Marni grew up privileged on Manhattan’s Northern Eastside, close to Central Park.

She was the daughter of an extremely wealthy and politically connected Russian oligarch who had defected and become a U.S. citizen.

At some point Marni had become a Russian agent, most likely, a profession planned for her since birth.

Rob sat at Bemelmans’s sophisticated, upscale piano bar in NYC’s luxury five-star Carlyle Hotel. At first, thought to be a chance meeting, Marni leaned against the muraled walls, hand-painted by Ludwig Bemelmans in 1947, waiting for an available seat.

And as the dapper patron beside him paid his tab to leave, Rob motioned Marni over. She thanked him politely and slid onto the vacated plush-leather banquette barstool.

Earl Rose’s smooth jazz set the mood for a lovely evening; the two of them munched on fresh cashews from decanters placed throughout the bar and on tables. They shared two $300/bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon-Kathryn Kennedy.

Both quick and witty, becoming up-close and cozy, giggling the night away, reminiscing to Frank Sinatra’s lyrical excellence: “In the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep.” Words of truth—anywhere but, “The Big Apple”—"The city that never sleeps.”

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Marni and Rob were enjoying another picnic in the park, honey-glazed ham sandwiches, potato salad and coleslaw, baked beans made with applewood bacon and grape jelly, Marni’s black and white gingham sundress, glowing smile, candied red lips, and flawless skin Rob so wanted to feel against his own: thinking back, shocked at her pistol’s cold barrel against his temple.  

Weak and out of breath, Rob’s inner pleas silent in the roaring winds, the force whirled from out of nowhere, sounds of a roaring train, ripping up trees, pieces of homes, cars, and bodies propelled like errant projectiles, the pistol snatched from trembling hands, Marni whipped through the wind with the greatest of ease, impaled on wrought-iron fence-spike finials, her unfortunate demise—Rob’s saving grace.

It was time to forget yesterday and reach for tomorrow. What was done was done. And how could Rob have known he was the target of a daring double agent.

Luckily, he lived to play another day. His favorite gal Marni charred to ashes in an 1,800-degree crematory, retort oven, which he called an “Easy Bake.”

Special agent Robert M. Rossi (Rob) was from Cicero, IL—born a Southside Chicago Guido (slang for working class). He, like Marni, and her sister Olivia, were “secret agents,” more of an unofficial title used primarily for those involved in worldwide espionage. 

Olivia, Marni’s older sibling, was a 42-year-old professor at the University of Michigan. She had multiple master’s degrees and a PhD in computer science.

From the detailed prospectus outlining every aspect of her life, she seemed the perfect All-American aristocrat. Though after dark, she’d morph into an unexpected pleasure-seeking socialite turned party girl who loved the night life.

The strategic scheme called for Rob to delve deep inside his newest assignment’s inner psyche and learn her most intimate secrets. A dream job he could hardly wait to engage upon and mingle within.

Olivia Volkov’s pale blue eyes resembled those of a wolf. Wolf, the meaning of her surname. Her subtlest glance sent wild, perversely counterintuitive sensations of lust and fear. Buffered only by her seemingly genuine smile that could soften the hardest of hearts but was anything but sincere.

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Olivia, bundled for the weather, stepped into the Drury Diner, stomped the snow off her boots, unwound her plaid scarf, and pulled off her toboggan beanie, letting her flowing blonde mane fly loose. Every admiring eye in the restaurant turned to attention.

She requested a pastrami and Swiss on rye with lettuce, tomato, extra pickles, hot mustard, and a glass of raspberry iced tea.

For starters, Rob had ordered a cup of coffee and hot chocolate mixed half and half, just trying to thaw out and warm up.

But when opportunity presented itself, he moseyed down to Olivia’s booth. Obviously in deep thought, probably contemplating his opening remarks, he ambled her way.

He eased up beside her and spoke softly. “Excuse me—"

He waited until she’d slowly raised her head, then continued. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m new around here. And please pardon me for listening in, but I heard you order a pastrami and Swiss, and just wondered if Drury's is good?”

“Well, I don’t think I’d have ordered one if it wasn’t.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re a regular. Although, you could have been a visitor like me, trying it for the first time.”

“I’m sorry, I guess that sounded rather rude, but I promise it wasn’t meant that way. Yes, all their deli sandwiches are magnificent.”

“So, this would be your recommendation?”

“Well . . . like I said, everything they have is great. But my personal favorite is the juicy shaved flank or skirt steak soaked in au jus, served on what I think is hard-shelled Cuban bread. But it’s messy.”

“Who cares about the mess. Everything’s better when you can get it all over you.” He threw in a little laugh and a wink, tight-roping the borderline of too flirty or suggestive.

“Yes, if you don’t mind looking like a tacky slob back at the office with greasy drippings down the front of your shirt or blouse.” Her chuckle reassured his risky comment hadn’t blown his chances, yet.

“I guess, that’s a thought, if I had an office to go back to.” He waited for her comeback or question, which never came.

 She’d left him standing senselessly in the aisleway, a bumbling idiot in the making. With that in mind, he nodded and excused himself. “Thanks for the info . . . enjoy your lunch.”

He smiled, turned swiftly, and retreated to his booth, tail tucked between his legs, feeling like a rolled-up newspaper-paddled pooch.

Between sporadic bites, Olivia spent most of lunch on her phone. Rob hardly took his eyes off her. Surprisingly, she hadn’t glanced up at him once. What must’ve proved a little hard on his ego.

Appearing famished, he scarfed down the delicious footlong shaved beef like a beast. He gazed nonchalantly at passing onlookers through the picture window up front, while he kept Olivia locked in his peripheral vision, apparently contemplating how he might rekindle the conversation.

Olivia stood and looked his way for the first time, and said, “So, what did you finally choose for lunch?”

Rob held up his hand, almost gagging as he tried to swallow the oversized wad of beef and bread to speak. Wouldn’t you know it, a perfect waitress trick, she questioned him with his mouth full.

He finally managed to gulp it down and said, “the beef . . . and as you asserted, it’s wonderful.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Rob smiled, nodded, and threw up his hand in a wave.

“Glad I didn’t steer you wrong. Have a great day.”

Rob had intended to catch Olivia just outside the front door and escort her back to campus. But having thrown on her coat, hat, and scarf so quickly, she was out the door and gone, without a sign, before he could pay his bill and catch up.

Cars crunched the gray slush on the frozen streets. Snow fluttered like quarter-sized confetti and had heavily blanketed the icy sidewalks.

Christmas carols piped through speakers; Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song set the holiday mood. Shoppers scurried like mice in a cheese frenzy, or mischievous children fighting to be first, everyone in a hurry, searching for last minute gifts, pushing rudely between slower congestion.

Rob dashed weaving in and out through already frantic-paced pedestrians. And just before the crosswalk at the corner, he bumped into Santa Claus ringing his bell and soliciting donations, and about knocked him down.

He grabbed the jolly, rosy-cheeked whitebeard by the arm helping to steady him and crammed a twenty and two ones in the Salvation Army’s red kettle.

And no sooner had the streetlight changed than he sprinted across. His eyes scanned and scrutinized the crowd for any sight of Olivia.

Sidewalk traffic came to a sudden stop and squeezed Rob in a vise of people. And just as the temporary delay started to move again, a vicious slap on Rob’s back stung sharply and made him gasp for breath.

He had fully expected the culprit to be his old buddy Bill, who didn’t know his own strength. But as he tried to turn and see, his legs seized up, spasmed, contorted into unnatural shapes, and collapsed beneath him. His head slammed against the pavement.

Rob’s body had gone completely limp from the waist down. Blood puddled in a circular spread. Yet, somehow, he still managed to partially roll upon his right side as his panicked eyes darted wildly.

And then, horror registered on his face as Olivia glared down from between two concerned bystanders.

He tried to speak or yell for help, but his chest tightened, throat constricted, mouth opened and closed like a fish, blowing bubbles, a sign of drug overdose or smothering, and an ooze of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek.

Olivia’s evil glare turned to a radiant smile, she winked, slid on her sunglasses, and slipped off into the holiday crowd.

Rob’s body twitched a few times, his head tilted, and with one last jerk, he froze in a dead stare.