Full synopsis:

What if Hans Landa got to America as he intended, without being permanently marked? Able to live in American society where no one knows who he really is?

After the war, Lilly Violante rents an apartment above her shop to a man with a thick Austrian accent. Instantly interested in his detective skills, and wanting to know who he is and where he came from, she begins to form an acquaintance with him, eventually uncovering who he really is. But Lilly decides, instead of fearing who Hans Landa was, she can use his talents and ruthlessness to her advantage, and enlists his help to kill her unfaithful husband.

Rated M for sex, violence, language

I am by no means an expert in post WWII history, nor do I own any of the characters from the movie Inglorious Basterds. I have done some research, but if anything is incorrect (in respect to the movie, or historically inaccurate) please let me know! I accept any constructive criticism.

Chapter One

It was raining the day I met Colonel Hans Landa. Drops hit hard against the front window of my shop, dripping down over the red words that proclaimed "FRESH BREAD" in large lettering.

I was beginning to close up shop. It was less than an hour before closing time, but with the dreary weather outside, I had sent my workers home and started wrapping up unsold bread.

The bell above the door rang as I had my back turned. I was a little surprised to hear it, but I wiped my hands on my apron front and turned around prepared to sell whatever I had left.

There was a man standing just inside the door. He removed his hat and held it against the front breast of his grey jacket.

He wasn't an overly tall man, but his shoulders were square and his presence was felt in the entire bakery. He stood up straight as a board, his eyes bright. He had a well carved jawline, greying hair swept over to the right side, a straight nose and small lips.

"I am sorry," he said in a very thick accent that I wasn't sure how to place. Maybe German? "But if may I ask, you are still open?"

I walked up the edge of the counter. "Yes, sir. I am."

"Excellent." He smiled, revealing a row of straight teeth, and walked up to the counter in front of where I stood. "I am in need of…er." He glanced at the few loaves of bread remaining behind the glass display case. "A small loaf of the French, please, madam."

"Of course." I reached and grabbed the basket.

"And a place to stay."

I blinked up at him and straightened up. "A place to stay?" I repeated.

"Yes." He leaned his elbow on the counter. "I have just arrived in the city, you see," he said, his eyes meeting mine, shining and animated. "I saw your sign in the window. I am assuming the room is still available?"

"It is." I turned and started wrapping up the bread in brown paper.

"How wonderful!" he gushed. "This is the perfect location for me as well, not to mention being above a beautiful bakery such as this would be absolutely fantastic."

I turned to see him still leaning on the counter and handed him the wrapped loaf of bread. "You haven't even tried the bread," I reasoned. "How do you know that being above this bakery would be fantastic?" I raised my brows.

"I am a good judge of these things?" He took the bread under his arm and then burst out into laughter. "Call me optimistic in that case," he laughed, waving his hand through the air.

I narrowed my eyes. "If I might be blunt, I'm not sure what to call you, Mr…?"

"Detective," he offered me a long fingered hand, "Hans Landa."

"Pleasure," I said, taking his hand. I moved to shake it, be he held firm, keeping my hand in place and leaning in, gently kissing his soft lips to the back of my hand above my knuckles.

"The pleasure," he straightened up, but still held my hand, "is entirely mine, madam. May I ask, what is your name?"

I tilted my chin up, wondering how I should answer. "Lilly Violante," I responded, leaving out the Missus.

But the detective didn't let that go long. "Would that be Miss Violante?" He looked at me from under light colored eyelashes. "Or Mrs.?"

"Mrs.," I answered, my hand still frozen in his.

"If I may say, the Mr. Violante is very fortunate man." He let go of my hand, but his eyes still stayed locked on me. "I have not been so lucky in life. It will be only myself renting a room, and I am a quiet individual. My work dictates that I away from home often, coming and going," he threw out his hand, gesturing around us, "at various hours."

"What kind of detective are you?" I questioned.

His eyes glazed over. "Homicide."

"Hm." I gave him a single nod. "It's twelve cents for the bread. And I can show you the apartment right now."

"Marvelous!" He pulled a few coins from his pocket and handed them to me. "Do not return the change," he said, holding out a hand.

I put twenty cents into the register and locked it. "Follow me."

He grinned.

I walked around the counter, taking off my apron and lying down on the countertop. I ran my hands down the front of my skirt, flattening it, and led the detective back out the front door. I locked it behind me and then used another key on my ring to unlock the door at the corner of my building, sitting back off of a small step. I opened the door and walked through, the detective behind me. I held it for him and he walked through. I led him up the stairs to the second floor.

"Oh, I am enjoying this place already," he said with a smile.

"Okay…why don't you wait until you actually see the place?"

He laughed. "Oh how, comical you are, Mrs. Violante."

I let myself chuckle at that as I unlocked the apartment door.

"Well, this is it," I said, walking and turning around, holding my arms out, gesturing to the room.

It was a decent size space, open living room with large, gallery windows, a big kitchen for an apartment, just through a doorway. The bedroom was behind glass French doors. It was partially furnished, with extras from home that I had moved out when we redecorated a year ago.

Detective Landa looked around, nodding, his eyes glancing over the windows, couch, tables. He stepped towards the kitchen, peered around it, drew a finger over the top of the stove, then walked back, through the open French doors into the bedroom.

"Rent is sixty dollars a month, everything included," I stated.

He nodded. The silence after the animated talking was perplexing.

Sitting down on the bare mattress on the iron bedframe, he ran his hands over it and then looked up at me. "I will take it."

After having Detective Landa sign an agreement and giving him the keys, I closed up the shop and started my walk home, heading up Lexington to the row house that I lived in with my husband and our maid. I walked in through the door, taking off my hat and gloves and setting them down on the table by the front door.

The house was quiet. I headed up the stairs, looking for my husband.

But I couldn't find Michael. He wasn't in the living room, reading the paper as usual when I got home. I checked his study and our bedroom.

I came to the conclusion that he wasn't home. I sat down on our bed, frowning at nothing. Michael was never home anymore.

I lied back, letting myself fall on the comforter. I knew that he was busy with work right now. After the end of the war, New York had flooded with people, many from Michael's family, and that meant he was busy helping his father situate them.

I sighed through my nose, my chest rising and falling with a deep breath. When I did, I could smell something faint, but distinct.

It was perfume. Not my perfume. Or something scented in a such a way. It wasn't our laundry detergent, unless Madeline had switched.

I sat up, but before I got off the bed, I noticed something that I had missed before I sat down.

The bed was made, but not in the way that Madeline always made it. It was not as tightly drawn, the pillows not placed in the order that she always placed them.

But that wasn't what startled me. Against the navy blue bed fabric, the long blonde hair stood out like a silver thread.

I picked it up in my finger tips and held it against the light. It was definitely blonde. My hair was red, Madeline's black and tightly curled.

My heart was beating hard against my ribs. I tried to make excuses, think of some other reason why there would be a blonde woman's hair in my bed.

How could I deny what was obviously rooting around inside my head, now screaming to get out?

I had suspicions before that my husband was unfaithful. There had been times that he'd come home late, come home smelling like perfume that wasn't mine, and rarely, he didn't come home at all.

Not that those things put together meant he was cheating, but I wasn't naive. I knew how men operated.

But I also knew that I needed proof before I could go about handling the situation.

I had an idea of how to get it as well.