by Amarie Avant
“You done?” I ask, hands on hips, watching his dramatic display.
He holds up a manicured index finger, gesturing for more time. After clearing his throat, Jamie purses his purple-tinted lips which are spread wide in order to cease more laughing. He sniggers, “Reese, I’m sorry. You okay? Reese… Reese’s Pieces…”
“What?” I start to toss my purse back into the front seat.
“Don’t what me. Check yourself, I should be asking what you were just doing in the car. Girl, you had a full-blown conversation with yourself. You know I’m leery of schizophrenics after… after watching Girl, Interrupted when we were kids.”
I glare at him. Though he had been creeped out about the stellar performances in the movie, we both know Jamie was about to mention Lolita. He saw the movie right after observing an episode of hers.
“Let’s go inside, the day is already planned out,” he changes the subject, and I glance at Lure, an upscale day spa that Jamie’s boyfriend, Chu has had arranged for us.
“All day? No can do. The movers’ have five hours. I plan to be back in four, to make sure they’re not picking their noses or whatever.”
“Just give them all the time they need, Reese. Now, turn off your phone, before we step inside,” Jamie says, entwining his arm with mine.
“What about Nook?” I mention my breakfast boutique.
“I am confident that you did well selecting a day manager. If anything, baking offers a healing environment so reviving Flour is the only chit-chat I’ll allow.”
I blink. There’ll be no talk of my bakery.
“As you wish, phone off,” he squeezes my arm within the twining of his own.
I stop, mid-step. My eyes tracking a champagne-colored Charger. Plates… the license plates… intuition compels me to check out the stranger’s license plate. The muscle car is maneuvering toward the exit, and a Jaguar pulls into the lot whisking the bumper of the car out of sight.
“Reese, what’s up? Don’t embarrass me when we get inside.”
“Did you see that light-gold colored Charger?” I ask.
“Honey, you know I only do imports.” Jamie shrugs.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that very car before…”
“Stop being paranoid, Reese. We are standing in the middle of the parking lot.” Jamie pinches the bridge of his nose, “I swear a backrub will reboot both our batteries. This is the first time I’ve…” Jamie pauses from the need to gripe about how he hasn’t frequented Lure day spa since prior to that asshole Riker. Hands atop his head, Jamie asks, “Reese, what’s going on?”
Before I can repeat, Jamie asks me about the nightmares that I have been having and refuse to divulge to Evan. He begins with a battery of questions, and my previous paranoia of being stalked washes away. Then Jamie purses his lips, takes a moment to regroup and holding up my hand to stave off his questions, I cut in, “I have no intention of seeing a friggen therapist. And I am so over your need to play my damn mama!”
“Play your mom?” Jamie’s bottom lip drops. “I love you, Reese. You know what, Reese’s Pieces, you’re so full of disappointment in your life, from a dad who unfortunately is dead and gone! And your mother, I won’t mention that bitch. I love you, Reese. Evan, he loves you. And damn it, your little hormonal ass needs some damn therapy before you lose him. I’ll stick around because you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever known when you aren’t in one of your goddamn funks.” Sheesh, Jamie is so angry he has had to use the triple ‘damn.’
“No therapy, and it’s good to know you’ll stick around. But Evan,” I begin with my hands raised to the heavens, “What if he does not really love me? What if I’m just some investigation, a puzzle to dissect. Once he figures out that I’m wishy- washy every day and… and I let Lolita walk over me, he might treat me in the same manner.”
“Oh, so you’d get trampled over. Is that manner you deserve?” Jamie asks, rubbing his hands over his short fade.
“Yes.” I tartly toss an idiotic response to his dumb question.
“So you don’t deserve to be happy, Reese?”
Though I am absolutely incapable of answering my best friend’s question, I murmur, “Jamie, Lure doesn’t offer refunds, let’s go dress in our robes, and discuss this somewhere down the road…”
Though I'm more than presentable in an olive colored chiffon dress which pops against my golden skin tone, and stops mid-thigh, I smooth out imaginary rumples while stepping into the five-star restaurant.
It's barely noon and a violinist has the demure lunch crowd captivated. The room is all lush white, with gauzy drapes separating various sections. Pops of shimmery cream from the chandeliers to the leather chairs add a smidge of color to a posh environment.
The host must know my grandfather by reputation because this is our second meeting. The first was a month ago, and the host still recalls my name.
“Hello, Miss Dunham, you look simply ravishing.” He kisses my ass with the flirtations, and I wonder if it's due to fear of my grandfather or gratitude due to how much Sal drops for the price of wine. “Mr. Giugliano is expecting you on the loggia.”
“Thank you,” I attempt a smile, concluding that maybe he’s kissing my ass because of the hard glare of my brown eyes and the rigidness of my shoulders. His hips sway flamboyantly as I follow him past intimate tables of well-to-do patrons and or business associates. Sheesh, his walk would put Jamie to shame.
The outside terrace has white lace lanterns almost as boisterous and eye appealing as the chandeliers inside. Clear vases taller than my five-foot-four, filled with draping orchids spot the grounds.
A pianist is placed center, yet my grandfather dominates the entire scene. Giovanni Salvatore Giugliano is seated, donning a cream double-breasted suit. Chunky rings on his middle finger as he nods to the wine selection, a silver cart before him. The connoisseur opens a fresh bottle, pours him a glass and leaves the wine on the table. From the haughty flare of the slim man, I can tell the bottle is a big ticket item.
The host then presents my presence. Noting the tension, he hightails it toward the entrance.
As Sal gives a greeting, I dig into my purse. The box of cannoli in my hand is haphazardly thrown across the white linen table and lands between a meticulous, yet creatively crafted linen napkin and my grandfather’s glass of red wine.
Giovanni rubs his hands together and then picks up the powder-blue box by the silver ribbon, turning it over so that the label shows my bakery insignia. “Glad to see you, bella. Sit down.”
“Reese. Call me Reese, if you must,” I say through gritted teeth.
He glances at the gilded chair in front of me, giving a nod. Something tells me this man who I barely even know will not ask me again. I'm sure his hands have been painted red with blood, but my father––his son’s blood is woven through my veins so call me stupid. I open my mouth to recite the overly rehearsed monologue—
“Sit,” Giovanni's voice is lusher than the wine he picks up to take a drink.
Despite being at a classy Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills, I plunk down onto the velvety cushion.
“Before you get all mouthy, order lunch,” he adds, sliding the menu toward me.
“I’m not hungry. Moreover, I don’t appreciate…”
“Reese,” he says, eyes meeting mine again. “I understand that you’ve been raised by your mother. There’s no changing the past, but it would have been nice to have had different circumstances. But food tastes better when eaten with family, thus being said, I will not eat if you do not eat. Which also implies that I will not be able to communicate your issues.”
“My issues?” I point a stiff hand to my chest.
Salvatore glances at the menu and then me. “I suggest the orecchiette or cappellacci are always good to start.”
Lips tensed, and spine erect as ever, I say, “No need. I'm not eating, Salvatore—oh, excuse me. That's not your real name.”
“Actually, family calls me Sal. The Family cal
ls me Gio.”
“I'm neither, “I reply knowing that the Family implies the arsenal of soldiers and associates at Giovanni's disposal. “Guess we'll have to keep it formal, Mr. Giugliano.”
Something flickers in those honey-brown eyes of his. Eyes that remind me of my father, Milo. A man I feared. A man I loved... with every bit of my heart and still do despite what a weasel he was. I'm trying Giovanni's patience.
“I can't believe this crap. You've come into The Flour Shoppe every month since its... You, you came to the friggen grand opening, Sal.” I slip up and call him the name I've known him for almost three years. I am always loyal to my returning clients. “I chatted with you about my entire life, I hate you.” Hmmm... Well, not exactly as rehearsed.
His puffy jaw shakes just slightly, clearly he is at his boiling point. He undoes the top button of his suit jacket. Sal proceeds with caution, each word from his mouth is selected and available for me to grasp. “Reese, you're my granddaughter. I understand you feel like I played you, doll. But you gotta understand, there's no fucking way I'd live my life without knowing a piece of me.”
“I am not a piece of you,” I sneer. “You’re… a bad person.” Any association with you puts my relationship with Evan in danger, and that’s not acceptable. I gotta keep him.
The waiter steps before us. Oblivious at first, I'm sure his mind is set on telling the chef’s specials until his gaze flicks back and forth.
“Nothing for me, please.”
“We need a few more minutes,” Giovanni assures.
The server nods, then backs away.
I turn in my seat just slightly, feeling someone staring. Then paranoia creeps in. I'm sitting across from the Don of the Giugliano Crime Family. Giovanni and I are like sitting ducks. Over the years, I noticed he had a driver when a luxury car pulled up to Flour. But was that driver one of his goons? There're no patrons dining in shiny gray suits. Heck, Giovanni even has more class than the stereotype.
“Where is Evan? Did you extend the lunch invitation like I asked you to?” Sal inquires.
“Evan?” The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Not fear. But a feline ready to strike. Evan Zaccaro, my new stepbrother, the man I secretly love who just so happens to be on the other side of the law. How many times have I told myself that Evan is as different from Milo as light is to day? My dad was a crooked cop. Evan isn't.
Finally, I jump into action with, “He will not be in attendance, not now, not ever. Keep his name out of your mouth,” I say through gritted teeth, eyes locked onto my grandfathers.
“Your mother may not know, but Evan is a big part of your life now, Reese. The closer you get to him, the closer I get. You’re my granddaughter, I'm gonna make sure he steps up to the plate when the time comes.”
“Oh, I see you don't understand. Mention Evan again, I will slit your motherfucking throat.” My lips are so tensed that they shake. I'm trembling, my father infiltrated the Los Angeles Police Department. Milo worked his way up for the Family's sake. Evan is a detective with the LAPD. God, I shouldn't have glanced his way, stepbrother or not.
Instead of taking heed to the threat, Giovanni's fleshy face spreads somewhat. The folds of his cheeks widen as he genuinely smiles. “Reese, you, you,” he points a finger at me. “You're exactly what our family needs.”
“Fuck you and the Maf—” I stop abruptly, gander roaming around quickly. Wouldn't do to shout Mafia out loud.
“I did not mean the Family,” Gio says. He is still smiling brighter than the sun.
I meant our family. The Giuglianos. You will love them. They will love you. I don't have any fucking intentions of recruiting Evan. When Milo came out to the West Coast it was due to a disagreement between him and I,” Sal’s voice lowers, “When you’re ready, I’d love for you to come to Napoli and meet the rest of us. I understand that you’re on the straight and narrow, that's one of the reasons why I love and respect you.”
“Despite I'm only half-Napolitano?” I snarl, recalling all Milo’s trainings.
“You're blood. That's all that matters.” He tries to grab my hand from across the table. Then he holds out his palms in mock innocence because those hands orchestrated the death of many people, they've moved the puzzle pieces—lives— of judges, jurors, gambling operatives, political forces and the occasional drug dealer. “I love you, Reese. Evan is the one. I want us all to get together.”
Legs beyond weak, I stand up. “Never gonna happen. Just leave me alone. Don't drive past Nook when you're in town. Don't even think of me.”
“A FEW YEARS AGO,” Giovanni slammed his hand down on the table, puffy cheeks flared, “I DID NOT KNOW OF YOU.”
The entire area is hushed. We stare at each other. Since I’m all out of words, my eyes tell him, I had no doubt Milo kept his secret family a secret but why should I give a shit?
His index finger taps the air; a gesture I have noticed he does every once in a while when angry. He says, “You need more time.”
And just like that, I realize Giovanni Giugliano is in my life no matter what. He's respected my wishes of not venturing to Flour Shoppe. I've lied to Evan, telling him that Giovanni hasn't threatened me since the one time he’d come by and found out that sweet old Sal had helped me tweak my cannoli recipe to the perfection of his dearly departed mother.
Truth is, Gio hasn't threatened me, but it hurts me to lie to Evan. Our first encounter included keeping me safe, now I will do my duty and ensure that he is safe. Safe from my grandfather...
Chapter 34
Evan
SID doesn’t find much else in the laboratory or the large storage area. I head to the control room, where Tyrone is seated with three of our team members viewing videos. There’s a nine-panel system each with various focal points from the lab, storage, to the lobby and parking lot.
“Edgar Marion, he is so clumsy,” the manager is saying as I enter. “Of course we had him bandaged up.”
I watch the video smack dab in the center of the panel. It’s from yesterday, at the sixteenth hour, employee Edgar’s ankle is scratched against the end of the storage aisle while he was moving boxes for loading. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Something tells me the proud token Jeff just toted out of here has the DNA of one dumbass, Edgar Marion.
“It’s gonna be a long night,” I sigh, taking a seat next to my partner.
Chinese was on the menu since there’d be no venturing home for dinner, without some sort of lead. I had called Reese to let her know not to expect me anytime soon.
I dig into my orange chicken, while Ty, the tech Casey and I watched hours upon hours of surveillance. Casey’s head kept bobbing backwards, and Tyrone blocked his nostril airway with the side of his cell phone. They guy would pop into an erect position, only to fall back asleep seconds later.
My head tilts to the side while watching a Latino, approximately three-hundred-fifty pounds plus or minus fifteen in a blue jump suit with, LC tatted on his neck. He’s somewhere between twenty-five to thirty-five years old. The manager doesn’t have employee information on maintenance, and said she’d get back to me as soon as she could. I had just started dinner when the guy first stepped out of the office for a smoke.
“Casey, wake the fuck up,” I shout.
The redhead jumps up from his seat so hard, that the leather chair rolls back and his ass hits the ground. Tyrone laughs. I hold out a hand, through his glasses, he glares at me.
“Roll that back,” I tell him.
Tyrone shakes his head at me. I could have done it myself. But I smile.
Casey reclaims his seat and swivels to the panels in order to change gears on the proper screen.
We watch as the man, in a blue jumpsuit comes out of the office to smoke a cigarette. Three times at the 1800 hour, then the 1900, and 2000 respectively. His mannerisms have been the same the entire time. I mention the obvious, “This video is looped.”
I have been off my game, all thoughts leading toward getting home to Reese. How f
ucking easy was it to pull the wool over my eyes.
A search of his person shows no badge or other identification on the screen in order to zoom in on.
In double time, we track the man’s movements until he steps out of the building around four thirty p.m. He heads to the carport; his Camaro is luckily beneath a lamp. Lime-green paint, carbon fiber hood. Camaro, year 2016. This idiot wants to be easily identified.
Casey zeros in on the plates…757RLF2.
Tyrone calls it in.
At fifteen past ten p.m., we have a team ready to enter the home of twenty-seven- year-old Hector Rodriguez.
For less than seven months, Rodriguez has worked at Spectrum Biopharmaceuticals. He’s also worked on the grounds of various other pharmacy companies from San Diego to Oxnard. No rap sheet. No gang affiliation.
Since we want to question Rodriguez first, uniform cops have pulled up to the curb as we do, to assist. We head up the porch of a tiny house in East Los Angeles. Though it’s dark, there are people, young and old, seated on the porches of the houses surrounding us. All eyes are on us.
Dim lights are on in Rodriguez’s place. The Camaro is out front. Clay pottery lines the porch.
As I take a step onto the porch, a loud rustling noise comes from the back of the house.
We’ve got a motherfucking runner!
Ty and I head back to the car, as the beat begins to spread out and run around both sides of the house to the back.
“Too damn late for running,” Tyrone grumbles getting into the passenger seat.
“Who’re you telling,” I slip into the driver’s seat, ready for action. “Which way?”
Gripping the roof railing, Tyrone glances out the window, then says, “North.”
I pull out from the parallel spot.
“We’re lazy as fuck, Rodriguez can’t be clocking but a quarter of a mile per hour,” Tyrone chuckles.
I cruise up Vancouver Avenue, and E Hubbert, peering left to right. “Did Rodriguez happen to turn the opposite direction?”
