Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1)

by Gina LaManna

  “I’m good.” I croaked, slowly trying to pull my body back into the semblance of a standing human being. “But you look hungry.”

  Before he could wrap his fingers around his gun, I took advantage of his surprise, picking up the monstrous, million dollar batch of cookies. I dumped the bowl straight over his head.

  Crack-steeped dough slid down his face, and he brought his hands to his eyes, growling in pain and frustration. But as he tried to paw at his face, the large bowl was in his way, and he wouldn’t let go of the gun to pull it off his skull. I grabbed the nearest metal spoon and clanked him right on top of the noggin with it, a large THUNK reverberating from the clash of metal on metal. A shot rang out as Michael pressed the trigger wildly, and a bullet pierced the stove a few feet from my hip – aka too close for comfort.

  I tried to slowly back out of the room, but Michael managed to thrust his head backwards and the bucket sailed across the room and clanged into the knife rack. He stared at me, looking like a contorted, sludgier version of the Sandman. I ducked as he shot again. I slithered out of the room, finding the floor slick with goop that’d been flung room-wide in Michael’s dance of rage.

  A foot landed next to my head, and I knew it was over. I rolled over and looked up, ready to face my cookie covered fate.

  “Doll.” Anthony stared down at me, then fired his gun once and Michael sank to the floor.

  I stood up to thank Anthony, but he’d only shot Michael in the knee – my body guard moved forward and I shut my eyes assuming he’d finish the job. However when I opened my eyes again, both of them were gone. They’d simply disappeared. I looked out the window, but saw nothing.

  I shrugged. Fine by me. I wouldn’t want to be alone with an angry Anthony carrying a gun. Instead I skated across the floor slick with sugar and miscellaneous substances, trying to avoid the rivers of red that flowed between the mounds of dough. I looked under the cupboard and sure enough, the stash was untouched (except for the four cups I’d removed to bake with). I hauled it out into a hefty moving box I nicked from the living room and toted it to the car.

  The noise must’ve drawn the neighbors’ attention because I could feel more than a few pairs of eyes watching me as I made the three block trek in my boxers, sweats and Uggs carrying a box spattered with hardened cookie dough.

  I scrunched my face a few times, feeling like I’d been given a mud bath at a spa and the masque had hardened. I dumped the box in the trunk, retrieved a piece of garbage bag to sit on, and opened the driver’s side door.

  A shadow covered the handle just as I yanked it open and I whipped around, ending up nose to chest with Anthony.

  “Do you always break into houses in boxers?” The right corner of Anthony’s mouth turned up.

  “I needed to be able to make a fast getaway.” I did a few lunges and squats around him to demonstrate my mobility.

  He groaned loudly.

  “What?” I crossed my arms.

  “Babe – you’re not wearing underwear.”

  I felt my cheeks blush crimson. I’d removed them with my jeans. Who wanted to run in a pink thong? “Like I said, I needed to be flexible.”

  But I kept my legs together as I explained, glancing instead at my toes.

  “You thought I wouldn’t come, didn’t you.” Anthony’s words were a statement.

  I looked in his eyes, searching for some semblance of emotion. “Not exactly.”

  “Babe – Carlos only hired me to watch out for you because he’ll never say he cares about you. And I only did it because I’d have more holes in me than a strainer if I let something happen to you.”

  I glanced around. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Good. Because I’m not one.” And then Anthony put his arms around me, slid his hands down to my ass and pulled me towards him. He kissed me until my toes curled and my nipples tingled and my underwear-less parts got extremely warm.

  When he let go some indeterminate amount of time later, he let his thumb trail around the ridge of my boxers, on the inside, lightly snapping them at the front. I couldn’t control the gasp that slipped from my lips, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  He kissed my forehead and turned. “Don’t tell Carlos.”

  “Uh, about what?” I asked, slightly breathless.

  Anthony crooked an eyebrow over his shoulder as he walked back towards an uber-shiny black car I guessed was his.

  “Er, right. ‘Course. My lips are zipped. But hey-” I took a few steps towards him. “What’d you do with Michael?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Anthony took a few more steps towards the car. “He won’t be bothering you again.”

  I may or may not have heard a thump and mumbled moaning coming from the direction of Anthony’s trunk, but I happily chose to ignore it.

  By the time I hopped in the car and waved to Anthony as he pulled out, I was smiling bigger than I had in days. And then I saw the beat up Bentley pull up behind me, a teensy tire replacing the one that’d been shot out yesterday. My smile faded slightly.

  I waited to see who got out of the car, kind of wishing I had a gun.

  But as the two figures emerged from the Bentley, Butch and Layla.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

  “Well we followed you because we wanted you to see the action. I called up your body guard and told him where you were, on account of we wanted to be part of the action.” Butch high-fived his girlfriend. “We rock. Next up, I’m working on keeping secrets. I’m about fifty percent today, cause I dropped the ball on the body guard thing.”

  I finally smiled. “Well, good job, Butch. Well done.”

  By the time I got back in my car and waved at the odd pair departing in the lopsided Bentley, my smile had been restored. I headed home, happily pointing Clay’s car in the direction of our crummy apartment.

  At the last minute, I took a detour and whipped the car into Carlos’ drive a few minutes later. The driveway was still a bit scorched from the recent explosion, but I had no doubt cleaning crews would be there shortly patching the pavement and making all signs of foul play disappear. That was Carlos’ specialty, after all.

  I huffed into the grand entryway lugging the box of ‘the good stuff,’ the guards staring curiously but hesitant to say anything – probably due to my crazy person attire and wild-eyed look. Carlos was still at the dining room table eating meatballs as if nothing had happened. A bottle of wine, now empty, sat to Nora’s right, her face glowing like Rudolph’s nose.

  I pushed my plate aside – the meatball still untouched – and thunked the box down on the table. The silverware clattered dangerously, but nobody made a comment. Carlos didn’t even stop eating, continuously chewing his mouthful.

  I stood there until I had all their attention, all eyes reflecting mixed levels of confusion at my attire.

  “Don’t ask,” I said. I turned on my heel and stomped away. I wasn’t in the mood for any more cookies today. “I’ve got your cocaine.”

  “What?” Carlos’ voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “That sure as hell better not be cocaine.”

  “What are you talking about?” I tried to run a hand through my crusty hair, but it got stuck halfway through.

  “This better not fuckin’ be drugs.” Carlos eyed me.

  “Language,” hissed Nora. “She’s your granddaughter, Carlos.”

  “Everybody I talked to thought this was cocaine,” I said. “Everyone. Even the people stealing from you. If it’s not cocaine, then what is it?”

  “It is very, very expensive flour,” Carlos said. “It better be fuc- fudging flour in there.”

  Nora cleared her throat.

  “You deal in flour?” I asked. “Why on earth didn’t you clarify?”

  “Did you not read the paperwork I gave you?” Carlos asked.

  I shrugged, my stomach seeming to take an elevator down a few floors. “I looked at the pictures.”

  Carlos held his head in his hand. “It’s flour – tw
enty million dollars worth. Very refined. It’s used for… special purposes. We didn’t steal it from anyone – in fact we deal it to buyers very legally.”

  “Who are the buyers?” I asked.

  “They wouldn’t be going through the Luzzi Family if they wanted their names known, now would they?”

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  “Need to know basis. If the Russian’s assumed it was cocaine, that’s their issue. Do you really think I’d send you out on a drug mission for your first assignment? Drugs are a dangerous business.”

  I shrugged.

  “So, when I open that bag, it better be flour.”

  I thought it best not to tell Carlos right then that I’d baked a million dollar cookie with that flour.

  “Oh, it’s flour,” I said. “I guarantee it.”

  Carlos took a hesitant peek under the lid. “You’re lucky.”

  I gave a nod. I turned and stomped down the hallway full of Family photos, out past the grand entrance hall and waved at Harold on the way out. I grudgingly had to agree with Carlos. I had been pretty darn lucky these last few days.

  ** **

  I finally crawled into bed feeling like my head was empty except for a colony of bees buzzing around in a chaotic mass. My thoughts wouldn’t stop whirring, garish images popping up every now and then of a collapsed Vadim, a blank-eyed Andrey and a million-dollar-cookie dough covered Michael waving his gun at me.

  I rolled over and begged my mind to consider the large paycheck I’d be receiving shortly from Carlos. I’d be able to buy myself a disastrous amount of s’mores materials, popcorn, a new yellow sweatshirt, and possibly a new car. I sighed. This one-time payment wouldn’t be enough to sustain me forever. Maybe I should try to get back into stripping.

  The phone rang and startled me out of my not unpleasant thoughts of exotic dancing and never having to work for the Family again.

  I glanced at the machine and saw one of the top five names I wanted nothing to do with right now.

  Carlos Luzzi.

  My mind fought a brief war over whether I should answer the phone. And then I did what any sane person would do, and I picked up the phone.

  Because nobody says no to Carlos.

  THE END.

  ** **

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  Lacey Luzzi: Scooped

  The prequel novella in the Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries

  Follow Lacey as she searches desperately to find the family that abandoned her sweet, caring mother…never imaging it’d be a family with a capital “F.”

  Lacey Luzzi: Sparkled

  Book 2 in the Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries, will be available for purchase soon!

  For a sample of Lacey Luzzi: Sparkled, read on:

  Chapter 1

  “NO!” My head fell into my hands with a heavy flop. “No-no-no-no-nooooo! This is... no. Just – no.”

  Lacey – 0. Life – 1.

  I slumped against the front seat of my car and lay my head against the seat. This wasn’t happening. I closed my eyes and briefly wished for the world to end.

  Then, I realized that maybe the torture which lay before me would include a free chicken dinner.

  I peeked out from underneath one of my eyelids at the toxic pink invitation spewing glitter all over the passenger seat of my car. I thumbed through the invitation in disgust, wrinkling my nose at the Plus One scrawled across the front.

  With slightly higher spirits, I considered a much happier question:

  Please Mark One:

  __Chicken

  __ Pasta

  I expelled a breath. Alright, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. I could always use a nice meal. Maybe if I checked yes to a plus one I could simply bring myself and eat two meals.

  “The Love Shack?” I asked to nobody. “Honestly?”

  Of course Vivian would pick a venue for her wedding that featured a glittery pink sign, complete with misspelled words.

  Oh – and of course, it was in Vegas. Maybe I could get out of going by saying I didn’t have enough money. It wasn’t exactly a lie…

  I lifted the card and a plume of pink dust covered the seat of my car. I struggled to read the writing below the address for the chapel.

  After a second, it dawned on me that I wasn’t staring at writing, I was looking at scribbles. Vivian had crossed out “The Love Shack” and underneath wrote “Wedding Moved to Lutsen.”

  Lutsen, Minnesota.

  I groaned, knowing that I wouldn’t get out of a plus one easily – not if the wedding was in my home state. My Family –of the mafia variety – would see to it that I was fixed up with a nice Italian boy.

  Good luck, Grandma, I thought.

  I’d been looking for a guy that’d stick around for longer than a breakfast burrito going on twenty-eight years. Needless to say I hadn’t had much luck to date, as evidenced by the fact that the only jewelry on my finger was the occasional ring pop. I doubted my grandma would have any luck finding a handsome, successful man who’d agree to go to a wedding with me – a week from today.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an altogether terrible catch. I brushed my teeth an average of 1.4 times a day, mostly wore mascara when I had a date, and kept generally to my donut per diem (when I wasn’t PMSing). I rarely wore jeans, but when I did they usually fit over my hips, and my face didn’t break mirrors as a general rule.

  However, the cons list for dating me was also longer than I’d like to admit.

  One example might be that my grandfather was the Don of the St. Paul Italian Mafia. Another fact might be that I worked for him, and sometimes got into deep doo doo on one of his assignments. Even this wedding was a con: the invitations were knockoffs and last minute, mostly because my cousin Vivian had broken off an engagement to her on and off again (scuzzy, low-life foot soldier) fiancé and suddenly discovered an interest for boring old bankers.

  In fact, she’d probably used the old invitations. Vivian and Joey would’ve ended up getting married at a place called The Love Shack.

  However, Vivian and her new fiancé would be getting married at a place called Lutsen Resort. They’d probably even have expensive napkins and fancy chair covers. Barf.

  I mostly thought weddings were fun. Free food, lots of booze and a dance floor. Except for this wedding.

  Not only was it with my family, but it was with my Family, the one with a capital F.

  And thanks to my cousin’s happiness I was being forced to find a date.

  “Plus one?” I muttered under my breath. “Damn.”

  I let my hand fall to my lap, holding the crumpled piece of paper.

  Plus ones, in addition to math in general, had never been my strong suit. Which is probably why I’d never felt the urge to finish college, particularly when I had a role model as awesome as my mother – the best stripper in all of the Twin Cities. When she passed away three years ago, I tried to follow in her glittery footsteps, but I didn’t have nearly as much grace as she.

  Instead, I got a concussion during my first dance and inhaled enough sequins that my intestines probably shimmered during my X-Rays. When stripping didn’t work out, I needed another career opportunity. Since my talents weren’t obvious, I was forced to do some investigating to find the family my mother had kept hidden from me my entire life.

  I hadn’t anticipated that my family would be the largest organized crime Family in all of the Midwest, or that my grandfather would run the operation from his castle tucked away in suburban St. Paul. And I especially didn’t imagine I’d take a job with him.

  I’m not exactly Mafia material. For starters, I don’t like blood. I get woozy just thinking about losing a tooth. Second, I have absolutely zero fighting talents. For example, it took a plunger, a 911 call and a bottle of wine to handle my latest confrontation, and that was with a spider.

  My Italian is sub-par, peppered most
ly with swear words and the occasional food name, thanks to the Sopranos, and I prefer my coffee to be mostly sugar and milk as opposed to a bitter shot of espresso. I’m polite. I use please and thank you. My mobster rating is a big, fat goose-egg.

  However, two years ago, my growling stomach had been speaking much, much louder than my rapidly deteriorating conscience. With no legitimate career opportunities in sight, I’d agreed to join the Family business.

  Which is how I ended up having a staring contest with a sparkly pink invitation currently shedding glitter all over my newest sweat pants.

  “Damn it.” I sucked in a bunch of air and blew a hearty breath in the direction of my crotch. About fifty percent of the sprinkles vanished from my pants and found a new home all over the interior of my Chevy Lumina, a car so impossible to steer that I needed to do a three point turn in order to merge onto the freeway.

  I considered running over to the nearby gas station, which was owned by some relation of mine, to vacuum both my lap and the car, but decided against it for multiple reasons. The first was that I was late to work; the second – and most important – was that car services required effort and money, two things I was lacking this morning.

  Most people wouldn’t be allowed to wear sweatpants to work unless they were a gym teacher or a yoga instructor, and as I was neither particularly bendable or the recipient of a college diploma, I didn’t fall into either of those categories. I was headed towards the Luzzi Family Laundromat, and while in some cases one might be considered admirable and even borderline heroic for offering to help with their grandparents’ small business, in my case it was downright illegal.

  The Laundromat was a front for the St. Paul Mob and my grandfather, Carlos Luzzi, was the Godfather of the Twin Cities branch. He’d moved up from the larger Chicago Mafia a while ago, for reasons unknown but easy to suspect, and set up shop here. Now I helped him track down any stolen good stuff and find out why certain bodies were no longer alive.