A gripping novel about two trailblazing women on opposite sides of the law—a prosecutor and a madam—who team up to bring down notorious Mob boss Lucky Luciano in 1930s New York, from the New York Times bestselling authors of the million-copy bestseller The Personal Librarian.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Pair of Aces by Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray, which releases on June 2nd 2026.
Eunice Carter, assistant district attorney for the City of New York and Manhattan’s first Black female prosecutor, has her sights set on the one and only Lucky Luciano, head of New York City’s five largest organized crime families. Other prosectors have tried to bring down Lucky, but they’ve all focused on the crime syndicate’s traditional businesses—bootlegging, gambling, loan sharking, and drug dealing—or tax evasion. No one has thought to approach the mob through its role in prostitution. Until Eunice. But she can’t get Luciano alone.
Polly Adler has worked long and hard to build up her high-class brothel business. Her client list is filled with well-known names, both the famous and the infamous, who all know her booze is top-notch, her music first-rate, her food exquisite, and her girls the best. But Lucky has gone too far, putting her girls in danger, and Polly finally sees the chance to end his reign once and for all.
Together, Eunice and Polly fashion a case utilizing a network of women. Bridging the enormous divide between them and risking their own lives, they assemble evidence bit by bit, under the nose of the man they’re trying to convict. It is this very alliance—of two women from vastly different worlds—that launches the most sensational trial New York City has ever seen.
Chapter Three
Polly
New York, New York
April 4, 1935
The sharp clip of heels on concrete echoes throughout my cell, growing louder with each step, and I brace myself. The fast tempo isn’t the lazy thunk of a guard’s boots or even the confident, slightly bored stride of a lawyer’s dark tan Derby shoes. No, the staccato, metallic sound is unusual for the corridors of the 30th Precinct Station House, and yet, I should be able to identify it. After all, I’ve spent many a long hour listening to the clatter of shoes as they cross bedroom floors to engage in all manner of debauchery.
I start to get concerned, and then I have it. Only the heel of a woman’s oxford pump could make that sort of solid but somehow dainty rat-a-tat-tat. With its elegant, womanly heel curving into a narrow point and its sensible perforated top designed to resemble a man’s oxford dress shoe, the oxford pump is the shoe of a woman who stands between two worlds. The shoe of a woman who means business but hasn’t entirely surrendered her femininity. Among other things.
But now I’m even more curious. Because it’s strange that the sort of person who’d wear those shoes would be in this jail. The 30th Precinct Station House is the place for the drug addicts and drunks and streetwalkers and thieves who’ve been hauled in; even I don’t really belong here, and neither do my girls. Unless, it comes to me, the woman in the oxford pumps is a rare female lawyer. Who else would have access to jail cells in the 30th Precinct Station House?
With this thought, a new sort of worry sets in. Could she be here for me? When I was booked into the station, the charge was listed as pandering, or “facilitating prostitution.” I’ve batted away this charge time and time again, but I haven’t heard a peep from the cops or my lawyer since. Even when I asked to call my attorney. What if I’m being held here on pandering charges, but they’re really planning on squeezing me for information on Dutch? Do the cops know that he and his thugs were in that hotel suite with us—just before Coll was murdered?
My heart begins thudding in time with her step. Not that an onlooker could tell. Should the unkempt detainee slouched against the cinder block wall in the cell abutting mine wake up and look in my direction, she’d see a petite, well-manicured, composed woman of an indeterminate age in sky-high heels. I’d seem out of place among the common criminals surrounding me, with the exception of my girls, of course. And they’ve been placed in cells scattered around the jail, so we aren’t close enough to talk.
I pull my fur stole tight around my shoulders like a shield. I’ve worked long and hard to build up my business—traveled far from Russia with its poverty and its pogroms and endured far worse on the shores of this so-called Golden Land—and I have no intention of returning to a desultory existence. Just like I have no intention of a life without the regular feel of a fur stole on my cheek.
So when the clatter of heels grows louder and abruptly stops in front of my cell, I do not look up. Leaning against the hard steel bars that constitute one of the walls of my cell, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the dingy gray cell floor before me as if there’s no one there at all.
A long moment ensues. A powdery lemon scent drifts into my cell—could it be Charles of the Ritz’s new Jean Naté?—and I learn something else about the woman outside my cage. Her fragrance, decidedly not floral or fussy, is worlds away from the heavy, spicy, sometimes musky perfumes my girls wear. Or the distinctive Chanel and Lanvin concoctions chosen by the few select grand dames who frequent my house. It is the scent chosen by a woman with means who intends to be taken seriously.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Finally, she clears her throat. “Miss Adler?”
There, between the steel-gray bars of my cell, I peer first at her shoes: two-toned oxford pumps. I have to suppress a self-satisfied smile. I knew it. Working my way upward, I take note of the sensible stockings and the navy worsted wool skirt, the coordinating jacket cinched at the waist with a cordovan leather belt that matches her shoes. All as I expected for a woman lawyer.
Then my eyes reach her attractive face with its symmetrical features, arched brows, and stern lips, and nothing is as I guessed. Because the woman standing before me is the rarest of creatures. Not only is she a woman in a man’s world, but she’s a colored woman in a white man’s world. I’ve forged my way in a man’s world, too, but nothing quite like this.
“Who’s asking?” I answer when my eyes meet hers.
My tone is barbed, because I’ve got to be very, very careful to whom I speak and what I say. I’m no stranger to getting pinched, but the more I think about it, the stranger this latest arrest seems. The timing on the heels of Dutch and his men rushing out to witness the shoot-up of Mad Dog Coll, for instance, which I know did happen, because I’ve heard the guards natter on about it. The way in which the Algonquin lobby had been cleared out and the cops ready for us, as another example. Either I’m being set up to turn on Dutch, maybe for the role he played in the murder of Mad Dog, or someone identified me as the Polly Adler on the way to an assignation with my girls at the Algonquin Hotel and really has it out for me. Regardless, I’ve got to protect myself, and that includes not becoming a rat.
“Assistant District Attorney Eunice Carter,” the woman answers.
A colored female assistant district attorney? I thought I’d never see the day. In fact, it occurs to me that the only one I’ve ever heard of is the woman Dewey hired for his special group of lawyers dedicated to fighting the Mob. My stomach lurches at the thought that this Eunice Carter could be one of Dewey’s and that she might be here specifically to get me to talk about Dutch. Why else would she come here now?
Even if this Eunice Carter doesn’t know that I’ve interacted with Dutch, and even if she’s not one of Dewey’s special twenty, the fact that an assistant district attorney is here to talk to me isn’t good news. It means that this was no normal police roundup. Or maybe that I’m no normal inmate.
I will myself to stay still, stay silent, and I remind myself that it isn’t necessarily about Dutch. After all, the name Polly Adler is known in and of itself, and arresting me for pandering is a feather in the cap for any cop or assistant district attorney. I must wait for this unusual woman to play her cards.
She’s patient and steely, though, and can play the waiting game, too. Our eyes are locked—hers deep, dark brown and mine a coppery shade. Just when I think I might break first, she says, “I’m here to talk to you about your work.”
“And what work would that be?” I ask, trying to make my face the picture of innocence. I will give up nothing to this woman.
“I understand you run a house of prostitution,” she says matter-of-factly, gesturing down the row of jail cells. “In fact, I think a few of your girls might have been brought in with you.”
“I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.” I shake my head as if her comment is ludicrous.
“Actually, I’ve heard that you run the most prestigious house of prostitution in the city. Apparently, you’re so famous that the phrase ‘going to Polly’s’ has become a euphemism for engaging in the sort of illicit fun you offer.”
I will not be lured in by her compliments; I wasn’t born yesterday.
When I don’t speak, she continues. “Miss Adler, I am not here to gather evidence for the pandering charges that have been lodged against you. I’m only interested in learning how your business operates. I promise.”
She seems earnest, and honestly, I’m relieved that she’s not asking any questions about Dutch or the Mob. But it’s clear this Eunice Carter doesn’t understand anything about me or my business if she thinks I’ll roll over so easily. I keep my lips sealed.
“Miss Adler, I’d be grateful for any information you might be willing to share. It must be a thrill to run an establishment as well-known as Polly’s, and quite exciting for the girls who work there.” She pushes on, a pleading note in her voice.
Here she goes with the flattery again. I’ve got to shut this down. “Assistant District Attorney Carter,” I say, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t know a thing about running a ‘house of prostitution.’ My arrest is a big mistake. I’m just a lady who was out on the town for a few drinks with some friends. But I will tell you something for nothing. No girl wakes up in the morning wishing to spend her life as a whore.”
Excerpted from A Pair of Aces by Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray Copyright © 2026 by Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
