Unforgotten

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Brad gripped her shoulders. “What are you expecting?”

  “You’re in charge.”

  His chest heaved. “Well, you’ve taken me by surprise. I don’t know …”

  She didn’t help him. He’d wanted to win for so long, and she had to be sure.

  He drew a deep breath. “You drive me crazier than any woman I know. Even my ex.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “Ex? Ex … wife?”

  “Brief and early. Before I went to work with your dad.”

  Weren’t they a pair with their secrets?

  “But that’s not the point.” His grip softened. “Rese, I don’t know what you’re doing.” He fixed her with a quizzical stare. “I could take this the direction it seems to be going … but I can’t.” He dropped his hands, catching his thumbs in the waist of his jeans.

  She waited.

  “I won’t say I haven’t thought about it. But …” He looked away, then back. “You’re Vernon Barrett’s daughter.”

  A wash of relief.

  “He’s gone and you’re a woman now, but …” He shook his head. “That’s how it is.”

  She smiled. “Then I’m ready to discuss our partnership.”

  He cocked his brow. “Business?”

  “Strictly.” At his incredulity, she shrugged. “You’d made that comment and …” She would never consider a partnership on any other terms again.

  His shoulders sagged. “This was a test?”

  “Well …”

  “You couldn’t ask?” His hands went to his hips.

  “Would you have known for sure?” And would she have believed anything he said without seeing for herself?

  He clamped his mouth shut. “Okay, I might’ve wondered.”

  “Now we’ve settled that, let’s talk terms.”

  “Mind if I get my heart rate down?” He went to the refrigerator and took out a beer, then held one up to her.

  “Okay,” she said. They’d talk as Brad and Dad had, man to man.

  As he rejoined her, she stilled the rush of taking control of her life. “First of all, I’m not selling the villa.” She had to live somewhere, and she’d done a bang-up job on it. “But I do have some assets to convert.”

  ————

  Lance banged the phone in his palm on his knee. For the last couple hours he’d resisted the urge to redial and tell her everything, to try to make her see. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t see this coming. Or had he? Hadn’t he felt the purpose driving him from the start? Yes, but he couldn’t know it would come down to this.

  He’d sent her home intending to follow within days. He’d thought to finish the letter, give Nonna closure and peace; he hadn’t guessed the ending. Should he have warned Rese, prepared her? Maybe he had, by letting her see and hear and know his failures, his dismal record. That’s what she’d thought it was. Another mark on his wall.

  His heart squeezed. He hadn’t led Rese on. He’d wanted a life with her, wanted it still. He’d drawn her inside him, and plucking her out hurt like the knife slicing between his ribs. But he didn’t know what was coming, what risks he’d take, or what he might be required to do.

  All through the night he’d brooded on Nonno’s life, on the man committed to justice and order, a man given to kindliness with a penchant for humor. The senselessness of that murder had overwhelmed him.

  Like the people doing their jobs when maniacal evil burst into the towers—what explanation could there be? Nonno had lived with integrity, his only fault the truce he’d made with the devil. A truce— Lance clenched the phone in his hand—violated by a man as underhanded and reprehensible as terrorists incinerating the innocent.

  Yes, he would fight this war, though his battle might not end in glory. He knew well enough that pieces were sacrificed, and if it came to that he’d face it. But he wouldn’t endanger Rese. She had no cultural basis for vendetta, while even as a child he had taken matters into his own fists. How could he expect her to understand? He couldn’t.

  That was why he didn’t tell her, that and the fear that she’d change his mind. Groaning, he looked at the phone in his hand. He wanted so much just to tell her he loved her. Why hadn’t he said that much? He shook his head. She wouldn’t believe it. It was better to give her a clean break, but though he’d barely eaten for days, the ache in his stomach was not hunger. Slowly he set the phone down, words damming up inside that couldn’t be spoken.

  She had put it simply. “If you’ve changed your mind, fine, but at least take responsibility for it.” What difference did it make if it was God’s plan or his? It looked the same to Rese. As much as it hurt, he couldn’t change that. He wished he had Rico’s ability to surgically sever his feelings, but he could only gut it out.

  He went into Nonna’s room and sat. She was awake but didn’t answer his greeting. She seemed to be fading, Nonno’s murder the final blow she couldn’t deflect. Would she live to see the end? Anger leaching, the loss overwhelmed him. “Nonna.” He took her hand. “I’ll settle this vendetta for the Michellis, end the curse. Whatever it takes.”

  Her hand quivered in his, but she didn’t speak, didn’t look at him.

  She had gone somewhere in her thoughts that he couldn’t reach. But it wasn’t about her anymore. God had used her to get his attention, but this was between them now. “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” He was hardpressed to think of a more painful way to deny himself than what he’d just done. But it was only the beginning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Have I told you lately what I think of my father?” Rico leaned against the chain-link fence of the handball court, scowling. It wasn’t easy for him to return to where he came from, and Lance appreciated the sacrifice he’d made. It was a long shot that Juan would know any Borsellinos, but having done time and being entrenched in drug and fencing operations, Lance thought it a possibility.

  He hooked his fingers on the fence between them, sweat cooling on his chest where the sleeveless T-shirt clung. “Did he know anything?”

  “Nada. Squat.”

  Lance clutched the ball. “Not even a contact?”

  Rico shrugged. “He’s not saying, man.”

  Twenty-two years was a long time. Though he’d found several in the phone book, the Borsellinos might not be in business in the city anymore, and the one directly responsible for Nonno’s death might not even be alive. He didn’t know what he’d do when he learned who that was, but at this rate … He shook his head.

  “Sorry, ’mano.” Rico hadn’t asked why, had just taken the inquiry to Juan.

  “Yeah.” Lance sighed. Nonno’s pages had given him too little. If he expected someone to return the vendetta, to fight back, why had he not left something to go on? He’d been thorough in everything else.

  “Are we playing or what?” Bobby called.

  Lance glanced back at his brother-in-law. He wasn’t sure, but he’d guess Bobby had been enlisted to get him outside, to stop his brooding. He wasn’t brooding, though. He was thinking and praying, mostly praying when the hurt and longing seized hold, when fear and frustration choked him.

  Exercise had been a bad idea. He could feel his system crashing, from fasting, maybe, or heartache. He’d ended enough relationships that he ought to know the drill. But this wound wasn’t closing.

  “Hey.” Bobby spread his hands.

  “I gotta go.” Lance waved him off and went through the gate to Rico. It had taken a week for Juan to say he knew nothing. A week of worry for Nonna, for Rese, for what he was supposed to do. There had to be something to go on. Lord …

  And then he had a thought, a memory: Tony carrying a box when he and Gina moved out. A box. Lance’s breath arrested. Maybe … He swallowed.

  “What’s the race?” Rico hurried beside him.

  “I need something.”

  Rico cocked his head. “You got that look, man.”

  “I need to see Gina.”

  Rico sl
anted him a stare.

  “Not like that.” Rico had made up for Star’s leaving with a series of encounters, but scratching a physical itch was not on Lance’s mind. And if it was, his dead brother’s wife would not be the means. What was Rico thinking?

  When he reached the train stairs, Rico was still there. He paused.

  Rico half turned. “What?”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

  “Yeah, man. We’re going to see Gina.”

  Lance weighed the situation, then released a breath and climbed the stairs. Though he prayed it would yield something, this part shouldn’t jeopardize Rico, and he wouldn’t mind a companion for the ride into the city.

  Last he knew, Gina didn’t work Sundays, so there was a good chance she’d be home. When they arrived at her row house, she opened the door, looking fresh and pretty in navy capris and a yellow-and-navy striped blouse. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and even though there were a few strands of gray, she looked girlish.

  “Hey, Gina.” He bent and kissed her cheeks.

  Someone moved up behind her, and Lance looked into the lean, spectacled face of her doctor friend. “Hi.” Lance held out his hand. “Lance Michelli.” He knew why Jake wanted to punch the guy, though there was nothing officious about him. He just didn’t belong there.

  “This is Darryl Boyle,” Gina said, omitting the doctor part. “My brother-in-law, and his friend Rico.” She turned back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Besides checking on Tony’s family?” The discomfort and sadness that flashed across her face chastened him. “I wondered if you still had that box of Nonno Marco’s stuff.”

  She frowned. “His old department things?”

  Lance nodded.

  She shrugged, waving them in. “I haven’t tossed it, so if … Tony didn’t, it should be here.”

  “Tony wouldn’t toss it.” He’d loved going through Nonno’s medals and photos, trying on the hat until it fit. He must have memorized every article in the scrapbook, but Lance couldn’t remember if there was anything in there that applied to the vendetta.

  Gina scrunched her fingers into her hair, messing up the smooth strands pulled into the elastic band. “I guess the storage closet.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Let’s try his office.”

  “Lance …”

  He was already at the door when he realized she’d changed Tony’s office into a game room for the kids. It shouldn’t hurt. It was going on four years. The kids needed the space more than … Tony.

  He followed her to the storage closet.

  She turned on the light. “I hope you’ll recognize it.”

  But he’d already seen it on a back shelf. He pressed through sleeping bags and sports gear and other boxes, then had it in his hands.

  “I was kind of keeping it for Jake.” Her tone was mild, but she meant it. Tony was Pop’s firstborn son, and Jake was his. All heirloom paraphernalia belonged in the line of succession.

  “I’m looking for something specific.” Though he didn’t know what. “I might need it for a while, but I’ll bring it back.” He could hear Rico chatting with Darryl.

  She smiled. “Okay. Sure. You want to bring it out?”

  He shook his head, settled down on a rolled sleeping bag with the box across his lap. “I’ll put it back on the shelf when I’m done.”

  “Want some sweet tea? Darryl’s taught me how to make it Georgia-style.”

  “No thanks.” He lifted the lid off the box, pleased that he had held back his comment. Gina didn’t need any more of his sarcasm.

  As much as he would have liked to walk down memory lane, he was putting a crimp in Gina’s date, so he skipped the photos and awards and meritorious medals and went straight to the scrapbook. It held articles about Nonno and others on the force, but nothing about the FBI or the Borsellinos.

  Gripping the thick, separating binder, he set it on the floor and worked his way to the bottom of the box. Heart pounding, he removed an envelope that he didn’t recall. Tony had probably not considered it newsworthy for a kid brother when they’d looked through the box together, but Lance drew it out with anticipation rising. It could be insignificant. But he didn’t believe Nonno would give them nothing to go on. If he went to the trouble of leaving Nonna the letter, he must have expected some sort of action. Otherwise, why not keep his secret to the grave?

  Lance pinched the metal closure and pulled open the flap. He saw no more than the top inch of writing on the first page next to the photo before his fingers started shaking so badly he could hardly close it up again. He set the envelope on the floor, repacked the box, and replaced it on the shelf.

  Rico looked like a pup with a bladder issue by the time Lance came out, envelope in hand. He jumped right up and headed for the door.

  Gina looked up from her tea. “Found it?” She was dying to ask, he knew, but was more eager to end the awkwardness.

  Lance kissed her cheek. “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you.”

  She patted his cheek in return. “You okay?” Concern washed her eyes.

  “Sure.”

  She held him a moment too long in her gaze. “Okay. Stop in anytime. Jake’ll be sad he missed you.”

  But happy to avoid Darryl, no doubt. Had Gina set it up that way? No matter. Their business.

  They went out to the sidewalk, and before he realized it was coming, Rico snatched the envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Don’t open it.”

  “Why not?”

  Lance held out his hand. “It’s my problem.”

  Rico frowned. “There’s no ‘my’ with us.”

  “There is this time.” Lance reached for the envelope, but Rico stepped back.

  Even with his arm strapped to his chest, he looked fierce. “You’re not doing this alone, ’mano.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You think I’m blind? I haven’t seen you agonizing, starving yourself?” “I’m not starving.”

  Rico clutched the envelope.

  Lance sighed. “It’s not your fight, Rico. It might not end well.” Messing with a crime family usually didn’t.

  “However it ends, it ends.”

  His chest clenched. “Rico …”

  But he opened the envelope and took the papers out.

  ————

  Rese was alone in the workshop when the pain blindsided her. She’d expected it earlier, but it hadn’t hit. In the nine days since Lance had called she’d worked nonstop, advancing the plan she and Brad had agreed on, voiding the plan she and Lance had made.

  All reservations were cancelled, money returned, Web site discontinued. She didn’t know enough to deal with the wine yet, but the silver certificates had netted nearly five times their face value, more than enough to set up the rival company—Plocken and Barrett, Renovation Specialists. She might have sold her blue sky with Barrett Renovations, but she didn’t doubt they’d win it back. Brad hadn’t pushed it, but they’d listed her name second to limit the obvious effect on their competition. Having Barrett there would open doors, but she didn’t want to be sued.

  After hammering out the agreement, they had talked about Vernon Barrett, her dad and hero. Brad’s too, in a lot of ways. They were both products of his uncompromising standards, his drive for excellence, his frugal but fair praise. They’d shaken hands at the end of the night, and she’d gone home, convinced she could take on the world.

  But in the quiet of the workshop, doing what she loved, the pain had come. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? She could have prepared, could have looked it squarely in the eye. But no. Waves of hurt rolled over her.

  Hurt and anger and confusion. What had she missed? Was it all about conquest? Maybe it was enough that she’d fallen in love. That had to have been one of his harder battles, if Sybil was any indication.

  She’d been all over him from day one, and was obviously not the first to find him irre
sistible.

  She couldn’t pretend ignorance. How many people had given it to her straight? Even Lance. Maybe he’d tried to be different, but when it came down to it, he’d ducked out before he could fail. The thought infuriated and devastated her. And the most unfair part was that in and around and through her pain was the awful feeling that something wasn’t right.

  Ridiculous, but … the feeling persisted, a concern so terrible she could not be imagining it, as though Walter had Lance trapped in the dark, breathing poisoned air.

  “Rese?”

  The chisel wavered in her hand. She looked up to Michelle, who stood framed in the doorway.

  “Star said you were in here.” Michelle held up a leash hopefully. “Can I borrow Baxter?”

  Rese looked down at the dog lying at her feet, his tail wagging at the prospect, though he stayed put. Lance hadn’t said a word about who got custody, but possession was nine-tenths of the law. “Sure. He’d like to get out.”

  She’d been finishing up a scrollwork design for a cabinet and hadn’t noticed the hours passing. Baxter must be tired of lying at her feet, though he hadn’t protested. Michelle would take him along as she took toilet paper and toothpaste, or diapers or soup to the needy just outside the esteemed Sonoma city limits. He seemed to like their trips, and everyone liked him—what wasn’t to like?

  Rese patted his head. “Go on.”

  He scrambled up. She was actually surprised he hadn’t jumped up to greet Michelle immediately, but he seemed to sense the sorrow that had descended on her like a pall. Maybe he felt his master’s desertion as acutely as she did, but lacked the ability to transform it to anger or action.

  “Are you all right?” Michelle’s brow puckered.

  Rese sidestepped. “Michelle, how do you get along with people so easily?” Maybe it was something she’d done and hadn’t even realized that drove him away.

  Michelle straightened from attaching the leash and shrugged. “I see Jesus in them.” Her face softened. “ ‘Whatever you do for the least of these, you do it for me.’ Simple as that.”