Aria Fiore looked up, her eyes on the bank of clouds that had been hovering over the city for most of the day. The rain would be good for the garden, but she was glad it had held off while she’d turned the soil, laying newspaper over the beds in preparation for winter.

She looked around with a sense of loss. The community garden was the closest thing she had to home. There was something beautiful about the oasis in the middle of the city, the riot of green bordered on all sides by the crumbling buildings of old Manhattan. Here it was almost possible to believe she was alone in the world, the city long gone, nature reclaiming its territory.

Her heart was always heavy in the fall when they put everything to bed, when she had to acknowledge the long months ahead with nothing to distract from her brother’s declining mental health, the tightrope she walked between him and Malcolm Gatti, the daily effort required to keep Malcolm from using her brother for increasingly nefarious purposes. Sometimes she even came in the dead of winter, climbed through one of the holes in the chain-link to wander the garden, trying to imagine it in spring when they would plant, in the summer when local children would visit as part of their camp programs. She loved teaching kids about the garden. Loved seeing their faces light up when they realized they could pluck something off the vine and eat it right there.

She sat back on her heels, tipped her face as the first drop of rain fell from the sky. She gave herself a few seconds to enjoy it: the smell of the city underneath the scent of soil and decaying plant matter, the breeze caressing her face, the brief moment of peace.

Then she picked up the tools and stood to brush the dirt from her track pants.

Picking her way around the beds, she lifted an arm in greeting to Mary O’Rourke, a yellow rain poncho covering her gray hair as she finished the beds across the lot. Mary worked the garden nearly as often as Aria. This in spite of the woman’s ever-present walker and the stool she required to get close to the dirt. Aria could only hope she was as persistent when time and bodily deterioration conspired to keep her from the dirt.

She picked up the pace as she made her way to the shed. Mary’s walker sometimes got stuck in the dirt, and Aria wanted to be there to help her make it to the sidewalk where she waited for her ride.

It took less than five minutes to wipe down the tools and return them to their designated spots. When she was done, she slipped on her windbreaker and stepped out of the shed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and she lifted the hood on her jacket and trotted across the garden toward Mary’s yellow-clad figure, moving slowly toward the garden’s entrance. She was still a long way from the street when Aria finally reached her.

“This is just depressing!” Aria said over the rain. “Let me help.”

“And here I was convincing myself we had a few more weeks before the bad weather set in,” Mary said.

Mary took her extended arm, and Aria picked up the walker with her free hand. She wasn’t surprised to see Mary smiling in spite of the weather and her predicament. It was something Aria remembered when her own life got to be too much. You could either smile or cry when things got difficult. Neither changed anything, but smiling usually felt better. Sometimes the strategy was more successful than others.

“Maybe it’s a fluke,” Aria said hopefully.

“Oh, dear!” Mary said. “You have been bit by the gardening bug, haven’t you?”

Aria laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

They reached the sidewalk and Aria set Mary’s walker onto the concrete and helped her grab hold of it again.

“Where’s your ride?” Aria asked.

“My grandson will be here any minute,” Mary said.

“I’ll wait with you.”

“Nonsense!” Mary said. “This rain is atrocious. Go home and get warm.”

“I don’t mind the rain actually. Other than the gardening thing, I mean.”

It was a lie. Rain only mirrored the storm that seemed to rage constantly inside her. When it was gray outside, there was no refuge from her turmoil.

Mary glanced at her sideways. “You’re not a very good liar, you know.”

“I’m not lying!” Aria protested. “It’s not so bad when it’s not cold.”

“Well, you can be on your way,” Mary said, her eyes on the street. “My grandson is here.”

Aria looked up to see a silver BMW pull next to the curb. A tall figure jumped from the driver’s seat almost before the car had stopped all the way. A moment later a good-looking, dark-haired man hurried to the curb.

“Why are you waiting out here, Gram?” He hurried toward Mary and extended his arm. “It’s pouring.”

“Yes, dear, I’m still quite capable of observing the weather. But Aria was telling me the rain isn’t so bad. I was testing her theory,” she said, winking at Aria.

Aria extended her hand. “I’m afraid I’m the guilty party. Aria Fiore.”

He seemed to really see her for the first time, his face lighting up as he found her eyes under the hood of her jacket. “Theo O’Rourke. Thank you for waiting with Gram.”

“It’s always my pleasure to spend time with Mary,” Aria said.

“Well, let me give you a lift home,” Theo said to her as he helped Mary into the car.

“Yes, it’s the least he can do,” Mary said.

Aria was already edging away from him. “Thank you, but I think I’ll walk.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mary said from the passenger seat. “Get in before you float away.”

Aria lifted a hand. “See you next time, Mary.”

She turned away and started down the street, passing the entrance to the subway, the rain a rhythmic patter against the hood of her jacket. She was in the mood to walk in spite of the weather.

Wiping Theo’s face from her memory was automatic. The interest on his face wasn’t something she could afford to entertain, although it wasn’t unfamiliar. She knew she wasn’t beautiful. Her features were too small for that — almost elfin — her lips too full for the fragility of her face, her nose a bit too aquiline. Her hair was dark and sometimes — like now — tinted with a deep burgundy wash.

In other words, nothing remotely special.

But it wasn’t uncommon for men to do a double take when passing her on the street, for women to stare a beat too long. She could only assume she was what some people called striking, that she had one of those faces people described as interesting.

In any case, word choice was irrelevant. It was attention she didn’t want or need. She’d survived as long as she had thanks to two things: Primo taking responsibility for her after their parent’s death, and her ability to stay in the shadows of her brother’s criminal enterprise. Her strategy was simple: keep to herself whenever possible, mind her own business, try to steer Primo away from Malcolm Gatti’s more radical — and dangerous — ideas. It wasn’t sustainable long-term, but she was still working on an exit strategy.

For her and for Primo.

It would be easier to leave on her own. Just pack a bag and never look back. But there was no way she could leave Primo behind. She’d been sixteen when their parents died, and Primo had been all of twenty. If he hadn’t stepped up to take care of her, she would have ended up in foster care. Who knew where she’d be right now if not for him?

The rain fell harder and heavier as she made her way downtown. By the time she reached the brick storefront with the purple light advertising PLATINUM, she was soaked in spite of her windbreaker. She hesitated outside the door, wondering if her brother was alone, then shivered when she imagined him inside with Malcolm. He was ever-present, a ticking bomb under the fragile peace she was able to strike with her brother when left to their own devices.

She’d spent countless sleepless nights trying to figure out how to wrench Primo free of Malcom’s grasp, but in the end it didn’t matter; Primo was right where his deluded mind wanted him to be, and Aria was along for the ride. It wasn’t what she wanted to be doing at twenty-four years old, but it was where fate had put her. She’d survived this long. She would just have to play the game until an opportunity arose for escape.

The thought gave her a renewed burst of determination, and she took a deep breath, opened the door of the club, and started down the narrow stairs.