Mary DiNunzio is a trademark Lisa Scottoline heroine—she's strong, she's smart, and she's got plenty of attitude. In recent years, she's become a big-time business-getter at Rosato & Associates, but the last person she expects to walk into her office one morning—in mile-high stilettos—is super sexy Trish Gambone, her high school rival. Back then, while Mary was becoming the straight-A president of the Latin Club and Most Likely to Achieve Sainthood, Trish was the head Mean Girl, who flunked religion and excelled at smoking in the bathroom.
As it turns out, however, Trish's life has taken a horrifying turn. She's terrified of her live-in boyfriend, who's an abusive, gun-toting drug dealer for the South Philly mob. There's only one problem—Mary remembers the guy from high school too. Unbeknownst to Trish, Mary had a major crush on him.
Then Trish vanishes, a dead body turns up in an alley, and Mary is plunged into a nightmare, one that threatens her job, her family, and even her life. She goes on a one-woman crusade to unmask the killer, and on the way, finds new love in a very unexpected place.
But before the novel's shocking surprise ending, Mary is forced to confront some very uncomfortable truths about her own past, and the profound effects of lifelong love—and hate.
Mary DiNunzio sat across from the old men, deciding which one to shoot first. Her father, Matty DiNunzio, was the natural choice because he was the most stubborn, but his three friends were tied for second. They sat next to him at the conference table, a trinity of Tonys—Pigeon Tony Lucia, Tony-From-Down-The-Block LoMonaco, and Tony Two Feet Pensiera, who was called Feet, making him the only man in South Philly whose nickname had a nickname.
"Pop, wait, think about this," Mary said, hiding her exasperation. "You don't want to sue anybody, not really." She met her father's milky brown eyes, magnified by his bifocals, as he sat behind an open box of aromatic pignoli-nut cookies. Her mother wouldn't have let him visit her, even at work, without bringing saturated fats. Besides the cookies, waiting for her in the office refrigerator was a Pyrex dish of emergency lasagna.
"Yes, we do, honey. The club took a vote. We wanna sue. It's about honor."
"Honor?" Mary tried not to raise her voice. She loved him, but she was wondering when he'd lost his mind. A tile setter his working life, her father had always been a practical man, at least until this meeting. "You want to sue over your honor?"
"No, over Dean's honor."
"You mean Dean Martin?"
"Yeah. He was a great singer and a great man."
"Plus a great golfer," said Tony-From-Down-The-Block.
"Great golfer," repeated Feet. "And Bernice disrespected him. In public."
"But Dean wasn't there." Mary stopped just short of saying, He's dead. Or, Are you insane, too?
Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded. "Dean Martin wasn't his real name, you know. It was Dino Crocetti."
Mary knew. Dean Martin, born in Steubenville, Ohio. Adored his mother, Angela. Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime. She hadn't grown up her father's daughter for nothing. In his retirement, her father had started the Dean Martin Fan Club of South Philly, and she was looking at its four copresidents. Don't ask why there were four copresidents. The fifth had to step down from prostate problems.
Mary asked, "How does it avenge his honor if you sue?"
"Mare," Feet interrupted, indignant. "Bernice insulted him. She called him a drunk!"
Mary winced on Dean's behalf. Her father shook his head. Tony-From-Down-The-Block reached for another pignoli-nut cookie. Feet's slack cheeks flushed with emotion, trumping his Lipitor.
"Mare, she hollered at him like a fishwife, in front of everybody. The mouth on that woman. So Big Joey hollered back and before you know it, he's holding his chest and falling down onna floor. She gave him a heart attack." Feet pushed up the bridge of his Mr. Potatohead glasses. "That can't be legal."
"I saw on Boston Legal, it's motional distress." Tony-From-Down-The-Block brushed cookie crumbs from a red Phillies T-shirt, which matched his unfortunate new haircolor. He was single again, a fact that his red hair blared like a siren. Also that he might not own a mirror.
"That's how they always are, that club," her father said. "They never shut up. Sinatra this, Sinatra that. They think Frank was the best, but Dean had the TV show. They forget that."
"Dean was the King of Cool, 'at's all," added Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and Mary's father turned to him.
"Don't get me wrong, Sinatra was good, my Vita loves him. But he hogged the spotlight. A show-off."
"A showboat," Tony-From-Down-The-Block agreed, and Mary listened to the two men have the same conversation they'd had a thousand times. Pigeon Tony sat silently on the end, dunking a cookie into his coffee. At only five foot two, he was more wren than pigeon, with his bald head inexplicably tanned, his brown-black eyes small and round, and his tiny nose...
