by Karen Rose
He brought her hand to his lips. “What’s wrong, Sophie?”
His tone was so gentle, her eyes stung. “Harry came by today.” She told him about the visit and watched his eyes harden.
“You should press charges.”
“You sound like Harry. I didn’t press charges when Lena killed my sister. Why would I press charges over her stealing a few old phonograph records?”
Vito shook his head. “Elle’s death was an accident. This theft wasn’t.”
Sophie’s chin came up. “Now you sound like Katherine.”
“Because Katherine was right. Sophie, Lena’s a terrible mother, but she didn’t mean to kill Elle. But this theft, this she meant to do. She planned it and she profited from it. If you’re going to hate her, hate her for the things she’s really done. Hating her for feeding nuts to a kid who she didn’t know was allergic is pointless.”
Sophie gaped at him. “Pointless?”
“And childish,” he added quietly. “Last night you said that Andrea made her choices, and you were right. Lena’s made her choices, too. Hold her accountable for those, for abandoning you and for stealing from your grandmother, Sophie, but not for killing Elle. That kind of hate is just wasted energy.”
Sophie felt angry tears building. “I can hate her for anything I want to hate her for, Vito, and it really isn’t any of your business, so just butt out.”
He flinched at that and looked away. “Okay.” He pulled his truck into the stream of traffic. “I guess that tells me where I stand.”
Guilt speared. “I’m sorry, Vito. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just disappointed that I don’t have any music to play for Gran, and I really wanted to see her happy again.”
“Just seeing your face makes her happy.” But he wouldn’t look at her, even though he’d stopped at a red light, and that made her panic.
“Vito, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to butt out. I’m not used to worrying about what somebody else thinks about me. Someone whose opinion matters anyway.”
“It’s all right, Sophie.” But it wasn’t. She could see that. She wasn’t sure how to make it right, so she mentally backed away and approached from another direction.
“Vito, you didn’t find him, did you? Simon Vartanian.”
His jaw tightened. “No. But we found both the game guys.”
“Alive?”
“One’s alive.”
She drew in a breath. “Simon’s snipping off all his loose ends, isn’t he?”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “It looks that way.”
“I’m being careful, Vito. You don’t need to distract yourself worrying about me.”
He looked over at her then, his eyes intense, and relief pushed away her panic. “Good. Because I’m getting attached to you, Sophie. I want you to care about what I think, and I want it to be my business to care about how you feel.”
She was unsure of how to respond. “That’s a big step, Vito. Especially for me.”
“I know. That’s why I’m prepared to be patient.” He patted her thigh, then took her hand. “Don’t worry, Sophie. My caring about you isn’t meant to cause you stress.”
She stared at his hand, strong and dark against her skin. “It’s just that I fuck things up sometimes. I really don’t want to fuck this up. Whatever it is that we have.”
“You won’t. For now, just sit back and enjoy the ride.” His lips quirked. “Over the river and through the woods. To Gran’s we go.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’re the big bad wolf?”
He grinned lightly. “Better to eat you with, my dear?”
She smacked him even as she laughed. “Just drive, Vito.”
For the rest of the drive they kept the conversation light, away from Lena, Simon, and any talk of serious relationships. When they got to the nursing home, Vito helped her out of the truck, then reached into the back and pulled out a big shopping bag.
“What’s that?”
He hid the bag behind his back. “It’s my basket of goodies for Grandma.”
Her lips twitched as they walked. “So now I’m the big bad wolf?”
He kept his eyes forward. “You can blow my house down any time.”
She snickered. “You’re bad, Vito Ciccotelli, just bad to the bone.”
He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth as they stood at Anna’s door. “So I’m told.”
Her grandmother was watching them with eagle eyes from her bed, and Sophie suspected that was the reason Vito had chosen the doorway to kiss her. Anna looked good, Sophie decided as she kissed both her cheeks. “Hi, Gran.”
“Sophie.” Anna reached up a feeble hand to touch her cheek. Still, the movement was more than she’d done in a long time. “You brought back your young man.”
Vito sat down next to her bed. “Hello, Anna.” He kissed her cheek. “You’re looking better today. Your cheeks are downright rosy.”
Anna smiled up at him. “You’re a flatterer. I like that.”
He smiled back at her. “I thought you might.” He reached into the bag, pulled out a long-stemmed rose and handed it to her gallantly. “I thought you might like flowers, too.”
Anna’s eyes went shiny and Sophie felt her own eyes sting. “Vito,” she murmured.
Vito glanced over at her. “You could have had some too, but no. It was ‘Stop, Vito’ and ‘You’re so bad, Vito.’” He closed Anna’s hand over the stem. “I had them strip off the thorns. Can you smell it?”
Anna nodded. “I can. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled roses.”
Sophie kicked herself for not thinking of it herself, but it didn’t appear that Vito was finished. He brought out an entire bouquet of roses just ready to bloom and then a black porcelain vase, which he set carefully on the nightstand next to her bed. Embedded in the porcelain were crystals that shimmered like the stars in the night sky. He arranged the roses and again adjusted the vase on the nightstand.
“Now you can smell them even better,” he said and handed Sophie the plastic pitcher from the nightstand. “Can you get us some water for these flowers, Sophie?”
“Of course.” But she lingered in the doorway, the pitcher in her hands. Vito still wasn’t finished. He took out a small cassette player.
“My grandfather had a record collection,” he said and Anna’s eye widened.
“You brought music?” she whispered and Sophie damned Lena to hell. Then she damned herself for not having thought of music in general before now.
“Not just any music,” Vito said with a smile that made Sophie’s breath catch.
Anna’s mouth opened, then her lips pressed tight. “You have . . . Orfeo?” she asked, then held her breath like a child who is afraid she’ll be told no.
“I do.” He started the tape, and Sophie instantly recognized the opening strains of Che faro, the aria that had brought Anna fame a lifetime ago. Then Anna’s pure mezzo-soprano soared from the small speaker and Anna released the breath she held, closed her eyes and settled, as if she’d been waiting for just this. Sophie’s throat closed and her chest hurt as she watched her grandmother’s lips begin to move with the words.
Vito hadn’t taken his eyes from her grandmother’s face, and that made Sophie’s chest hurt even more. He hadn’t done this thing to impress her. He’d done this beautiful thing to make an old woman smile.
But Anna wasn’t smiling. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she tried to draw the breath to sing. But her lungs were fragile and nothing emerged but a pitiful croak.
Sophie took a step back, unable to watch Anna’s futile attempts or the misery that filled her grandmother’s eyes as she gave up. Clutching the plastic pitcher to her chest, Sophie turned away and started walking.
“Sophie?” one of the nurses tried to stop her. “What is it? Does Anna need help?”
Sophie shook her head. “No, just water. I’m getting it.” She made it to the little kitchenette at the end of the hall and, her hand
s shaking, turned on the water. She filled the pitcher, reining in her emotion as she turned off the water.
And went still. Another voice now soared. But it wasn’t Anna’s smooth mezzo. It was a rich baritone. And it drew her like a lodestone.
Heart pounding, she walked back to Anna’s door, where six nurses stood stock still, hardly breathing. Squeezing through, Sophie stumbled to a halt and could only stare.
It was, she would reflect later, an odd moment to fall in love.
She’d been wrong. Aunt Freya hadn’t gotten the last good man. One sat at her grandmother’s side, singing the words Anna could not with a voice that was both powerful and pure. On his face was gentle tenderness as Anna’s eyes watched every movement of his mouth, drinking in each note with a joy that was almost painful to behold.
But behold Sophie did, and when Vito had sung the last note she stood, her cheeks wet, but her mouth smiling. Behind her went up a collective sigh from the nurses, then they went back to their duties, sniffling.
Vito looked over at her, his brows lifting. “If you filled that pitcher with tears, it’ll kill the roses, Sophie,” he teased. He dipped his head close to Anna’s. “We made her cry.”
“Sophie’s always been a crier. Cried at the cartoons even.” But the words were uttered with unmistakable affection.
“I didn’t know you watched when I cried at cartoons, Gran.”
“I watched you all the time, Sophie.” She patted Sophie’s hand awkwardly. “You were such a pleasure to watch grow up. I like your young man. You should keep him.” One of her brows went up. “Do you understand my meaning?”
Sophie met Vito’s as she answered. “Yes, ma’am. I certainly do.”
Friday, January 19, 8:00 P.M.
Something was different, Vito thought. A closeness. The way Sophie leaned against him as they walked to his truck. And she was smiling at him, which was always a plus.
“If I’d known the singing would trip your trigger I would have sung to you Sunday night. In fact, if it’ll get me lucky, I can sing anything you want.” He opened her door, but she turned in his arms instead of getting in. Her kiss was warm and fluid and left him wishing they weren’t in an icy parking lot.
“It wasn’t the singing. It was everything, the way you held her hand and the way she watched you. You’re a very nice man, Vito Ciccotelli.”
“You said I was bad to the bone.”
She nipped at his lip, sending lust surging along every nerve. “The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” She got up into the truck and faced him. “I think I’ll call the local opera society. Maybe they can send some visitors to Gran. I should have thought of the music, Vito. It was her whole life. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
“You’ve been concentrating on getting her well.” Vito climbed behind the wheel and pulled his door closed with a slam. “Don’t beat yourself up.” He pulled into traffic, toward Anna’s house. “Besides, Tino made the recording for me.”
“But you thought of it. And the flowers. I should have thought of that, too.”
“I have to admit to an ulterior motive for the roses. The vase is your granny-cam.”
Sophie blinked at him. “What?”
“All those crystals? One is a camera. Now you’ll know if Nurse Marco is really mean.”
Sophie looked at him. “You’re amazing.”
“No, not really. Tino picked it out after my brother-in-law Aidan gave us a few ideas while you were building the castle last night. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the camera to Tess. She gets a little uptight about people being filmed against their will.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good. Now we’re going back to your place where I’m going to sing to you again. Just keep remembering that I’m amazing.”
She laughed. “Later. I promised the boys I’d help them finish the castle. So first, your house. Then we can go back to Gran’s and . . . make love. Amazingly.”
Vito drew a pained breath. “I was thinking about fucking like minks on the stairs.”
Her chuckle was evil. “First I build a castle. Then you can lay siege.”
He watched them drive away. He’d been lucky, he thought, removing the earpiece before the slamming truck door burst his eardrums. If the cop had closed his door a minute sooner he would have missed the magic words.
But he didn’t believe in luck. Just intellect, skill, and fate. Only fools believed in luck, and he was no fool. He’d survived on his own wits. And he’d continue to. He thought of Van Zandt, sitting in a jail cell in his expensive suit, and felt intense satisfaction. But there was a little regret, too. It was a shame to waste a business mind like Van Zandt’s. But there were lots of good business minds out there.
He already had one lined up. Van Zandt’s most eager and vicious competitor, still on his way up the ladder. Simon had contacted him with the work he’d done so far and it had taken less than fifteen minutes to agree to terms. The Inquisitor would still be released and the furor around Derek’s murder and Van Zandt’s incarceration, not to mention all the murdered victims, would send sales soaring to the moon.
And in the end, he’d still get what he wanted. Exposure. A platform to launch his own career. Notoriety to sell his paintings. He wouldn’t be able to use the name Frasier Lewis anymore, but that was all right. It didn’t matter what name went on his work. As long as people know it’s mine.
Just one more series of paintings needed to be completed. Van Zandt had been right about the queen. As soon as Simon had seen Sophie Johannsen in full glory he’d known she was exactly what he needed, what he wanted. And he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to able to walk away from the game until every piece was perfect. He needed to see Sophie Johannsen die.
Except the woman had proven herself smart and careful. Every moment she was with a cop. But now he knew how to separate her from the herd.
Friday, January 19, 11:30 P.M.
“It’s a nice keep.” Beaming, Sophie nodded at Michael. “These are beautiful blocks.” She and Pierce sat behind a semicircle about four feet in diameter and three feet high constructed of smooth wooden blocks. They’d even included the skinny windows Sophie had informed them were arrow slits for defense against their attackers.
Which had then required a run to the local toy store for a Nerf archery set. At least the books they’d been using the night before were neatly back on Vito’s shelves, so he wouldn’t complain too much that his living room was now a Norman castle.
Sophie rubbed her fingers over one of the blocks and Vito knew she wouldn’t find a single splinter. “They must have cost the Earth.”
Vito’s father pretended nonchalance. “Just some old blocks I had in storage. Dom and Tess got them after school today.” But Vito could see he was beaming, too.
“Dad handmade the blocks for us when we were kids,” Vito said from his recliner, which had been turned into the drawbridge. The rest of the furniture had either been removed or turned over and converted to battlements. “Dad is a master carpenter.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Really? Well, then the trebuchet makes sense. Cool.”
“I’m ready,” Connor said, guiding the model into place. Gone was the makeshift wooden-spoon trebuchet they’d fashioned last night, replaced with a scale model that could probably hurl a Thanksgiving turkey. Connor had wanted to try a frozen chicken, but thankfully Sophie had put her foot down on that one.
Vito suspected his father had been working on the model all day, carving it with the whittling knife he was never without. In the old days Michael could have cranked out a model like that in an hour with his woodworking tools, but those had been sold when Michael had been forced to give up his cabinet-making business because of his heart.
“No, you’re not ready,” Sophie told Connor. “You don’t have anything to hurl yet.”
“You need to get this battle on the road,” Vito said dryly. “It’s almost midnight and Pierce and Connor ha
ve to go to bed.” Which is where he’d wanted to be all evening.
“Uncle Vito,” Pierce whined. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.” He looked to Sophie hopefully.
“Sorry, kid,” Sophie said. “I have to work tomorrow, too. Tess, Dominic?”
“We’re coming,” Tess called, and she and Dom emerged from the kitchen with Ziploc bags filled with cooked pasta. “I’ve never cooked for a siege before, but here it is.”
A fierce military campaign ensued, each of the boys taking turns manning the trebuchet while Sophie and Michael rebuilt the battlements as needed.
Tess took cover behind Vito’s chair. “Dad hasn’t had so much fun in years.”
“Mom won’t let him,” Vito murmured. “She worries about every breath he takes.”
“Well, Mom’s not here. I sent her and Tino to the all-night Wal-Mart with a long grocery list. You guys don’t exactly keep a well-stocked kitchen, and I’m going to be cooking lots of meals to put in the freezer for when Molly comes home from the hospital.” She shrugged. “Mom needed to feel useful, so she’s happy. Dad’s happy. The kids are ecstatic. You look happy, too, Vito.”
Vito looked up at her. “I am.”
Tess sat on the arm of his chair. “I’m glad. I like your Sophie, Vito.”
His Sophie was currently ducking a bag of cooked pasta. “So do I.” He realized both he and Sophie had achieved something for the other’s family tonight. It was a solid beginning to a relationship Vito intended to nurture for a long, long time.
“This is a good start,” Tess murmured, “to a nice life. You deserve that.” Then Tess squealed along with Sophie when one of the bags hurled from the trebuchet slammed into the ceiling and broke on impact, sending sticky pasta flying everywhere.
Vito grimaced. “This is never gonna come off my walls and ceiling, is it?”
Tess chuckled. “I see a lot of pasta-covered walls in your future, Vito.”
Sophie and Michael were laughing like loons and Vito had to laugh, too. Finally Sophie stood, picking pasta from her hair. “On that note, it’s bedtime. No,” she said when Pierce whined. “Generals don’t whine, they march. Now go downstairs, quietly. Don’t wake Gus.” When the boys were gone, Sophie looked at Vito. “Bucket and rags?”
