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

by Wendy Rosnau

  “Are you ready to write?” he asked, not liking it when he thought too much about Summ. He’d grown to care for the mouthy little witch. She’d become his nurse, his mistress and his counselor. Whatever he had needed, she had delivered, and it saddened him that he wouldn’t be able to take her with him where he was going. Maybe he was even a little afraid to be going without her—she had become so much a part of him. His lifeline at a time when he thought he’d been forsaken.

  Vito Tandi … afraid. Not to die, he silently avowed, but he wished there was a way to know if it all would work out as it should. Had all of their paths been predestined?

  “I was wondering if you would like me to ask Buddha for a favor on your behalf.”

  Vito narrowed his eyes, sure that Summ had just read his thoughts. Why else would she have asked such a question? “My God wrote me off years ago. Why would yours give a damn about granting me a favor?”

  “Because my heart is pure and my motives equally so. Buddha grants gifts to those who are pure in heart, even if those gifts are extended to another. Even if it is extended to an old fool too proud and stubborn to ask for himself.”

  “There are days, Summ, that I wonder why I rescued you from that alley in Chinatown where you were scavenging for food. Write the letter, witch.”

  She bent her head and raised her pen. “Dear Mr. Kendler,” she began.

  “He’s not dear to me. Start again. Just ‘Kendler.’ Tell him I want him at Dante Armanno at nine in the morning.”

  Her hand stilled and she looked up. “At nine?”

  “Are you deaf? Maybe you should be drinking some of that godawful tea you’ve been pouring down my throat for months. It’s suppose to work miracles, right? Maybe it’ll melt the wax in your ears.”

  “I hear fine, Shujin. But you haven’t been up by nine in over a year.”

  Scowling, Vito grumbled, “Tomorrow I will be up at nine. Kendler is to meet me in my office to change my will.” He poked his fat finger at the paper. “Add that if it takes the entire day to rewrite my will, he should be prepared to bring a sack lunch. Lawyers are the whores of this crazy society. They jump from one poor bastard to another without conscience or shame, and I refuse to feed him.”

  “Change your will? But I thought—”

  “Don’t worry, Summ. I wouldn’t think of burdening you with the task of managing Dante Armanno after I’m gone. You’d probably burn my millions in the fireplace to save on next year’s heating bill. But you won’t be leaving as we once discussed. I’ve decided to shake up the famiglia, and let them all know that Vito Tandi’s brain hasn’t rotted along with his body. I will be remembered, even from the grave. Remembered as the man who brought honor back to the Cosa Nostra.”

  * * *

  Joey ignored the blood that soaked his shirt. He had broke open his shoulder wound, but he didn’t give a damn about that. Rhea was missing, and he had already taken Lucky apart for leaving her unprotected.

  “She’s got to be with one of the guards, Joe,” Jackson reasoned. “She’ll show up. Just give it a little more time. It’s been barely an hour.”

  It was true. One of his guards could have picked Rhea up—but Joey’s instincts told him that hadn’t happened. Over half of his men had called to check in with nothing to report except that they were alive. And when he had asked them about Rhea, none could give him any information.

  “Tell me again what you know, Jacky,” Joey said roughly.

  “Carlo got away. I don’t know how that could have happened, but he slipped through the feds’ fingers.”

  Joey swore. “Carlo’s missing, and so is Rhea. What does that tell you, Jacky?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, fratello.”

  Joey turned to glare at Lucky, who stood behind the bar with a glass of scotch in one hand and a bag of ice in the other pressed to his cheek. He’d been drinking nonstop since they learned that Rhea was nowhere to be found. It went without saying that Lucky blamed himself for her disappearance, and it hadn’t helped any that Joey had taken a punch at him the minute he realized his brother had left his Rhea without protection.

  “The feds did pick up Carmine Solousi. If he decides to talk, we—”

  “He won’t talk,” Lucky said. “Not unless they get Carlo. If they don’t find him soon, I can guarantee that that bookie who was ready to sing in Allenwood will be dead within twenty-four hours, too.”

  Joey stepped behind the bar and pushed past Lucky. After he opened the hidden door, he walked into the passageway. When Lucky and Jackson followed, he said, “I can’t sit around here doing nothing. I want my wife, and if that means I have to storm Carlo’s estate, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “That’s suicide, Joe,” Jackson growled.

  Joey reached for a matched pair of Berettas, then a box of ammo. Next, he pulled the shotgun his father had given him at age fifteen off the wall, an exact duplicate to the Italian lupara Lucky owned.

  On his way back out the door, he grabbed the leather coat that hung on a hook; it was equipped with enough pockets inside the lining to house his banquet of serious toys. Back in the living room, he jerked off his suit jacket, ignored his bloodstained white shirt, and pulled on the coat. After sliding the lupara into one of the lining pockets, he transferred his knife and one of the Berettas into the right outside pocket, and the other Beretta and his cell phone into the left.

  “Joey, you need to stop and think about this.” Lucky blocked his brother’s path as he headed for the door.

  “Get out of my way, Lucky.”

  “No. You’re going to get yourself killed. That won’t help Rhea.”

  When Joey tried to go around Lucky, his brother gave him a push and he fell against Jackson, who quickly grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back to restrain him. Joey swore, then fought to free himself. He threw his weight, sent Jackson off balance, and both of them fell to the floor in a scuffle.

  “Dammit, Joey.” Lucky reached down and hauled his brother back to his feet. As Jackson scrambled up off the floor, he threw a punch to Joey’s midsection that momentarily stole his air. The lapse in time gave Lucky the opportunity he needed to pin Joey against the bar. “Basta! Enough, Joey.”

  A cell phone rang, and for a moment no one moved, then Lucky let Joey go.

  Jackson flipped open his phone. “Ward here, what do you got?” After a few minutes, he pocketed the phone. “That was Hank Mallory at the CPD. He says Carlo never went back to his estate. He’s either left the city or gone underground.”

  Joey shoved away from the bar. He had never felt so helpless in all of his life. Helpless and scared.

  “There’s more, Joe.” Jackson hesitated, then said, “The limousine that entered the cemetery just before hell broke loose belongs to Vito Tandi.”

  Lucky asked, “Why would Vito show up at Frank’s funeral?”

  “Good question. Something we need to ask Vito,” Joey answered.

  “Dante Armanno is guarded like Fort Knox, Joe.”

  Joey knew what Jackson said was true, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t sit around and do nothing. “Opal!”

  The nanny hurried into the living room carrying Niccolo. “Yes, Mr. Masado.”

  “We’re going out. Stay with my son. Don’t leave him for even a second.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Rhea lifted her head and slowly rolled to her back. Her head throbbed, and when she raised her hand to push her hair out of her eyes, her hand came away wet and sticky.

  Carefully, she ran her fingers along her temple to see how badly she was bleeding. She discovered an inch-long cut running from her temple back to her hairline. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what had happened. She’d been running with the guard, and then as they had reached the limousine…

  She didn’t remember if the guard had turned back and punched her, or if someone else had suddenly come up behind her. All she remembered was that the force of the punch had k
nocked the wind out of her and she’d dropped to her knees. The next thing she remembered was being tossed into the trunk of the limousine, hitting her head on something sharp. She was still in the trunk. She could feel the motion and hear the tires as the car sped along the street. Smell the exhaust.

  The question was, why would one of Joey’s guards want to hurt her?

  He wouldn’t, Rhea decided, blinking her eyes open and staring into the darkness. The second she came to that realization, fear sent a wave of nausea climbing up her throat.

  Had Carlo Talupa managed to elude the feds? Had he somehow learned they were going to arrest him, and before that could happen, had he extracted yet another calculated hit on the Masado family?

  If that was true, then she was in the worst situation possible. She had seen what Carlo had done to Grace. The boss of the famiglia was a sadist. If he had her, what kind of torture did he have planned?

  The car slowed down, then came to a stop. Rhea heard the sound of the car door slamming, then whistling. She started to shake when she heard footsteps and the rattle of keys.

  She held her breath, prayed she was wrong.

  When the trunk opened, a beam of light shone into the darkness and there was no longer any mystery as to who had pulled her from the open grave. No mystery as to what her fate would be. Rhea recognized her captor clearly.

  * * *

  Dante Armanno looked like a medieval fortress. Dark and sheltered by iron gates and giant oak trees, the three-story home of Vito Tandi had a parapet on the rooftop and witches towers extending from three sides.

  The estate had been built in 1918. High on the hillside overlooking the Chicago River, the design and placement of the house in conjunction with the road guaranteed that the guards stationed on the roof could see every car that came within two miles of the estate.

  As Joey drove up to the iron gates, he saw that Lucky was already there. Looking like the dark side of evil, his brother was talking to two guards with AR-70’s strapped on their shoulders.

  “Give him a minute,” Jackson said. “If anyone can convince these hard cases to let us in, it’ll be Lucky.”

  Joey planned to give his brother no more than two minutes. Then he was going to run the guards down, if that was the only way he would get to speak to Vito.

  When the iron gates opened Joey wasted no time speeding through. A quarter mile up the road, and through a second gate, he turned onto a paved circle drive with a massive bronze statue standing in the middle. The statue was of Dante Armanno.

  Joey muttered, “The last standing soldier.”

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  “The statue of Armanno,” Joey explained. “He’s the Sicilian soldier in the story of how the Cosa Nostra came to be in Sicily.”

  “He looks like a mean son of a bitch.”

  Joey nodded. “He was. That’s how he got his name. Dante Armanno means last standing soldier.” Joey spotted the guards on the parapet. “Watch your back, Jacky. I don’t want to get anyone pissed off. If Vito has Rhea, I don’t want her paying for another one of my mistakes. I’ve made too damn many already.”

  “You didn’t make a mistake, Joe. You couldn’t be in two places at once.” Jackson eyed the rooftop. “We must be crazy walking into the lion’s den. You ever been here before?”

  “No. Never been invited.” Joey climbed out from behind the wheel of his Jaguar. As he waited for Lucky to pull up in the blue company van from Masado Towers, he studied another pair of statues, hungry-looking black panthers sitting in front of the house on granite plinths. The house’s mullion windows were long and narrow, an architectural design that prevented unwanted entry through a broken window. That is, if you were able to get past the gate, and then the giant who stood at the door.

  “Name’s Benito Palone,” Lucky said as he joined them. “He’s been with Vito for about ten years.”

  They started toward the house, walking side by side through a keystone archway that extended sixteen feet up and led to the vault-like front door—Joey in the middle, Lucky on his left and Jackson on his right.

  “The story is, Palone’s got a steel plate in his jaw,” Lucky muttered as they closed the distance on the seven-foot-plus guard.

  Joey called out, “I’ve come to speak with Vito.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” said the giant.

  “You know damn well that I don’t,” Joey growled.

  Lucky said, “He’ll want to see us, Palone.”

  “Maybe. Wait here.”

  He disappeared inside, and was gone only a minute. When he returned, a small oriental woman was with him. She sized up the three of them, then said, “Shujin say leave weapons here.” She motioned to a marble slab tucked back into an alcove. “They will be there when you leave.”

  Joey had never seen Vito’s housekeeper, but if you could believe the rumors, this small woman had managed to keep Tandi alive for the past two years when the doctors had given up.

  He pulled his two Berettas along with the lupara that he’d tucked into the deep pocket of his long coat while Lucky did the same. Jackson was slow to give up his Diamondback, but he finally laid it on the marble slab with the other weapons.

  The woman pointed to Lucky. “You keep a .22 in a hip pocket, and I don’t see the knives.” She pointed to where the guns had been laid. “You waste time.”

  Joey reached into his pocket and gave up his Hibben, and Lucky and Jackson followed suit. Then Lucky anted up his .22 in his back pocket.

  “Shujin in study. Come.”

  They followed her through the door, and when it closed, they were joined by two heavily armed guards and Palone, who followed them through the foyer and down a hall that swung left. The dark hall was spotlighted by several shadow boxes displaying antique guns and knives that were more than a century old.

  Another guard was standing outside an ornately carved wooden door. The guard knocked twice, then he shoved open the door and Joey, Jackson and Lucky stepped inside. Palone followed close behind.

  Vito’s study was as dimly lit as the hall. Joey scanned the room and found his father’s old friend and enemy seated at a large wooden desk. Not having seen Vito for many years, Joey was surprised that he was bald and at least sixty pounds overweight.

  He simply asked, “Where’s my wife?”

  “Your wife? I wasn’t aware you had a wife, Joey.”

  “You were at the cemetery today. You know damn well what went on there. My wife is missing.”

  Vito puffed on his cigar, studying first Joey, then Lucky. Giving Jackson only a quick glance, he said, “It’s been a helluva week, eh, boys? First Frank, and now your wife. I sympathize. I know what it feels like to lose family. My wife years ago, and then Milo a few months back. Yes, a helluva week for you boys.”

  Joey clenched his fists. He was ready to climb over the desk, when he felt Lucky’s hand on his arm.

  “Easy, fratello.” To Vito, he said, “The past cannot be altered, old man. We are interested in the present. What is your price to hand over Rhea Masado?”

  Vito shrugged. “If I had her, I’m sure there would be something. But I’m sorry to say I don’t have your wife, Joey.”

  At that moment Jackson‘s cell phone rang. Joey heard him back away to answer.

  Jackson spoke low, for only a minute at the most, and when the phone was back in his pocket, he said, “Joe, we need to talk.”

  “Not now, Jacky,” Joey said roughly.

  “Now, Joe.”

  The tone in his friend’s voice made Joey whirl around, and when he saw the sick look on Jackson‘s face, his gut twisted. Leaving Lucky with Vito and Palone, Joey walked out the door with Jackson on his heels. In the hall, he asked, “What the hell is it, Jacky?”

  “That was Hank. He just got a call from Joliet Prison. Stud Williams escaped this morning.”

  The words hit Joey as if a land mine had gone off inside his head.

  “They have a woman fitting Sophia D’Lano’s description
on the visitors schedule,” Jackson went on. “She met with Stud Williams two days ago.”

  Joey’s entire body started to shake and he leaned against the wall for support.

  “Breathe, Joe,” Jackson ordered. “It looks like Vito’s telling the truth. Ten to one, Stud was at the cemetery, and when he saw his chance he took it. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m going to kill him this time.”

  “Where would he take her, Joe?”

  Joey thought a minute, his mind racing. “Not back to his house, or to her old place. That would be too obvious. He’ll go underground, or clear out altogether. If Sophia’s involved, then so is her old man.”

  “Remember when Frank said Carlo and Vito took him and Grace to a cabin north of here? Up by Waukegan somewhere. He said it was Vinnie D’Lano’s place, right? What do you think? Plenty of woods. No neighbors.”

  Jackson‘s description of the place sickened Joey. He shoved away from the wall. “It’s a place to start.”

  He returned to Vito’s study. Without wasting any more time, he said, “I’ve just learned that Stud Williams escaped from prison today. You remember him, don’t you, Vito? He’s the dirty cop who murdered Milo. Tied him down and shot him in the head.” When Joey saw Vito’s nostrils flare, he said, “I need to know where Vincent D’Lano’s cabin is. The one you and Carlo brought my father to the night you took his eye, then beat the hell out of him with a steel pipe.”

  Vito Tandi’s eyes narrowed. “Williams is out?” He swore crudely. “I want that bastard.”

  “Pick a number and get in line,” Jackson countered.

  Vito said, “If I help you, I’ll expect a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Joey asked.

  “I need to give it some thought. I’ll decide that later, but if you agree—” he looked from Lucky to Joey “—I’ll provide you with everything you need to run down the scum who murdered my son. I have a helicopter here. You can leave immediately and reach the cabin in less than an hour.”