She scoffs. “Don’t I know it. What I mean is are you violent?” “I’m second-in-command of the Irish Mob. What do you think?” She swallows, glances away, then meets my gaze again. She moistens her lips. “I … I meant with women.” And here we have it. I glance down at her left hand, at the circle of black ink on her ring finger, and finally understand what this inquisition is all about. My voice low, I say, “I’m not your dead husband.”
