by Scott, D. D.
Hearing Roxy, Jules and Audrey’s helicopter hovering over our floating mansion, I took a temporary reprieve from The Mom Squad and went to greet my BFFs.
Seeing them step out of the chopper, their smiles immediately soothing my stressed soul, I knew everything would be okay.
Roxy looked just like the apparel designing genius she was with a beaded blouse I knew she’d both designed and made, great jeans I’m sure she cut herself and red cowboy boots to die for.
Then came Nashville’s princess of all-things-cupcakes-and-catering, my best friend Jules, who carried a bakery box full of sweet treats.
And certainly not least, but last in the procession of wonder women, was Audrey Holtz. Well, that’s what I’d always known her as, and who could blame her for changing her name from Alexandra McCall? Yeah. As in Bernie’s daughter. But with her father’s drama mostly behind her, twins to raise with her super-sweet husband Damian and a web-based promotions company rocketing to Fortune 500 levels, she completed my posse.
So even though I’d grown-up in Santa Claus-ville, in a very comfortable, red-brick house, one with Christmas decorations all year long, I’d become who I am today with the help of all these superfab women.
None of whom, however, knew the first thing about rubbing shoulders with royals.
After tons of hugs all-around, we joined The Mom Squad in the salon, made the requisite introductions for Granny V’s sake, and then continued my journey to duchess-hood.
“Your new job in our family business will be fraught, at first, with worldwide attempts to compare you to Roman’s late mother,” Granny V kicked-off The Princess Diaries.
“No one can or will be trying to fill my mother’s shoes,” Roman said, evidently overhearing Granny V’s warning when he stepped into the salon to check on us and personally greet Roxy, Jules and Audrey.
“This is all about us making our own future and forging our own destiny, and Zoey will do an excellent job at that.”
I looked at Roman and simply smiled, too stunned by the sweetness of his words and his quiet confidence in what we’d become as an official couple to say anything.
“You’ve got yourself a great prince there,” Roxy said, first holding up the wine glass she’d poured for herself then setting it down on the wet bar to bring a tray around with glasses for everyone.
Roman followed her with another bottle of The House of Savoy’s best.
“Yes, I do,” I said, toasting Roman.
All I knew for sure was I hadn’t yet taken a sip of my liquid courage, and just looking into my prince’s warm and loving eyes made my stomach buzz with an intense pleasure.
Gone, for the moment, was my Dark Knight, replaced by a man looking to rebuild and protect his family and their future.
Cheers to that!
Chapter Twenty-Four
My role as Roman’s Royal Bride was gonna be the easy part.
I know my less than optimal body, and I know what looks good on it. I know how to make a few extra, but jolly pounds look elegant, full of confidence, chic in ways a royal bride-to-be’s position demands, cool and casual or no-nonsense and bravin’ the storms.
But being a Royal Bride Bond Girl was gonna take some practice.
While the world clamored for our royal wedding, we set our own pace, letting our goals to track the cozy cash determine our priorities.
So in between fashion fittings, which luckily Roxy and Lily headed-up, arranged by using my Hollywood contacts, then meeting and greeting all the incoming choppers full of their selections, I practiced on being a Bond Girl.
Thanks to tons of onboard target practice, I was now qualified to shoot much more than chandeliers.
And it was a good thing that was the case, because things were really heating up, hotter than an afternoon baking under the Italian sun on a floating mansion in the middle of the sea.
Every day, we received shipments of designs Roman and I special-ordered straight from Secondigliano, and orders that R and Little R procured. We poured over the account numbers imprinted into these designs, looking for the missing links to the cozy cash highways.
Again and again we used the software, on the laptop that almost cost Ross his life, to crunch those numbers. But no matter how many times we tried, there appeared to be at least one sequence missing.
We’d traced McCall and Raj’s cozy cash funds from all the accounts now in dispute due to Granny V and Vitto’s impending divorce. And we’d managed to put together a global trail those funds had taken while being moved and hidden in one offshore account then another to secure most of the Ponzi-scheming empire McCall had built.
US Authorities didn’t have a clue how far McCall’s scheme had travelled. They didn’t know a tenth of the actual worth of his network of sources and cozy cash hiding spots.
But we did.
And if we could just find those missing numbers, we’d have access to the final path on the cash’s journey at our fingertips.
While we were once again on the floor, using magnifying glasses to again cover every square inch of the pieces of fabric that held the answers to our future, Vinnie decided it was his turn to take over the operation.
After making very strange grunting noises, and what I swore were almost cries for help, he laid down in front of me, right over the piece of silk I was examining, and lost every bit of anything he’d eaten in what appeared to be months.
As he rooted into my knees and thighs and continued crying, I tried to soothe him. I also noticed his body was on fire.
“What’s wrong, Sweet Vinnie?” I asked, rubbing behind his ears, which normally he loved, but today was not having the effect it normally did. “Mommy and Daddy are here.”
“I am not that pig’s dad,” Roman said, although he was right beside me, and seemingly as distraught as I was about our poor, sick, pot-bellied boy.
“I think he needs a vet,” I said, knowing by the concern in Roman’s eyes he felt the same.
“I agree,” said R, coming over to also try and soothe our sick swine. “I’ll get the chopper ready to go.”
“I don’t think it’s safe for us to return to Le SirenMuse yet, R,” Roman said, holding onto Vinnie as he began convulsing and again lost what had to be all that was left inside his big ‘ole belly.
“We don’t have a choice,” I said, not giving a damn how safe or not it was. “I can’t be responsible for losing this little guy.”
“I know. Me either,” Roman said, running his hands through his hair and looking one more time to R.
“I’ll see to your safety,” R said. “Be ready to fly in about ten minutes.”
“What’s all the commotion? And what’s that smell?” Grams asked catching the salon’s door as R rushed from the room to the on-deck chopper.
“Vinnie. Something’s horribly wrong with him,” I said, helping Roman get him into his travel crate, despite his obvious resistance to going anywhere right now.
“You didn’t see him get into anything he shouldn’t have, did you, Grams?” Roman asked, struggling with Vinnie to get him shoved far enough into his carrier that he could secure the latch.
Grams shrugged her shoulders and suddenly took an interest in the salon’s recessed lighting fixtures.
“Grams?” I asked, knowing she knew exactly what we and the family vet needed to know.
“We all squeal for ice cream, right?” She asked, her normally sharp and robust, wise-cracking, Beverly Hillbillies’ voice, now barely a whisper. “Or gelato?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
An hour later, and one very sick, pot-bellied pig on a makeshift exam table between us, Roman and I conferred with The House of Savoy’s family veterinarian about poor Vinnie’s condition.
He could be the first pot-bellied pig to succumb to gelato poisoning.
It was hard-telling how many bowls he and Grams had polished-off, but I’d never seen a sprite of a woman like Grams who could eat like a lumberjack. So, if Vinnie was her snack-mate, the fella was in big-bi
g trouble.
“I’ve got the x-rays back from your on-site medical staff,” Dr. Santebello said then handed us two film sheets, one to Roman and one to me.
“It looks like Vinnie is one lucky guy tonight. If you hadn’t flown him in, he may not have made it.”
I studied the x-rays, not having the slightest clue what I was looking for or at. But something really bothered me with the view inside Vinnie’s neck.
“What’s this object right here? Our little guy hasn’t hurt himself somehow has he? This thing right here,” I said, pointing to what looked like a guitar pick at the base of his head.
“Oh, that’s the microchip Vitto had us embed into Vinnie in case he wandered off,” Dr. Santebello said, then laughed. “Think of it like a GPS device for your pig.”
I looked at Roman, the films sliding out of each of our hands at the same time, making an eerie swishing sound as they slid across the suite’s tile floors.
“Vinnie knows,” we both whispered to each other.
Roman cleared his throat then took my hands and squeezed ‘em before turning to the doctor.
“We’re going to need you to remove that microchip…tonight,” Roman said, without any mistaking of the urgency in his voice.
“I’m not sure I…”
Dr. Santebello started to resist then, as Vitto came into the room, decided against it.
“Of course, right away,” he said before turning to his assistant with a series of directions and urgent demands.
Vitto said nothing, just smiled and sat in a chair in the corner of the room.
Within an hour, we had the series of numbers we were missing. The final trail to the cozy cash empire was about to be unraveled.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two months later, Roman and I were laying on our bed, back in our magnificent castle in Milan, Vinnie cuddled-up on his Sponge Bob sleeping bag next to my side of the bed.
We’d confidently embraced our new roles as the world’s newest, royally-wedded couple, and were taking a few days off from our hectic schedule to prepare for our first North American Tour.
“I still can’t believe I have yet to meet your family,” Roman said while gathering-up all the cozy cash documents he’d been studying before putting them into the safe recessed into the floor on his side of the bed.
I rolled my eyes and tried to pretend I was still busy reading the latest gossip rags about our life.
Uhm, there’s a reason you haven’t met my family. A damn good one.
I’d lucked out by not having to invite them to the wedding, making up an excuse that’s there’s no way they could travel that far given their health.
I can’t help it that Roman took that to mean their physical health instead of their mental health.
I’d become a perfectly poised princess, temporarily abandoning my dreams of opening a Milan styling business, to serve my prince and his family and bring down some of the world’s biggest financial criminals.
After a whirlwind wedding, full of pomp and pageantry, although Roman acquiesced to a royal backyard affair, without a 15-foot red currant cake or private Eagles concert, we’d hit our stride in our first weeks as a royal Duke and Duchess team.
“Did you hear me? I’d like to meet your parents,” Roman said, looking over the bed as he took a brief break from struggling with the safe’s combination.
“I hear you. And, I’m tellin’ ya…no, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
He popped-up over the bedside again, that mischievous sparkle firmly in place. A sparkle I love and am counting on seeing more and more now that we’ve recovered a ton of the cash McCall and Raj and their networks were busy shuffling around the world.
“C’mon, Duchess,” he said, calling me by his latest nickname, “you married me, and my family consists of royal mobsters. What could be worse than that?”
I thought about that.
And reached a profound conclusion. A lot!
For one thing, his family may have a pot-bellied pig, but said pig was the safe-keeper of a microchip holding the world’s financial secrets.
My family had exotic animals too.
Reindeer. And they also had microchips.
But my family pets’ microchips were for GPS purposes, because my father, their sleigh master, feared they had early-onset Alzheimer’s and couldn’t find their way from one chimney to the next.
See the difference?
“I’ll make you a deal, Duke,” I said, laughing out loud as he once more appeared from over the edge of his side of the bed. “The holidays are coming up.”
I still couldn’t believe we were just a month out from Thanksgiving. The year had gone so fast.
“So?”
“You agree to take-on the Water Bra Case I asked you about, while we’re touring North America, and I’ll take you home with me for the holidays.”
I settled back into my gigantic, royal-stuffed pillows and beamed. There was no way in hell he was gonna give-in and commit to this case.
Even though he agreed with my gut feeling that the thugs involved in this case knew a ton about cozy cash, he seemed to be hung-up with the fact we’d be dealing in water bras.
“I just can’t believe the water bra industry is that big a deal in the crime world I come from. I mean c’mon…water bras?! Besides, most people in the States just have surgery for that kind of stuff, like Granny V did, they don’t wear water-filled devices to compensate.”
“Listen, Buddy, what’s the difference between your Granny V’s botox-filled lips and wearing a device, as you call it, filled with water to make your boobs look bigger? Hell, I’d rather have a water-filled device than an ass-juice injection in my lips!”
This time, it was Roman’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Fine. You got me there. Call your people tomorrow and tell them we’ll take the case.”
Shit! I obviously fought that one with waaay too much passion and logical reasoning.
“What do you mean we’ll take the case?”
“Hmmm…what should we get your parents for Christmas, My Duchess?”
Roman’s eyes twinkled more than his Santa-psyched, pretend father-in-law’s.
Not a water bra for Mrs. Claus, I silently harrumphed. Those things would freeze-up at The North Pole.
Suddenly, I felt like Will and Kate on their way to Hollywood, then Who-ville, for one helluva holiday hullabaloo.
I sipped on my crystal glass full of Naked Juice and prepared my frazzled psyche for a holiday I’d never ever forget.
THE END
Fluid Fulfillment
Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mystery #1
Fluid Fulfillment
I’m Lily Vaughn.
Well actually, Lily Vaughn-McKinna.
By now, you know my Bootscootin’, apparel-designing-daughter, Roxy Rae. And you might also remember I’m recently divorced from Roxy’s dad Steve Vaughn, a globe-trotting gigolo who runs a fashion empire on the scale of Salma Hayek’s husband, Francois-Henri Pinault. What Francois does with French luxury brands like Yves Saint Laurent and Gucci, my ex does with Italian luxury brands.
I must say, during the years I was Mrs. Vaughn, I learned to run a cutting-edge, dynamite-and-then-some fashion empire, and I’ve now built the same for my daughter’s Raeve Boutiques. Think of us like the Vaughn version of the Kardashian’s Dash stores. I’m Roxy’s business manager, AKA the Kris Kardashian of my daughter’s international fashion empire.
But this isn’t my only job…or what they call a gig out here in LA.
I’m also a member of The Mom Squad, a slightly older version of Charlie’s Angels, who fights international crime along-side one of Roxy’s BFFs and Hollywood stylist to the stars, Zoey Witherspoon.
Actually, we fight crime with Zoey, now the Duchess of Caserta, and her husband the Duke of Caserta, Prince Roman Bellesconi Umberto-Vittorio Emanuele Vanvitelli of the Royal House of Savoy.
And yeah, what a mouth-full, right?
But
anyhoo…
Why aren’t you reading about the Duke and Duchess or their Bootscootin’ BFFs?
Well, trust me, we Mom Squad Members cause plenty of our own mayhem.
Take my brother Wayne McKinna, for example. Wayne is waaay over his older-guy-but-still-perfectly-fit head and body, and in super-deep Dutch with the Hollywood mob, thanks to another Mom Squad wanna-be…our Aunt Dodie.
So with the Duke and Duchess on stand-by, ready to assist as soon as my stubborn brother admits he needs them, we’re hunting down the Hollywood mob.
Here’s the scoop…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As I stood in the doorway to my brother’s office, I still couldn’t imagine him behind Uncle Lewis’ dark cherry desk. But there he was. Wayne McKinna…in his Southern Cal, golden boy flesh.
Okay…back-up a minute.
I suppose I can’t ignore the obvious. Now that Wayne and I are both in our late 60’s, I suppose he looks more like the dashing and mysterious Sir Sean Connery in his legendary Louis Vuitton ad.
Golden Boy or Sir Connery, either way, Wayne was trying to get comfortable in Uncle Lewis’ leather chair. He tipped back the chair then kicked up his legs but couldn’t seem to let them relax over the edge of the desk.
I knew he was craving his beat-up metal desk with the perfectly etched coffee rings, not the slick, cool glass that covered Uncle Lewis’ pricey antique collector’s piece.
Wayne just didn’t belong in this decorator-perfect room, marking up the rugs and the once clean surface of Uncle Lewis’ desk too, with his old, chipped coffee cup. The usual streams of messy spills were now sloshing over the top and running down the sides.
Hell, he didn’t belong here period!
Nothing about Deville 1300 Inc, a manufacturer and distributor of ladies’ intimate accessories, was related to my brother. Or to me. Except the owners.
