leo Alfonsi. The infuriating thing about it was that Leo Alfonsi wasn’t even meant to be alive at the time he did it. Shirley was supposed to have murdered him by then.
Leo Alfonsi was far too dangerous for his own good. So dangerous that he was becoming a liability, which is why the higher-ups had ordered for him to be taken out of the game. He didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. He lost a ton of money, then made a ton of money, then lost it carelessly, as if life was a game. He didn’t take anything seriously, and played fast and loose with life.
Shirley was given the order to kill him at a time when he’d gone to Vegas and lost over a million bucks. But she didn’t. Everyone in the inner circle knew it was because she was greedy and that she was waiting until he did his next million-dollar deal. She wasn’t just killing for the Mafia’s benefit – she had her own skin in the game.
So, she hadn’t done it. And Leo Alfonsi decided that his next get-rich scheme would be to turn on his own and extort Sab for every penny he had. Under the pretext of a friendly visit, he threatened Sab with acid, trying to use it as a means to extort five million dollars from Sab. But Sab said no, and Leo threw the acid in Sab’s face. Sab shuddered as he recalled the sensation of the acid literally eating away at his skin.
Of course, the higher-ups got someone else to kill Leo the following day, while Sab was still in the hospital having the first of several emergency surgeries. Victoria was at his bedside then, and she was the only hope he was clinging to.
But the very night he came home, things were different.
His cousin was there supervising some construction workers in the back yard who were constructing the swimming pool, but he left quickly, saying, “I don’t want to disturb you while you settle in.” He wouldn’t look Sab directly in the eye.
Victoria looked particularly gorgeous that day, with bright red lipstick and a tight leopard-print dress that showed off all her curves. Sab appreciated that she’d made the effort to loo
k good for him. She continued to make an effort over the next few months, more than she ever had before. She cooked him all his favorite meals, made sure he was taken care of each time he went in for another surgery, and spoke to him in sweet honeyed tones.
“Don’t look at me. I am a beast now,” he’d say.
“No, no, you are not,” she’d reply, stroking his hair. “You’re still my king, just like you’ve always been.”
But all the time, she was carrying on with his cousin.
Sab found out because he had a headache. Victoria had become accustomed to ‘putting Sab to bed’ as if he was a young child. Sometimes after surgeries he didn’t feel like making his way all the way down the marble staircase, so she’d bring him his dinner in bed while he watched television. Then they’d have a little chat, and she’d close the door and say, “Night-night, Sab.”
But that night, the food, a spicy pasta dish, was particularly heavily seasoned, and he’d drained his first glass of water and needed another. He wasn’t feeling too bad, as the effects of his latest surgery were wearing off, so he padded out of the bedroom holding his empty glass, intending to go downstairs to the kitchen to fill it up.
He froze at the top of the stairs, looking down at the most horrific sight he’d ever seen, his wife Victoria and his cousin kissing passionately. Sab roared and hurled the glass down at them. It crashed on the marble floor with a huge smashing sound, and shards of glass flew everywhere.
Victoria let out a piercing scream, and Sab’s cousin, cowardly as he was, dashed out the front door, running as fast as his legs would carry him.
“Dante!” Victoria had yelled after him, but he didn’t come back. Then she turned to face Sab standing at the top of the stairs. “It’s not what it looks like, Sab, darling. Please, understand that I…”
“That you what?!” Sab raged. “That you what?!”
Murder in Chicago Page 2
