Sprouted

by Gina LaManna

  Lacey Luzzi: Sprouted

  Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries, Volume 11

  Gina LaManna

  Published by Gina LaManna Publishing, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  LACEY LUZZI: SPROUTED

  First edition. February 24, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Gina LaManna.

  Written by Gina LaManna.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author:

  Now for a thank you...

  Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!

  To my husband, for making all my dreams come true!

  To my mom, for asking me why she hasn't gotten my new book when everyone else has. :) Sorry, mom!

  To Stacia, for being the best 'other half' in the book world that I could ask for.

  To Connie, for catching all the stuff I mess up in edits!

  To Alicia, Meg's Assistant. Because you asked how to get an acknowledgment, and I didn't forget. Also, let's be friends.

  To Katie at Highland Nursery, for surprising me so much I forgot my dirt. :) The plants were inspired by you!

  To all of you wonderful readers who ask for Lacey month after month, then read the book in a few hours on release day, and then ask when the next one is coming...thank you. I appreciate you more than you know!!

  Synopsis

  A BLONDE, A BRUNETTE, and a red-head walk into a bank...

  And rob it.

  As Lacey waits for Baby Luzzi to make his or her appearance, she’s decided to cool her jets on the whole “chasing criminals” lifestyle at her husband’s insistence. She’s settled in comfortably as part-time help at her best friend’s bar and, though the work might be a tad boring after years of explosions and car chases, it’s a safe job, relatively sanitary, and uneventful—for most people.

  Lacey isn’t most people.

  Caught in the middle of a bank heist, Lacey’s priceless wedding ring is now in the hands of three ladies known to the media as the Femme Fatale. The thieves might have gotten away with three heists across the Twin Cities to date, but one hitch they didn’t count on was a pregnant lady scorned. Lacey Luzzi’s hormones are on the fritz, her sugar habits are out of control, and her tears are flowing freely. This time, the robbers picked on the wrong gal.

  With a due date approaching rapidly, Lacey and Meg are bound and determined to recover Lacey’s ring and put this case behind them...before she’s delivering more than guilty criminals on the job.

  Chapter 1

  “I’M A SAUSAGE!” I WAILED into the phone. “I can’t believe you’re still married to me.”

  “Lacey,” Anthony pleaded. “You are not a sausage.”

  “Fine, but my fingers are!”

  A few customers in the lobby of the bank turned to look at me, and I gave them the death stare in return. Most of them saw my ready-to-pop stomach and quickly averted their eyes. Apparently ready-to-pop pregnant ladies receive a bit of a pass when it comes to irrational displays of emotions in public.

  “You do not have sausage fingers, either!” Anthony cleared his throat. “You are perfect! I have to have told you that a million times, and I mean it; you are more beautiful than ever.”

  I sniffed against my phone and stepped forward in line for the teller. “How do I know you mean that?”

  Though I couldn’t see Anthony across the phone line, I could hear his smile. “I think last night should be a pretty good indication of how gorgeous I think you are.”

  My cheeks flamed red as I glanced around. “Okay, okay! Maybe you still like me. A little.”

  “Lacey—”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m being crazy. I love you, I miss you—I’m headed home after the bank. When will I see you again?”

  “You’re talking like I’ve been drafted for war.”

  “It feels like I’ve left for war. War is running errands with a stomach this size.”

  He laughed. Though Anthony had only been gone since ten this morning, I missed him already. It was now noon. As I’d warned him, I was feeling emotional and just slightly irrational. Tears seemed to pop out of my eyes these days like gumballs from a machine.

  “I’m just waiting in line.” Said tears made themselves very close to spilling over as I glanced down at the small box in my hands—my wedding ring. It hadn’t fit for a few weeks, and I was just now getting around to putting it in the safety deposit box until my sausage fingers shrunk back to hot dogs. “How embarrassing, Anthony! My ring doesn’t even fit on my finger. I’m a toad.”

  “Your body is going through...things.”

  “Gee whiz, thanks.” Sometimes, I suspected Anthony didn’t have the least bit of an idea about all the changes my body was experiencing. Lumps and bumps and weight moving around to all the wrong places. Sickness that should’ve been confined to the morning, but lasted all hours of the day. And the mood swings! This pregnancy business wasn’t for the faint of heart.

  “It’s not your fault, and you are not a toad.” Anthony’s voice moved into that panic-stricken range that meant he was tiptoeing around my eventual fountain of tears. “You are the most gorgeous—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” I apologized again. I’d been doing that a lot lately. “It’s just depressing. I love wearing my mom’s ring. It reminds me of her and you, all in one go, and I’m going to miss it when it’s tucked away in that lonely little box.”

  “We can get it resized if you’d prefer. I’ve already ordered you a new ring, too—handmade in Italy. It’ll be here in a week.”

  “Don’t worry, I have a stand-in for now.”

  Anthony frowned. “You do? From where?”

  “Tony.”

  “Tony? The Italian designer?”

  “No.” I exhaled, trapped. I examined the fake, gaudy piece of junk on my finger with dismay. “Tony the Tiger. I pulled a ring out of my cereal box this morning.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to eat sugary cereals until after the baby was born?”

  “Hey, mister!” I said, my voice turning all growly. “I’m the one on this diet, not you. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Anthony didn’t have a response. He didn’t need one. His diet was practically pristine. I had vowed to eat healthier for the baby, but let’s just say my resolve had broken down a few times. I hadn’t even bothered to jump off the bandwagon this time: it’d just exploded into a fiery little pile of tinder right before my eyes.

  “No,” Anthony said, slowly and all-too-agreeably. “I have no idea what it’s like to eat dessert for all meals of the day. If this child comes out with sugar instead of blood...”

  “I gave up coffee, cake for breakfast except on my birthday, and sushi!”

  “Have you ever tried sushi?”

  “No, it sounds disgusting! But I still gave it up, and I want cre
dit for it.”

  “I’ll give you extra credit.” Anthony paused, as if testing the waters. “I have to get going, Lace—is there anything else you need?”

  “How about a hug?”

  “Tonight, I promise. I’ll drown you with attention.”

  “Deal.”

  “Call me if there’s any updates on you or the baby. You know the special number I’ve programmed for emergencies, right?”

  “You’ve quizzed me on it for eight months. I know the number.”

  “What is it?”

  I tried to remember, but pregnancy brain was a real thing. “Okay,” I amended. “I knew the number.”

  “Number one in your speed dial.”

  “Thank you, oh husband of mine, for underestimating my memory.”

  He hesitated, weighing my mood.

  “I’m joking,” I said on a sigh. “You know you’re a saint for putting up with me, right?”

  “Sugar, I just want you happy and healthy. I want the baby to be born safe and sound, and I’d like to be there for you when it happens. You have this habit of...” Anthony struggled. “Let’s just say I want to be able to locate you when the time comes.”

  “I’ve given up the business for now,” I said, referring to Lacey Luzzi Security Services. “I’ll be at Meg’s bar helping out, at home with my feet kicked up trying to deflate them to normal human sizes, or at Nora’s so she can whisper to my stomach.”

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I think you believe yourself, but...” he sighed. “Things come up with you.”

  By the time we hung up, whispering gooey lovey things that I’d forced Anthony to murmur sweetly into his cell phone, I was still pondering his statement.

  “Things come up?” I muttered to the guy in front of me. He was dressed in a business suit and tapping his toes. “Things don’t just come up for me. What the hell is he talking about?”

  The man flicked his eyes back to the crazy pregnant lady, but he didn’t respond.

  “Seriously,” I prompted him. “What does he mean? Things don’t come up with me. I can plan my days. I can be where I say I’m going to be. I don’t find trouble...oh, crap.”

  Even as I’d stated my case, a creepy sensation slithered down my spine. I couldn’t be sure when the shivers started, but I caught on quickly enough, quicker than others around me, as the locks on the doors clicked shut, the shades on the windows were pulled down, and three women in heavy masks appeared with guns.

  “Oh, crap,” I said again. “This is not helping my case. But really, I didn’t find trouble this time. It found me. Which is frustrating because I really don’t have time for a robbery today. If I don’t eat every twenty-four minutes, my blood sugar gets so low I start to cry.”

  The man in front of me continued texting away, oblivious.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said coolly. “Might want to take a look around. We’re being held up.”

  “What?” He looked up, probably to scold me, but his eyes were drawn to the scene around him as the shouting began.

  I should’ve been feeling panic, but I had so many emotions running through my body it was the Grand Central Station of emotions. I didn’t have room for a whole lot of panic, so instead, I looked down at my nails and waited, pretending the world wasn’t turning into a screaming mess around me.

  “Put the phones down! Now,” one of the ladies demanded. Tips of brunette hair peeked out from underneath her mask, but that was the only defining feature I could see aside from her legs. Her legs went on for days and were supermodel slim. “You, pregnant lady! Put the phone down.”

  I exhaled and handed it over. “You know, I used to have nice legs once, too. You have really great legs. My husband really used to like mine, and now...” I gestured to myself. “Wide load, you know what I’m saying?”

  The robber’s face might have been masked, but confusion radiated off her as she took my phone and threw it into the center of the room.

  “Put the box in the bag,” the brunette said, glancing in my hands. “Now. Quickly.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see another woman pointing a gun at the teller, hints of blonde peeking out from under her mask as she spoke. The third lady’s hair was a mystery color, but I caught a glimpse of her eyebrows and they looked orangish. I was going to guess she was a ginger.

  “The box, lady,” the brunette said. “In the bag.”

  “This is not valuable,” I said calmly. “It’s an old cigarette.”

  “You’re carrying an old cigarette to put in a safety deposit box?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, not sure where in the world that lie had come from. I’d said it, however, and had only one option: to continue with the story. “My husband smoked it. I’m preserving it for our unborn child.”

  The lady looked at me like I was an idiot, as much as she could with a thick ski mask over her features. Whatever she couldn’t convey, the man before me in line did with his look of utter disgust.

  “Put it in the bag,” she said again. “Now. You don’t want to argue with me.”

  I burst into tears and gently dropped the box into the bag. “Be careful with it! Please, it’s not worth anything to anyone but me.”

  “A cigarette?” the businessman before me asked. “What a weird thing to preserve.”

  “Shut it, baldy.” I clasped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to say that. Is there pregnancy Tourette’s? I think I have that.”

  The lady moved on from me and gathered things from everyone else in line. She joined forces with the ginger-haired woman, and together they rounded up all of the employees and customers and nudged us into the center of the room with the ends of their guns.

  Only when the gun landed near my stomach did the panic sink in. And once the panic started sinking in, I couldn’t stop it from washing in waves over me. My hands shook with nerves, and my heartbeat pumped a million miles an hour. Sweat appeared in places I didn’t know had glands.

  “Please,” I pleaded, my hands resting on the baby elephant I appeared to be growing inside my body. “Please, this is my first baby. You can’t hurt us. Please don’t kill us. Please. I need to eat. Does anyone have saltines? I’m feeling sick. Pixie Sticks? I need energy.”

  A hint of sympathy appeared in the brunette’s eyes as she sat me down in a comfy chair in the lounge area. The ginger instructed everyone else in a calm, hypnotic voice to sit on the floor. Everyone cooperated. Their guns were very big, and they worked well as a threatening tool.

  “Anyone have saltines?” The brunette called out. “We’re looking for saltines or Pixie Sticks.”

  The room was silent for an extended minute until one lady, an older-looking grandma type, grunted. “Fine, but don’t tell the cops. I’ve got a stash of saltines in my purse from church.”

  “Which purse is yours?” The brunette uncovered the grumpy grandma’s purse, removed the saltines, and handed them over. “Better?”

  “Would be better if I had my wedding ring—” I started, then remembered my lie. “Er, my husband’s old cigarette butt back, and if I wasn’t being robbed, but yeah. I’m okay. Thanks.”

  We waited while Blondie disappeared with the man I presumed to be the branch manager, judging by the number of keys dangling from his pocket. The rest of us sat in silence. It was so quiet that the only sound was my tearing wrappers from saltines and crunching through the crackers. A small mound of crumbs had appeared on the lump of my stomach, and I brushed them off, feeling self-conscious.

  “Anyone have weekend plans?” I asked. Everyone was staring at me since I was the only one doing something. “We were going to set up the baby nursery, but...” I trailed off as several mouths dropped open. “What? I’m just making conversation. We’re stuck here together, aren’t we?”

  “I have to grocery shop,” one woman chimed in. The business man went on to explain he’d have to work through the weekend, while grumpy grandma admitted she pl
anned to restock her saltine stash at the church luncheon. Socializing was a full-time job when one got older, she pointed out.

  “I’m going to a church thing, too,” another woman chimed in, which was completely normal until we realized it was the brunette bank robber. “It’s Edna’s eighty-seventh birthday party, and they’re going to have excellent cake.”

  “Shut up, Legs,” Ginger said. “We are not here as friends.”

  The brunette nicknamed Legs nodded. “Right. Sorry, I was just—”

  The loud burst of a cell phone ringing cut her off mid-sentence. We all fell silent as the ring continued. Halfway through, I recognized it to be mine. Unfortunately, said phone was just out of reach in a pile of other confiscated devices.

  We all waited in silence as the loud and obnoxious ring wound down to its conclusion and silence resumed.

  For all of one second.

  Then the same ringtone burst onto the scene again, and the brunette’s head swiveled toward the pile of devices. I sensed annoyance coming from her.

  After the second ring wound down, the brunette exhaled a sigh of relief. Until the third ring started.

  She exhaled a sigh. “Whose phone is that?”

  I raised a hand. “I think my friend might be getting worried,” I said in a moment of pure genius. Or, as much genius as I had left in my baby brain. “You know, with the baby on the way, people are calling to check in on me left and right. If I don’t answer, they get worried and start looking for me. My husband’s in law enforcement, so—”

  “He’s a cop?” Ginger asked. “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “You didn’t ask for my family tree,” I told her. “But if you must know, he’s a reformed mobster.”

  The phone started to ring for a fourth time, and I raised my eyebrows as if that proved my point.

  “They probably think I’m in labor right now.” I leaned back, playing up the rotundness of my body. It wasn’t difficult. “There’s GPS tracking on my phone, so it’s only a matter of time until my husband and my best friend—an ex-cop—arrive.”