One Way Out (Silhouette Intimate Moments No. 1211) (Silhouette Intimate Moments, 1211)

by Wendy Rosnau

  Suddenly his son stopped crying. After rubbing his sleepy eyes with his tiny fist, he demanded, “Daddy tell daa-gon story.” Then, so there was no mistake who he was talking to, Niccolo thrust himself forward and reached out his arms to his father.

  * * *

  Rhea stood next to Joey in the glass elevator and tried not to think about what she’d walked in on at the Stardust. She had actually felt sick when she’d seen Sophia D’Lano almost sitting in Joey’s lap.

  Her gaze drifted to Nicci in his father’s arms. He was so sleepy, and yet he was fighting to stay awake, determined to hear Joey’s dragon story. She only hoped Joey knew the story, because Nicci wasn’t going to settle for “The Three Blind Mice.” It sucked.

  When the elevator stopped and the door opened, Joey said, “Did you get moved in?”

  “Yes.” As Rhea stepped out of the elevator, she said to Joey’s assistant, “Norman, did you find someone to see to my list?”

  The muscle machine smiled. “I saw to it personally, Rhea. Uh … Ms. Williams. There’s a grocery store on level six. I was able to get everything you needed and it was delivered a few minutes ago.”

  ”Norman?”

  Joey was scowling at her. Rhea shoved her long bangs out of her eyes. “Yes. Norman. Don’t you know your assistant’s name?”

  “Of course I know his name.” Joey’s scowl deepened as he nailed Norman Gates, then shifted the same hard look back to Rhea. “What’s this list you’re talking about? What the hell could you possibly need that I don’t have?”

  “Don’t swear, Joey. Not unless you want—”

  “Niccolo swearing at his teachers. Yeah, I got it. So what am I out of, besides a case of prune juice?”

  Joey followed Rhea into the penthouse. When the door closed behind them, she said, “Apple juice and orange juice, not prune. And milk. Nicci hasn’t acquired a taste for coffee yet, or scotch. And he doesn’t have enough teeth to chew steak. Squid is a bit rich, and I haven’t introduced him to eggplant or broccoli just yet. And cabbage can be gassy.”

  She could see that she had completely lost him. Good.

  “So I need to keep mushy peas and dog food on hand. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Peas, yes. Dog food only if you plan on buying him a puppy. We also needed protective covers for the outlets and a dozen night-lights. Nicci gets out of bed in the middle of the night. He sometimes comes looking for me. No doubt, he’ll come looking for you, too. That’s if you can deliver on the dragon story. The protective covers are for the electrical outlets. Children are attracted to them. You’d feel terrible if Nicci stuck his finger in a wall socket.”

  “No, he’d feel terrible. But the good news is, he’ll only do it once.”

  “Not necessarily.” Rhea eyed her son, half asleep on his father’s shoulder. Nicci had bonded with Joey in an alarmingly quick fashion. For two and a half years he had looked to her for his every need and comfort. But in a matter of one day he’d become captivated by his father.

  Angry that Joey seemed to have that effect on both of them, she said, “Are you going to tell him that dragon story you promised or was that just a lie?”

  “I know a dragon story.”

  Rhea snapped her mouth shut. She had a hard time envisioning Frank Masado sitting on the edge of his son’s bed telling him a fairy tale. She could, however, picture him demonstrating how to beat the hell out of someone. Survival 101 before age ten was no doubt required in the Mafia Handbook.

  She watched as Joey headed down the hall to Nicci’s bedroom. She had the urge to follow, just to make sure that the story actually existed. She resisted—that is, until fifteen minutes had passed and her curiosity got the better of her.

  Outside the bedroom, she stood quietly and peered inside. She’d expected to see Nicci in bed, but the bed was empty. She scanned the room and found Joey sitting in a rocking chair that had been pulled close to the window. He was rocking slowly. The dragon story must have been told to Nicci’s satisfaction, because he was now snuggled against Joey’s chest with his eyes closed.

  The sight brought tears to Rhea’s eyes. That first year she had held onto the hope that things would change, that Joey would come looking for her at Santa Palazzo. Night after night, she had walked the beach, hoping he would suddenly appear. She’d been dedicated to the dream, but that’s all it had ever been—a silly dream.

  In your dreams, baby girl. That’s the best place to live. Poor folk like us live in our dreams.

  The memory of her mother’s desperate words followed Rhea into her bedroom across the hall. Exhausted, but too restless to sleep, Rhea prowled the elegant room decorated in shades of blue and silver.

  Like the rest of the penthouse, the furniture was lush and the windows oversize. Nowhere in the entire penthouse could you escape feeling surrounded by Chicago‘s amazing skyline.

  The bed was of gray iron, the headboard high and ornate, with corner posts at least ten feet tall. The blue comforter that went to the floor had silver threads woven through it, the pillow shams more silver than blue. The carpet was the color of ash and at least an inch thick. After an hour of pacing, Rhea opted for a shower to help her relax. Afterward, feeling marginally better, she left the private bathroom, tying the belt of her black satin robe.

  She didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until she had come fully into the room. Stopping abruptly, she saw Joey standing near the window, looking outside. Without provocation, he turned, his eyes moving over her slowly from head to toe.

  Rhea’s heart began to pound the second he started toward her. Again her body was anticipating his touch the way it had years ago—the way it had that morning.

  He stopped mere inches from her and reached for the ties on her robe. Instinctively, Rhea grabbed his hand. “Joey, please. Can’t we talk about this. I mean, I—”

  “The deal was, you get to care for Niccolo and I get whatever I want. What I want tonight is you in my bed.”

  Rhea knew what she’d agreed to. And under different circumstances, she would have surrendered to him. Only, she wasn’t the same person any longer. She had been left scarred, and she was sure he didn’t realize just how bad it was.

  For a time she’d just felt ashamed, but now she felt protective of her body, and she’d vowed never to let anyone hurt her again.

  She said firmly, “I can’t do this, Joey. I thought I could, but you don’t understand.”

  “I understand that we made a deal.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Do you have someone in Florida you care about?”

  “No. It’s not that. I just can’t let you touch me.” She could feel heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, feel her throat closing off and her eyes stinging. She tried to move past him, but he threaded his fingers through the belt and yanked her up against him. Thinking he meant to force her, Rhea panicked and slapped him.

  He released her suddenly, and for a moment he just stood there, then stalked to the open door. There he stopped and turned back. “What is in my home, I own. You, Rhea, have chosen to be in my home. Therefore, you are mine.”

  “No! I’m not any man’s property. Never again. I’m—”

  “Mine… If you don’t like that arrangement, darlin’, then leave my home tonight. Stay, and I’ll assume you’re willing to honor our arrangement.”

  “I’m not leaving my son,” Rhea insisted.

  “Then, in the future when I ask you a question, you will give me the truth as you know it. And when I tell you to do something, you will do it no matter what. Don’t tell me ‘no’ again, Rhea.” He started into the hall, then turned back. “Tomorrow morning set the breakfast table for two. You’ll be joining me.”

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  The concoction smelled like liquefied waste. Vito Tandi lifted the cup, plugged his nose and drank the smelly swill. A knock at the door had him setting down the stone cup and looking at the diamond-studded gold clock on
his desk. Clearing the cobwebs from his throat, he said, “Come in, Summ.”

  Vito’s housekeeper entered his study. She was a small Japanese woman who claimed to be fifty but looked no older than thirty. Her head slightly bowed, she said, “Mr. Trafano is here, Shujin. Should I send him in?”

  Vito eyed the small woman who had survived his sour disposition for twenty years. “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess you can’t tell him I’m not here. Everyone in the famiglia knows I haven’t left Dante Armanno in years.” Vito’s annoyance rose above the sound of the electric heater that hummed near his feet. He hadn’t been able to keep his damn feet warm for over a month. His circulation had gone to hell along with everything else in his life.

  He had money up the ass, but he still couldn’t buy a cure for the cancer that ravaged his throat. Nor could he prevent Moody Trafano from becoming his successor, as long as Carlo Talupa’s word was still law in Chicago.

  For the past two years Carlo had been preaching about the new-generation Cosa Nostra—the young bloods that were going to take over Chicago, and how the old war dog’s days were numbered.

  Vito thought Carlo had been sipping too much Charbono. There was nothing wrong with the old ways or how they had done business in the past. He might not be able to move as fast as he once had, but his brain still worked.

  The problem in Chicago, plain and simple, was Carlo. He had decided it was all about him and no one else. He’d become greedy, wanting what didn’t belong to him. He’d become obsessed with his power. The capos and soldiers fronting him couldn’t take a piss without his say-so.

  Moody Trafano might be one of the new generation young bloods, but Vito could guarantee the moron didn’t know the first thing about keeping the boys on the docks happy, or about offering protection to Coop’s Diner or any of the other independents down on the docks who were being harassed by Paolo Rizelli’s boys on the South Side.

  Tandi wasn’t just a widely diversified corporation. Vito was one of the few men in the famiglia who had continued to take care of his neighbors like in the old days. Yes, he was into big business, but the men who had helped him get there—the sweat-and-blood boys who still worked twelve-hour days—were his Street brothers.

  Milo… Damn him for getting himself killed, Vito thought. Grace had only given him one son, and now that son was gone. Shot and killed by that no-good Stud Williams, for no sane reason at all.

  It was true that he needed a successor, but not Moody Trafano. His corporation needed a man who had both brains and muscle. A man who could prevent mutiny before it was a spark of disgruntled gossip in a back alley. A man respected by his peers, and who would demand allegiance, then lead his men out the door two steps ahead of them.

  Could Moody do that? Vito sized up the man as he came through the door. Curling his lips, he thought, Not if Moody had twenty years’ experience on the Street and an angel riding on each shoulder willing to carry him.

  He lowered his head and scribbled the last sentence on the letter he’d been writing to his lawyer, then slid it into an envelope and sealed it quickly. When he met the younger man’s eyes, he said, “Henry Kendler is expecting you. Give him this.” He shoved the letter toward Moody. “Then introduce yourself. Henry’s been my lawyer for thirty years. He’ll be your advisor when I’m gone.”

  Without the slightest hesitation, the young blood’s long fingers snatched up the letter. “This is it. This is the letter that will make me?”

  Vito snorted in disgust, then assessed Moody’s watery blue eyes and unnatural blond hair. “It makes you nothing, boy. What it gives you is one chance to be more than Vinnie D’Lano’s bastard. If you can read, you’ll have no problem following the instructions I’ve left behind in my will. Forget who made this company and you’ll wish you’d been born a speck of jungle lice living on a monkey’s ass.”

  Neither Vito’s gruffness nor his words seemed to faze Moody. Still grinning like an idiot, he slipped the letter into the pocket of his long brown coat, then said, “You plan on coming after me from the grave, old man?”

  “I won’t have to, moron. I got friends in low places who daily take a meat cleaver to the rat-faced hustlers in this city who piss me off. They’ve already been paid to keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m Carlo’s choice.”

  “You’re not mine. And that, moron, puts you on my butcher’s list.”

  The comment took Moody’s grin, but not his arrogance. “How soon do I take over?”

  “When I’m damn good and ready to die. I got at least a month, so don’t expect to get cozy in front of my fireplace sipping eggnog for Christmas.”

  “Let’s hope you go sooner than that. This house is beginning to stink like rotting flesh.”

  Vito had the urge to pull out the .38 bolted into a sleeve underneath his desk and send Moody Trafano’s brains out his tiny ear holes.

  “Carlo told me I should acquaint myself with Dante Armanno. After I see Kendler, I’ll be back to nose around the estate. The woman who answered the door, I assume she comes with the place? I hear Asian women are—”

  “Touch Summ, and I’ll personally eat those freaky eyes of yours out of your brainless head.” Once again, Vito’s fingers itched to reach for the .38.

  “You don’t scare me. Carlo told me you talk tough, but that you can’t even walk without training wheels.” He gestured to the metal walker that stood at the end of Vito’s desk. “You’re just taking up space in a world that’s already passed you by, old man.”

  “Get out, and don’t come back until I’m dead and in the ground.”

  The young blood left, but he left laughing. When the door closed, Vito sank back in his leather wing chair and closed his eyes. He could feel perspiration on his bald head, and his hands were shaking. He threaded his sausage-shaped fingers together and rested them on his protruding gut. Several minutes passed before he felt enough in control to reach for the velvet cord at the edge of his desk.

  The door opened seconds later and Summ entered. “Yes, Shujin.”

  “The house is cold, Summ. I pay the heating bill, not you. Turn up the damn heat.”

  “Too much heat not good for you.”

  “I’m freezing more than my ass off in here, Summ. That’s not good for me, either. Even Chansu is frozen stiff.” He stabbed his fat finger in the direction of the blue parrot that sat on the perch in the corner of the room. “He hasn’t said a word in the past hour.”

  “Chansu, meditating. Bring Shujin hot tea.”

  “Not before you turn up the damn heat. And if I can see that white slime floating in my tea this time, you’ll be—”

  “Matcha make you strong like bull.”

  Summ bowed her head more deeply, but not before Vito caught the smile that tugged at her thin lips. The damn woman didn’t weigh ninety pounds, and still she wasn’t afraid of him. Hell, no one was afraid of him anymore. Like Trafano had said, he was just taking up space in a world that had already passed him by. Just a fat old man who stunk like death.

  Once Summ backed out the door, Vito glanced at Chansu. He still didn’t believe the parrot was Summ’s ancient ancestor, but if it made her feel better to think so, then he was willing to play along.

  His gaze traveled from the parrot to the picture hanging on the wall. His wife’s life had been short, the end painful for both of them.

  “Grace,” Vito muttered, “if you had kept your beautiful ass in my bed instead of climbing into Frank’s, you would be richer than God right now. More important, you wouldn’t have ended up fish bait at the bottom of Lake Michigan, and I wouldn’t be handing Dante Armanno over to a moron.”

  * * *

  Joey entered the breakfast room the next morning, feeling the effects of too much scotch and not enough sleep. He found Rhea in jeans and a navy-blue sweater, pouring coffee into a cup at the table. His two eggs and three strips of bacon were on the table, along with toast and juice.

  He realized that he�
��d handled things badly the night before. This morning he intended to take things a little slower. At least that had been the plan until he noticed that the table was only set for one. Before he could gentle his words, they were out.

  “Dammit, Rhea, I thought I told you to join me this morning!”

  “I can’t join you when I’m serving you.”

  Joey stiffened. “If you’re trying to see how far you can push me, darlin’, I’d advise against it. My home, my rules. Remember?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Start. Tomorrow this table will be set for two, and you will have something on your plate. A bagel. A muffin. Fruit. Fingernails. I don’t give a damn what. Something. Capiche?”

  He tossed his suit coat toward an empty chair and sat. After slapping the white cloth napkin he found next to his plate onto his knee, he reached for the glass of juice. A healthy swig later, he glanced up to find her still standing there, like a maid waiting to serve him.

  Scowling, he said, “Sit down, dammit.”

  She rounded the small table, gathered his jacket and hung it on the back of a vacant chair, then sat across from him.

  He picked up the toast, dipped it into his eggs and started to eat. Two bites into his breakfast, he realized she had remembered that he liked one-minute eggs, his toast light and his bacon crisp.

  How the hell had she remembered that? They’d eaten breakfast together maybe twice, and if his memory served him correctly, he’d done the cooking both times.

  While he chewed, he studied her face. She looked like she hadn’t slept any better than he had. “Were you up with Niccolo last night?”

  “No. He slept through the night. He’s still sleeping.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Sometimes he sleeps until nine, but not usually. I checked him. He’s fine.”

  Joey dug into his breakfast, enjoying the taste more than he had in ages. His cook couldn’t seem to get the bacon any way but limp, and his eggs were always too hard. “Today I want you to make a list of what you and Niccolo will need to be comfortable here. What Gates can’t take care of, get Jean to see to. I’ll tell her to expect your call. Get the number from Gates.” He eyed her high-collared sweater. “You’ll need to be specific about your tastes so Jean can get exactly what you need.”