May 6, 1939

Routine was good. Jennifer reminded herself of the periodically. She had always lived an unpredictable life in a lot of ways, but she made routine where she could. It was comforting. Safe. Knowing what to expect and what was expected of her—at least in some aspects of life—was good.

The Claybournes had a routine. The shop was closed on Sundays. They ran it from nine until noon and one until five on Monday through Saturday. And then there was the routine of the back room. Monday and Thursday nights were poker games. Wednesdays were craps. Friday and Saturday were for the bookies: half a dozen wireless radios set up around the room for everyone to listen to the outcomes of different sporting events from baseball to horseracing to boxing to everything in between. The bookies were smart enough to move their operations around, and a couple of them used the Claybournes' back room on Friday and Saturday. And then Sunday came again, and Nick and Jen could have a break from being the Claybournes.

Usually Sunday was spent doing inventory and restocking for the store, which was only a break in that they could be themselves and not put on a show for the customers. The FBI usually came around on Sundays to trade out the tapes for the recording equipment and exchange information when there was something pertinent. There wasn't much exciting to share yet, even after six weeks. They hadn't done anything as wonderful as go to Coney Island since Nick took her, but ever since, they'd been better about communicating and making sure they both could take breaks when they needed. Ever since Coney Island, Jen had been sleeping much better, too.

Today, though, was outside of the routine. Today was the Kentucky Derby, and the backroom was going to be in use all day for the bookies. The shop was still going to be open, but thankfully Smith and Walker would be manning the store so the Claybournes could provide their personal services to the bookies. Wesley checked in with everyone in the backroom every so often. Trish would make sandwiches for lunch and some snacks later in the afternoon and evening. And in between, she would sit out on the landing outside their apartment and watch the alley down below to keep an eye on those coming and going. There would be more to watch for today than usual.

But for now, she was just focused on the sandwiches. She could hum to herself to keep calm and make up plates for all the criminals like a good little wife. Sidling up to all that trash made her feel dirty sometimes. Her life had never really been squeaky clean, but she had been able to avoid being friendly with people who stooped so low. So far they were just petty gamblers, but she knew most of these guys who came through their backroom were former bootleggers who were now aligned with some kind of organized crime. They didn't have names yet, but that was only a matter of time. Jen knew, however, that even without the details, most of the men who would be eating these sandwiches were murderers.

"Everything's going well."

Jennifer jumped and gasped when Nick's voice came so suddenly. She'd been so focused on her task and lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard him come into the apartment. She turned to look at him, trying to keep her voice even for the recordings. "That's good."

Nick saw her reaction and the look on her face, though. He knew her better now. "Here, let me give you a hand." It was an excuse for the recordings, she knew. He came to stand close beside her and leaned back against the counter so that they were at eyelevel with each other.

He did that often. He wouldn't stand over her and talk down to her, literally or otherwise. He would sit or lean so that they were eye to eye. Equals. She hadn't noticed it at first, but she'd caught on to what he was doing. Jen wasn't sure anyone had ever done that for her before. But she'd long known that Nick Buchanan was a special sort of guy.

"You hum when you're happy or trying to pretend you are when you're nervous," Nick murmured softly. Too quietly for the recordings to pick up. "What's bothering you?"

"It's a big day," she whispered back. "I've got a feeling that something big is gonna happen. Something bad, actually."

Nick reached over to take her hand and give it a small squeeze. "If something big happens, we'll take it as it comes. If it's something bad, we'll be alright. Smith and Walker are in the front, and they're trained FBI agents."

"But they're not supposed to break cover. Neither are we," Jen reminded him.

"They can help stop things without saying they're FBI, just like we can."

She frowned. "True," she agreed reluctantly.

He squeezed her hand again. "I've got you, and you've got me, right?"

Jen couldn't help but smile at that, just a little. "Yeah," she whispered.

Nick lifted their hands, still holding each other, and pressed his lips to the back of hers. His eyes never left hers. Jen's heart started fluttering in her chest.

But then he let go of her hand and pushed himself off the counter and said at a proper voice, "Let's get going, Mrs. Claybourne."

It took Jennifer a moment to remember where she was and what she was doing. Sandwiches. Right. She swallowed hard and turned back to the last couple she was finishing up. They were all piled up on the platter for her to carry to the backroom. Whatever would happen would happen. Nick was right: they'd be able to face whatever came their way.

With a deep breath, she picked up the sandwiches and went downstairs.

Nick Buchanan wasn't particularly optimistic or pessimistic in any way. He never found a lot of value in looking at the world any way but confronting it as it came. If he really thought about it, he probably learned that from his grandfather. His mother was always a nervous and worried woman—for good reason—and Nick had responded to his grandfather's calming and rational demeanor and used it to comfort his mother after his grandfather had died.

It came in handy most of the time, particularly being a cop. He could look at things objectively and he had very good hunches and instincts. And because of this, it was a real pain in the ass when his calm steadiness was proved wrong. Jen had felt like something bad was going to happen and god dammit if she hadn't been right. Nick had just thought she was worrying and needed comforting. But he was wrong.

Everything had gone fine most of the day. The bets were flying around the backroom. People were coming in and out. Most of them were guys Nick had seen around before, local fellas who always placed their bets with the bookies using the Claybournes' backroom. Jamestown won the Kentucky Derby and now payments were being made and collected. Nothing too interesting there.

But then a couple of swarthy Italians came in with a small, skittish Jew. Nick hadn't been down in the backroom at that exact moment. He was actually having his dinner up in the apartment while Jennifer watched from the landing with her embroidery. She had told him early on that she got the idea of doing some knitting, but it didn't seem a spring and summer activity, and she actually didn't know how to knit. So she wasted time with some needlepoint that she didn't care about so she could look busy while keeping watch.

He was halfway through his toast and beans when he heard the backdoor open. "Nick!" Jen hissed.

Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped everything and hurried down the hall toward her. "What's going on?" he asked.

She described the three men who had just come through the alley. "I don't know them, and they look like trouble."

He nodded. "I'll go check it out. You stay out on the landing." He turned to go down through the stairs leading to the store when she stopped him.

"Nick," she called.

He turned back to her and they locked eyes. "I'll be careful," he assured her.

She just nodded, her whole face filled with concern. He had thought she was just being nervous and overly concerned. In the future, he would take her feelings more seriously.

When Nick got to the backroom, his face grinning with the Wesley Claybourne charm, he was met with a terrible sight. The two big Italians had guns pointed at the other handful of men still in the room, including two regular bookies.

But the Italians were just muscle, clearly. The skittish Jew was the one talking, and Nick walked in just as he was making his demands.

"…Lucky's away and the Prime Minister's in charge now. You wanna get in the way of Moretti's Jersey casinos? You wanna end up in a war over gambling the way we all were warring over bootlegging? Lepke's got enough goin' on with the unions, but we still got our eye on Brooklyn, and don't you forget it."

And then the little man noticed Nick.

"Hey who are you?"

The Italians pointed their guns right at him, and he held his arms up, doing his best to keep up the Claybourne act. "Hey now, I don't like goons with gats in my place," he said good-naturedly.

"You Claybourne?"

"Yeah," Nick answered. "And who the hell are you?"

The Jew narrowed his eyes. "Never mind. We don't got a problem with you. Word from Great Neck says you're alright. Let's keep it that way."

"Not a problem with me. But I'm not gonna be able to keep bein' alright if word gets out that whoever the hell sent some trigger men into my place!"

"You don't gotta worry, Claybourne, we're done here."

The guns were put away, thank goodness, and Nick felt his body relax slightly as he lowered his hands. The three unsavory characters were heading out. One of the big Italians grabbed one of the local gamblers that Nick knew, Charlie Riggs, and dragged him out with them.

As they left, Nick overheard the Jew say to Charlie, "You ever hear what happened to the Shapiro Brothers? Well, we'll spare you what happened to Willie Shapiro. We don't got that kinda time for you, Riggs."

Nick felt his blood run cold. It was all he could do to remember to keep his face neutral when his insides were screaming inside him. But he swallowed that down and waited until the door closed. He forced a smile. "Hey, fellas, sorry about the interruption there. Everyone alright? How about I get the missus to grab us all some beers?" he asked, playing the good host.

But before anyone could respond, a gunshot echoed from out in the alley, and a woman screamed.