Playing with Fire

by Graziano, Renee

  “I’ll show you.”

  “Just tell me.” In a bold theatrical move he simply picked her up and inclined his head toward the stairs. “That way?”

  Put me down.

  She almost said it, but then again, she’d been the one to suggest he come home with her, and if she was anything, she was honest. “Top of the stairs, but I can walk.”

  “I can carry you.” He started up.

  “Cut the caveman stuff. No point has to be proved here.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Are we already arguing?”

  She had to laugh because his grin was very engaging. And really, he had the most incredible eyes. The carrying-her-up-the-stairs was kind of a romantic touch, but she wasn’t sure she wanted romantic. Hot, sweaty, and wild, absolutely.

  Romance was optional.

  “We’re both Italian. Of course we are arguing. What did you expect?” Her arms circled his neck for balance. It was better if he was intent on doing this that they didn’t fall down. That would definitely spoil the mood.

  “You have a point.”

  “First door on the left.”

  The door to her bedroom was almost shut.

  Open only one telling inch.

  What?

  Reign’s body froze. Her son wasn’t home, and she sure as hell knew she had left that door wide open, and the alarm had been off, which wasn’t telling if each incident was singular, but together it really bothered her. “Put me down.”

  At that moment she was glad Nick was everything she suspected he might be, because he dropped her on her feet and drew a weapon from behind his back with what looked like fairly impressive precision. The gun fit his hand naturally and he was comfortable with it. That didn’t surprise her at all somehow.

  “We got a problem here?” he asked her, slanting a razor-sharp glance her way, but she knew his attention was on that almost-shut door.

  Reign said a prayer of thanks that Vince was far away and nodded. “I think so.”

  Chapter

  THREE

  Nick didn’t kick the door open. That was for the inexperienced.

  They stood in a long dark hallway, a series of doors to his right, nothing to the left except an oak railing to protect against the drop down into the foyer. It looked nice, but there wasn’t really anywhere to escape.

  “Talk to me,” he said quietly. “Who do you think is in your bedroom and what do you believe they want from you?”

  Reign rebelled at first. “You don’t have to fight my battles.”

  He wasn’t surprised, but this wasn’t the time to get independent. He was armed, but in that clingy dress, there was no doubt she wasn’t concealing a weapon. As pleasantly as possible, he urged, “Sweetheart, I’m not thinking it is a battle, but maybe a small war. So spill. Police? Or is this a private conversation?”

  Those glorious green eyes were wide. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t see why it would be either one.”

  Shit. He believed her. Besides, police had no finesse. They didn’t need it.

  Private war, then. He said curtly, “Stay right here and I mean it.”

  She nodded, her glossy hair moving over her supple shoulders.

  Why couldn’t anything be simple?

  Connected, Joey had told him. No doubt about it. Her entire family was in organized crime, but she really wasn’t as far as he could tell. Her portfolio read up-and-coming fashion designer. True, her father and several uncles were doing time, so maybe this was related to making some kind of point to her relatives.

  Okay. He understood that, but he didn’t like it was her house, that she was alone—or might have been—because while there was no particular honor system for getting even, killing wives or daughters or children was not part of how it all worked. Nick stepped back and eased open the door. He usually just carried a Glock .45. Light, easy to fire, and effective. That was why law enforcement liked them, and he didn’t disagree. He entered with the weapon extended in his hands and immediately, like a dog catching a scent, registered a waft of aftershave.

  Checkmark. Some operatives were so fucking careless.

  He liked her bedroom. Sleek, like her, with a sleigh bed on a polished dark wood floor, and a bedspread in shades of white and black. A huge armoire in the corner. One lamp in the corner on a lacquer table, and some large framed prints on the walls, all in black and white to match the bedspread. A patterned rug. He thought she’d probably designed it herself, since it looked really nice and word was she was good at what she did.

  Where are you?

  Closet? Probably. The room was proportioned big enough to handle the size of the bed and an en suite bathroom—he took a swift glance inside and it seemed to be empty—so the closet was a logical choice.

  Someone was there, or had been there if she was right about the door, and he thought Reign was pretty tuned to the essentials of self-preservation.

  “Come on out,” he ordered. “I’m not all that interested in you living through the night, but the lady doesn’t want blood on her floor.”

  The bullet grazed his shoulder. Nick swung to the side, weapon extended, and fired four rounds into the door. Her closet would never be the same, he thought philosophically as he crouched down by the bed, but Reign was still alive, and surely that was what mattered.

  What most people didn’t realize was that guns were really loud, especially if fired in small spaces. He couldn’t hear anything except for the ringing in his ears in the aftermath. That was why he didn’t know Reign had run into the room.

  No return fire.

  When she grabbed his arm, he said, “Jesus, get back. I don’t know if he’s dead. I thought I told you to stay in the hall.”

  “Look.” She pointed, and he realized there was a spreading pool of blood coming out from under the door, but he had no idea how many of them there might be.

  “If I got one, that doesn’t mean it was all of them.” He pushed her back behind him. He was at least twice the size of her, so as a shield, he would work pretty well.

  And this was, after all, his forte.

  Actually, he was better at elimination than protection, but he was always up for a new challenge.

  For now his concern was whoever might be bleeding out in her closet, since he hadn’t heard a sound from them yet.

  It meant nothing. If Nick was trapped with a bullet in him, he’d play dead too.

  Nick approached slowly and slanted his body against the wall, gun extended in one hand.

  No noise.

  His entire life he’d known it was possible he might walk into a bullet. A given. Since he was old enough to start to realize the Life was part of his legacy, he’d gotten it. Maybe it was in his blood.

  Fuck it.

  He reached over and opened the door, taking his chances.

  * * *

  Quite the romantic evening.

  Reign began to reassess. So … she’d brought a stranger home, there had been someone who wanted to kill her in her bedroom, said stranger had shot him through the door, and it was just another night in the suburbs.

  Not quite.

  Try explaining that to the cops.

  “I met Mr. Fattelli at a party and invited him over for a drink,” she said again, still polite, but she was starting to get a bit strained.

  The officers had been nice enough, especially since her alarm had been clearly tampered with, but she was getting tired of telling the same story over and over. As far as she could tell, a man had been hiding in her bedroom. That was not her fault.

  It did shake her up, and that didn’t help when it came to answering the barrage of questions.

  The lead detective was a thin older man with gray hair and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, and she’d met a lot of Italians in her life. His name was Candelaria and he smiled diffidently, but she wasn’t fooled. They were sitting in her living room, done in taupe and bronze, with the antique Italian chandelier she�
�d ordered from Tuscany when she decided to splurge. It was gorgeous with original sconces, and though she had to stand on a chair to light it, it was worth it for ambiance.

  Tonight was not the night, however. Not as they carried out a dead body.

  “I’ve said I didn’t see it happen. More than once.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Grazi, but when it comes to a possible homicide, you are going to always have to say it more than once.”

  Candelaria looked patient—but he wasn’t. She knew men fairly well, and he was doing his best, but he wasn’t into her hesitation, and that wasn’t doing her any favors.

  She leaned forward, looked into man’s eyes, and spoke very plainly. “Detective. I was in the hallway when it happened. But I will tell you this—again—Nick Fattelli walked into my bedroom on the assumption there was an intruder, and he was right. We all know the intruder shot first, I heard it, and that first shot was completely different from the others. If Nick killed him, I’m not experiencing a lot of regret because that man shot first.”

  “You just met and he risked his life for you?” He did look skeptical.

  “Don’t you do that every single day? Not for me specifically, but for people you don’t know?”

  “He is not a police officer.”

  “No.” That was undeniably true. “He told me he’s an investment banker and considering where we met this evening, I believe it. I’m sure you saw his car parked outside. I assume he has a legal permit for the gun he carries.”

  Those dark eyes looked right through her. “I am not talking to him, I am talking to you. So let me make sure we both agree on your statement. You picked up a man at a party, he came home with you, it was clear there was an intruder, someone was in fact in your closet and shot at him first, and Mr. Fattelli nailed him dead solid through the door.”

  Dead solid.

  Her entire life she’d seen interesting events that made her wonder exactly about her placement on this earth. Oh sure, everyone had their own story, but hers surely qualified as being unique.

  Fashion designer. Mob wife. Progeny of an infamous family.

  Well, ex–mob wife, but it didn’t help that her father was doing time for racketeering.… The circle always came around back to it.

  “You think this had something to do with my … connections.” It wasn’t really a question.

  He set aside his notebook and sighed. “I would be stupid if it didn’t occur to me. Ms. Grazi, who do you think wants you dead?”

  * * *

  She glanced around Nick’s apartment. “Nice place.”

  Nick—was that his real name? What the hell was she doing trusting him? Well, he had probably saved her life—smiled. “No dead guy in my closet. Gives it a special little extra something, don’t you agree?”

  “Maybe.” She tossed her purse on the table and essayed a confident smile right back. “I’m a fool for coming here.” Reign shook her long hair back over her shoulder. “I know it and you know it. I did text my sister to give her the address.”

  “Good idea. Always take precautions.” He moved across the room toward a wine cabinet. Pale walls, bold paintings, and leather furniture. He had good taste. He splashed whisky into a crystal glass and came over to hand it to her. But his expression was amused and she felt naive. “This has been a somewhat eventful evening and maybe we should just sit and have a drink. That’s all I have in mind.”

  “You want to just sit?” She sank into a gray chair that was sleek and modern, and then she provocatively crossed her legs.

  “I just killed a man in your house.” He took an opposite chair. “We were lucky on two counts. My prints were not anywhere, but nothing was wiped clean and they smelled organized crime all over it. The locals are pretty smart. The only reason we walked out of there.”

  “My father is—”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” He settled down in a relaxed movement, his smile negating the interruption. “Come on, Reign, you know I know who you are. A Grazi.”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  “Just one night. You were offering it before.”

  She had been. “Still am.”

  “Want a confession?”

  “As long as I won’t have to lie in court.”

  Nick started to laugh and it made him look infinitely lighter, maybe even boyish, which was hard for someone so masculine. He shook his dark head. “Not that kind of confession.”

  “Let’s see, in one evening alone you’ve tasted my pussy—in a kind of secondhand fashion, by the way, and we need to fix that—and killed a man in my bedroom. I can’t see what you could possibly say that would shock me.”

  “You have no problem saying ‘pussy,’ huh?” His expression was amused.

  “None. I thought you knew who I was.”

  “Now you’re just testing me.”

  She drained her drink. “If you are going to stick around, sweetheart, get used to that.”

  But the truth was, she was tired. Hours of talking to the police and the sense of violation from having her home a crime scene had killed any kind of romantic mood, and the only reason she hadn’t insisted he take her to her sister’s house was that she didn’t want to go over it all again with Maria.

  Maybe she had the right instincts, because then he said in an even voice, “What I want can wait. I have a guest bedroom. You look wiped out.”

  * * *

  Salvatore listened carefully to the dialogue, discounted the part he knew was bullshit, and then reassessed the situation.

  After all, he was his father’s son.

  Almost midnight. A hint of old smoke in the air, the clink of glasses, the sound of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter. Typical bar atmosphere, with not quite enough illumination, the walls lined with old pictures, the scratched surface of the bar probably exactly the same as when his father first walked through the door quite a few years ago. Sal had his first drink in the place when he certainly wasn’t legal and still stopped in now and again.

  But he’d heard Reign’s name, and it had hit him like a hammer. It wasn’t like the name was common, and he was in a definite position to possess information he didn’t even want to have, but there it was.

  “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but the buzz is someone was killed in Reign Grazi’s house tonight?”

  The bartender eyed his plain T-shirt dubiously. “You just don’t look like a wise guy.”

  The guy was new but at least wary. Always a good sign.

  “I’m a college student and we’re all broke,” Sal said crisply, “so give me a break.” He leaned his elbows on the bar.

  No lie there. He was wrapping up a law degree.

  “You do look kind of young.”

  Was twenty-eight young? He wasn’t sure. “Yeah, well, in life experiences, I’m old as hell. Tell me about what happened?”

  “How do I know you’re not a cop?”

  “How the hell do any of us know anything about each other? Do I seem like a cop? Besides, I take it the cops know already. My last name is Ariano.”

  The man put his beefy forearms on the counter and took a good long minute to consider it. “No,” he said finally after an assessing look, “you don’t seem like a cop, but you’re right, who knows? You want information I’m not really all that anxious to give. I’ve had undercover in here before. Usually, they’re pretty good at looking like they belong. But Ariano rings a bell.”

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  “Who was he? The shooter who got killed, I mean. One of your regulars?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Why the hell was he in her house?” Salvatore looked around. The place had pool tables and vinyl-covered bar stools, and even more cigarette smoke was in the air now. Not at all the style of the woman he knew. Reign was more inclined to stop into a classy Manhattan establishment. “She doesn’t come in here, does she?”

  “A lot of people come in here.”

  “I take it one of
them is the man who was shot. What was his name? They’ll release it in the papers, so why not just tell me?”

  In response he got a stony look and the comment, “If you think he was here legally, you are dead wrong. That’s about all I have to say.”

  This was getting him nowhere, but he shouldn’t be all that surprised. The bar was owned by one of his father’s friends, and he knew that it was patronized almost exclusively by people who had ties to organized crime, and that, of course, included himself.

  The basis of his relationship with Reign wasn’t just the mutual attraction, but that they had a lot of mutual history.

  Tossing a few bills on the counter, he went outside and called her cell. It rang but she didn’t answer. Considering the hour and the evening she’d probably had, he wasn’t all that surprised.

  So he decided to call Vince.

  The kid liked late hours so Sal wasn’t worried. Once Salvatore had called him a vampire and the kid just laughed and said, “Hey, man, it’s quiet. That’s the perfect time to play video games or read a book, or whatever. I’m not a geek but kind of into quiet.”

  No, Reign’s son was not at all a geek, but he was pretty bright, and if she was really worried, Vince would know. “Hi V. What are you doing?”

  “Hanging out on Long Island. I haven’t heard from you in a while, Sal. What’s up?”

  He sounded fine. Not upset … not anything but like a normal teenager. Sal didn’t have enough facts to get the kid all worried. No use in that, because it was Reign’s place to tell her son about the shooting and she obviously hadn’t yet. He just wanted more information, and this was apparently not the source. Easily, he said, “Nothing really. Just thinking of you and knew you were a night owl. Hey, didn’t realize you were out of town with friends.”

  Educated guess. Reign had done a good job with him and was up and coming with her career, but she did not have a house on Long Island, or at least not one that he knew of, and he was fairly sure he knew everything about her.

  Because he loved her. Not like a little, but the real deal, full devotion and all the crap that came along with it, which at this moment meant that he was worried sick but didn’t want to dump Vince into the same hole.