by Scott, D. D.
It almost looked like we had another deadly trio on our hands.
Toss in Lindsey Lohan, who was now rumored to be starring opposite John Travolta in a new movie about the Gotti family, and the trio multiplied to a foursome.
After learning from Roman that Lucinda was sure to be at several Milan Fashion Week shows, because she also adored Italian designers, I had Ross make a few phone calls.
He owed me after failing to keep Camilla’s nasty ass in the States. So I didn’t feel a bit bad about sort of involving him in my latest plans.
Sure enough, my iPhone buzzed with an incoming text, assuring me that yes, according to Ross and I’s sources, Lucinda would surely be attending the Armani show.
And so would we. Front row. Just like Lucinda. After all, we did have a dress to find for Camilla.
Two hours later, after both Roman and R had excused themselves on what seemed like urgent, but very private business, evidently still too private to tell your pretend girlfriend, I and my squads, both The Mom Squad and my BFF Team, were gathered around a large antique desk in yet another private office attached to our suite all staring at, and I know this sounds beyond odd, but here it goes…we were all staring at The Brooch.
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t get this at all,” Jules said, finger combing her long, gorgeous Catherine Zeta-Jones style raven locks then giving her head a playful shake.
And she wasn’t the only one needing to let her hair down and shake off some steam.
None of us knew what had just happened.
All we knew for sure, was that we were all rounded-up and told to stay in this room, no matter what, and stay close-by The Brooch for further instructions.
“I don’t get it either,” I agreed, “but all I know is that, so far, Roman, and R too for that matter, have repeatedly saved my life, and whatever their big bad secrets, they seem to have our best interests at heart.”
“Well said,” Grams piped-up, her Betty White, all-sweet-and-innocent expression having a rueful twist she couldn’t hide despite trying to.
“I do think those guys know what they’re doing and what we’re up against,” Roxy’s mom Lily said, raising her eyebrows toward Roxy’s soon-to-be mother-in-law Kat who nodded her head in acquiescence.
“So what was that super-secret exchange you two got goin’ on?” Roxy asked, leaving the side of the humongous desk and standing between her moms, looking back and forth between the two, daring one of ‘em to fess-up.
Kat cleared her throat, and looked as if she were going to be the one to break first.
Truth told, only Kat had the nerve to stand-up to Roxy. Lily was working on it, but was still trying to patch things up with her daughter so wasn’t as quick to get in her cross-hairs. But Kat? She didn’t give a flyin’ fuck about Roxy’s attitude, and in fact, had a rather strong one of her own at times. Which was good, being as she’d owned and managed her own Music City saloon for the last two decades.
“While we were all checking out the gorgeous statues along the cascade to the castle, several black, luxury sedans pulled to the front of the cascade, but didn’t so much as turn our direction before R appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with horses for each of us. At which time, several stable hands, who, I can tell ya, looked nothin’ like Zayne’s hired hands, shoved each of us up onto a horse and took off at full gallop for the castle.”
Kat then looked from Lily, to Grams, to Tulip, who all simply nodded their heads as if backing Kat’s facts.
“I haven’t had a ride like that in years,” Grams said then winked at Tulip who let out a gleeful, full-bodied roar.
“Would you two please just stop?” Jules said, giving ‘em both her iciest glare, which really wasn’t all that scary.
Now, if Roxy gave ya a glare, it scared the pee right outta ya. But not sweeter-than-the-sweets-she-baked Jules. As long as no one was messin’ with her Cody, all was pretty mild around her.
But perhaps nothing would remain mild for long, if these mystery sedans meant even more trouble.
Before any one of us could offer up an explanation as to what might be going on out there on the castle grounds, The Brooch lit-up and began to speak to us.
Well…you know what I mean. The damn thing wasn’t actually talking, but Roman sure as hell was, and he was coming to us right from the center of The Brooch as if it were some fancy conference room, intercom type phone.
“Zoey, can you hear me?”
And being as he was calling me Zoey made me very nervous. He never used my given name. Only the names he’d bestowed on me—like Plum Puddin’, Witherspoon, Ace, etc.
My knees sorta wobbled as I tried to lean over the desk more, as if that would get us closer to him and safer.
For some reason, the closer I was to Roman the better I felt, even if it was only his voice I was cozying up to.
“We’re here, Charlie,” Roxy said, making us all giggle at her rowdy, Charlie’s Angels reference.
“Cute,” Roman said, although his serious tone didn’t really sound as if he believed Roxy was really all that funny.
I guess we did all kinda look like Charlie’s Angels today, dressed in our 70’s throwback Armani, Diane von Furstenberg and Jil Sander jumpsuits.
“Zoey, I need you to take everyone through the secret passages below the castle which I showed you the access door to before I left you in our room,” Roman said, dropping his voice to a deep-throated whisper half-way through his command.
“Where are you? Where is R? Are you okay?” I had so many questions to ask I didn’t know which one to fire at him first.
“I’m fine. Just do as I say. R will be waiting for all of you at the end of the passageway. You got this for me, right?”
He suddenly sounded as if he were running, and then I swore I heard gunshots.
“Jesus Christ! Were those gunshots?!” Roxy shouted.
Then I swear you could hear a pin drop, well, not the size of my brooch, but you get the picture, until a bunch of static zipped through The Brooch’s speaker and whatever line we had to Roman went dead.
Okay. It disconnected. I just can’t use the word dead right now.
“I think we need to get on this and now,” Kat said, taking command for a couple seconds. “Zoey, Dear, let’s get into that passageway.”
I retrieved my brooch and anchored it to the retro lame and sequined, silver and black, almost Michael Jackson-ish scarf Armani had made to go along with my jumpsuit. That hunk of fleur de lis magic truly was our lifeline, and I wasn’t leaving without it.
“I think it’s best we have that baby with us at all times,” Roxy said, pushing me toward the door leading from the private office back into Roman and I’s bedroom.
I still couldn’t speak. Hearing those gunshots and knowing Roman was out there somewhere, dodging bullets, was wayyy more than I’d bargained for as a new P.I.
Dodging bullets alongside Roman, or buried underneath him on the floorboard of our getaway limo, I was fine with. Propelling down the sides of skyscrapers, being shot at as soon as our feet hit the cement, fine with me. But him being God knows where, facing bullets on his own, while I’m racing through underground escape tunnels, I don’t think so.
But what choice did I have?
I didn’t have an assistant worth his high-dollar paycheck to help me, and now had all these other womens’ lives at risk too. Okay. So I didn’t really care about Camilla. But the rest of ‘em…I sure as hell did.
Surprisingly enough, Camilla was silent too. Suddenly, I don’t think she wanted her damn designer dress half as bad as she used to swear on my life and hers that she must-have.
I opened the third wardrobe from the right, pushed past the gorgeous lavender gown that hung seventh from the right on the rack, and pressed the panel Roman had told me to, hoping I’d opened-up our passageway to whatever was next, and hoping it was better than where we were coming from.
All of us watched in complete amazement as all the gowns in the wardrobe instantly retrac
ted on some special system that must have connected into the other wardrobes along the wall too.
A gorgeous, solid oak door then opened to a narrow hallway and flight of stairs. The stairway was lit by gorgeous lanterns that had somehow been attached to the rocky walls.
“Do you think I could take one of these dresses with me?” Camilla said, earning her the evil eye from not just me but my Squad Sisters too.
“Only if your plastic body is wrapped up dead as a doornail inside of one, and we roll your stupid ass down those stairs first,” Grams said, no longer her sweeter-than-sweet, innocent-as-innocent-looks Betty White self.
Camilla had even made Grams morph back into Beverly Hillbilly Granny.
“Harsh, don’t you think?” Camilla said, her buttery smooth voice feigning injury.
“Not any harsher than those lanterns are on all that stuff you’re still tryin’ to pass off as skin on your face,” Grams said, looking at Camilla as if she were an insect she were about to mount on someone’s bug collection board.
“Why you bitch,” Camilla began, but couldn’t finish ‘cause I’d done shoved her through the door and watched her half fall down the stone steps with Grams right on her ass shouting something to the effect that Camilla ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
“Oh boy,” Kat said, going next and pulling Lily and Tulip with her. “I’ll settle this while the rest of you get down here.”
I motioned for my BFFs to hurry up and follow, stepping on the top step, behind Roxy, who was last, before I tapped the first lantern like Roman showed me to do then made sure the door and thus the wardrobe sealed-up tight behind us.
One secret door down. And now one secret passageway away from being rescued by R.
From what? For what?
Both great questions I didn’t have answers to.
But oh how I hoped my concerns as to whether or not Roman would be waiting for us in the light at the end of this tunnel—a tunnel leading who knows where—would be a resounding yes.
I couldn’t do Cozy Cash anymore without my Secret Bond.
Chapter Eighteen
To my utter desperation, the light at the end of the castle’s underground tunnel brought me R, but no sign of Roman.
What was I going to do?
“Where is he, R? Please tell me. Is he okay? At least tell me that,” I begged R, knowing it wasn’t very becoming for a girl to beg, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass.
This was my Roman we were talking about here. Okay not talking about. And that was the entire issue.
Somebody better start sayin’ something. About whatever the hell was going on. Because I had a feeling The Cozy Cash Operation meant a lot more to Roman Bellesconi than it would to a for-real U.S. Marshal, and I had only signed-up to work for the Marshal Service, not whatever clandestine cover group I now seemed to be working for…for free.
“I can’t reveal Roman’s whereabouts. To protect him. And all of you,” R said, lowering his voice, so only I could hear him. “But I can tell you he’s safe for now.”
“For now?! What the hell does that mean?!” I hissed, not because I was mad at R, and I did feel bad he was getting the brunt of my fears and rage, but c’mon, did he and Roman honestly think I’d just bite on that little tidbit then shut the hell-up and do as instructed?
Well, I knew for a fact, Roman didn’t think that. He knew me wayyy too well.
“It means exactly as it implies, My Dear. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to help both Roman and I, by never, ever removing that brooch from your scarf today, we’ll be able to fill you in as we can. Got it?”
And the way he lightly pinched my elbow, while sort of pushing me into the back of the Hummer he already had the rest of our Charlie’s Angels Club stuffed into, I supposed he meant everything he was telling me.
Men. Goddamn secretive sons-of-bitches.
‘Course at least we were stuffed in the Double R’s Hummers and not in the trunks of those mystifying, dark and evil-r-us sedans cruising the castle’s cascades.
I had the very distinct notion we sooo did not want to be chauffeured by those drivers, whoever the hell they worked for.
The Hummer was silent as we bumped along the grassy knolls dipping and darting throughout the castle’s back grounds until we finally made it to some road somewhere in rural Milan.
I kept my hand caressing The Brooch, careful not to cover it entirely with my fingers for fear I’d muffle whatever kinda speaker system I now knew was embedded in the piece.
Here we were in Milan, about to hit its Fashion Week runways where the likes of top designers like Raf Simons of Jil Sander had coached their design teams about being inspired by Elisabeth of Bavaria’s diamond brooches in her hair. While, I, Zoey Witherspoon, Stylist to The Stars, wasn’t just inspired, but now wired by a diamond brooch, that would not only be any designer’s muse, but was my lifeline and my Double R’s too.
I adjusted the soft leather of the wide, black belt accessorizing my head-to-toe Armani ensemble, wondering if it was the jumpsuit’s belt or my nerves keeping my stomach in agony.
Well, I guess, on second thought, I wasn’t in head-to-toe Armani, I remembered, after the latest rumble and roll of the Hummer’s wheels, over the tops of another stretch of ground R apparently thought was safer to our destination than the paved roads normal people travelled.
But really, we were now sooo far from normal, taking the fields instead of highways was normal for us.
I caught a glimpse of the shining crystals perfectly inlayed on the tips of one of the pairs of stilettos R and I had chosen at Vienna Vintage. Roman had insisted I wear them today, and who was I to argue with my boyfriend’s wishes.
My boyfriend who could now be a goner.
Oh God. I just had to block that thought.
I rubbed The Brooch again for good karma, luck, serendipity, voodoo energy, or whatever positive, cosmic energy transfer I could get outta some high-tech spy gadget.
Hmmm. Suddenly I had an interesting thought jar my brain, ‘course the jarring could be from the drainage systems we were now navigating.
“R, is there any special feature to my brooch that you and Roman have yet to share with me?” I asked, preferring to speak as if Roman were still very much alive and in command of this operation, whichever operation we were actually running right now.
“Uhm, not that I can recall,” R said, an amusing and light tone returning to his voice.
He was always happy when he was thinking about his gadgets.
“But those shoes you got on. You betchya. As you’d say, My Dear, those puppies have some real, kick ass power to ‘em,” R said then I swear laughed out loud.
We’re running for our lives. We don’t know if Roman still has one of his lives left. And our Gadget Guy is able to wane poetic and nostalgic plus crack jokes about deadly gadgets while he’s chauffeuring us across a small pond surrounded by sheep grazing along its edges.
Hell, he had to honk the damn Hummer’s horn to get the wooly things to move.
“That oughta get the baaaa-stards moving,” R said then laughed.
Grams and Roxy, then Alexandra and Kat, all followed R’s lead, laughing full-throttle, as R soon hit pavement again then punched the pedal to the medal as if our lives depended on now driving Formula One speed.
“So what makes my shoes so kick ass?” I asked, not even sure I wanted to know.
“Well…once you remove the heel, like I’ll show you how to do before we exit the vehicle at the Armani Show, you’ll be able to use it to position a poisonous blow dart in the unlucky foe of your choice,” R said as if poisonous blow darting was an everyday fave, Italian pastime.
“Cool!” Grams said, sitting up in her seat then doing a fist pump that well…really looked like it should have come from a much younger person in very different circumstances than Poisonous Blow-Darting 101. “Can you put those puppies in orthopedic shoes too?!”
“I already did, Ma’am.”
“No way! You’re kidding me?
” Roxy said, looking at me before looking at Kat and Alexandra then clearing her throat. “Grams has the means to Poisonous Blow-Dart someone?! We really need to talk about this.”
“What’s there to talk about? You just blow. As in there she blows,” Grams said, cackling like the main hen in the barnyard.
“No worries. I’ll give y’all very detailed instructions as soon as we arrive at the show,” R said, beginning to slow his racing speed to normal limits, which must have meant we were getting close to Palazzo Serbelloni, this season’s site for the Armani Spring Collection unveiling.
The Palazzo Serbelloni would never again be what it once was—home to Napoleon Bonaparte and one of the finest examples of Milanese Neoclassical architecture ever—now that it was up against Grams and her poisonous blow darts.
Chapter Nineteen
Following our detailed blow dart session with R, we were all seated inside the Armani Show.
And oh yeah. Who could think about blow darts when seated close to George Clooney and his girlfriend Elisabetta Canalis.
Only if the darts could be used to magically drug George then take him home with you.
Clooney, only two seats down from R, and always the crazed-fan attracting, but unfazed Prince of Hollywood, egged-on people to speak to him, even though Armani’s staff had obviously been well-trained to monitor access to the star.
But I wonder if George would be fazed by blow-darts?
I had R on one side of me and Grams on the other. After private consultation with R, we decided keeping Grams close to us was probably best.
Milan was rumored to have one of the strongest seasons this Spring, and somehow I just knew I’d end up with an Armani dress for Camilla, who I was thrilled to note was busy conversing with some of her socialite acquaintances on the opposite side of the runway from R, Grams and I’s seats.
I must say, she looked stunning—from behind at least—in the magenta, hooded satin Armani jumpsuit I’d chosen for her. A stylist could never go wrong with Armani.
