by Diana Layne
“I’ll tell him to stay, but I’m going after them,” Sandro said. “They can’t be too far ahead. The witness said they were heading south. I found the house, but it was north of here, so they’re probably taking her back to the city.”
“True. They’d want to distance themselves from the crime scene.”
“I’ve got some of those downtown addresses with me. Get me more.”
“Sandro, it’s dangerous. Wait on us.”
“I’ve got to find them. I was so close--”
“They want you dead, you know.”
“Screw what they want. Give me those damned addresses.”
Chapter 21
“Bella, you shouldn’t have hit me so hard.” Angie had a square white bandage and an ice pack tied to his head. He was sitting behind a desk in a warehouse office, pulling stuff out of the drawers and packing it into a box sitting on the floor--most likely packing up anything she could use as a weapon because she figured this warehouse office was going to be her new prison.
Nia sat in the only other chair in the office, a straightback wooden chair. She shrugged at Angie’s words, too tired to feel any compassion or remorse that she had severely injured another human being. Maybe later she would be shocked--if she were alive later. But now she was tired. She slumped in her chair unable to hold herself upright.
“You were in my way,” she told him glumly. “Get in my way again, and I’ll do the same thing.”
Angie made tsking noises. “Such a sweet donna. I am sorry it has come to this.”
“You’re sorry? You’re not the one who is contemplating his own imminent murder.”
“Murder? What are you talking about? I told you we mean you no harm.”
“Quit bullshitting me, Angie. I saw your pal Joey kill a guy today. Am I going to suddenly forget that?”
“Many people have forgotten minor facts such as who pulled the trigger in a shooting. You could forget.”
“Oh yeah? Once you have my husband, you’re just going to let me go? Walk away? And you think I’ll keep quiet when Sandro shows up dead? What reason would I have to keep quiet then?”
“You have your son,” Angie said quietly.
The blood drained from her face. She shot out of her chair. “Don’t you even threaten--”
With surprising speed and agility, Angie stood up and pushed her firmly back to her chair. “I have made no threats. I have just reminded you that you are in no position to make threats. Remember that when Carlo comes to talk to you.”
“And when will the sleazy coward be here?”
“That is no way to talk,” Angie scolded her. He picked up a fat roll of duct tape on the desk. “You will do better to keep your tongue in your head. Powerful men like Carlo are very dangerous when angered.”
Helpless rage poured through her. “He might be powerful, but he’s still a-- What are you doing with that?”
He had the roll of duct tape in his hand. She remembered the sound ripping duct tape made when they tied up the clerk. Was he going to tie her up?
“I must tie you up,” he confirmed.
Her blood chilled. She tried for bravado. “You’re kidding. I’m too tired to even think about escaping again.”
“I cannot trust you. Carlo’s orders are to keep you tied up until he gets here.”
“When will that be? And where is ‘here’?” They had arrived back in New York, going to a warehouse area she’d never seen before. From a back alleyway, they hustled her into what was obviously some sort of storage facility--probably full of illegal goods, but she still had no idea exactly where she was.
“Sit in this chair here, you’ll be more comfortable.” Angie indicated the padded desk chair.
Great, he wanted her comfortable while she was tied up. “Are you avoiding my questions?”
After she switched chairs, Angie taped one arm to the arm of the chair, then repeated with her other arm. “I don’t know yet when Carlo will be here,” he said at last. “And obviously, we are in the office of a warehouse.”
“Obviously. I can tell by the plush decor. I meant the location. Ouch.” The tape had pulled the hairs on her arms--she knew it would hurt to get it off.
“Sorry.” He finished with her arms. “How is that? You are comfortable?”
“Just great,” she answered sarcastically.
He lowered his considerable bulk to the floor with a grunt. Wrapping her ankles with the tape, he told her, “I won’t tie your feet to the chair. That way you can prop them on the desk if you want to lie back in the chair, but you still can’t get away.” He seemed pleased as he heaved himself back to his feet.
“You’ve got me taped up tighter than a calf ready for branding. I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for a while.”
“Good.” Angie patted her on the head. “That is what we want.”
“That may be what you want. What I want is for Carlo to get here so he’ll answer my questions.”
“Just remember when he does, Bella, watch that tongue of yours.” Angie wagged a fat bejeweled finger at her.
* * *
A grim scene faced Dave and Marisa. By the time they arrived, the locals had already cordoned the crime scene and Sandro was long gone. Marisa, dressed for the cold weather in a ski jacket, toboggan and gloves, took an offered cup of coffee from one of his men and made herself scarce while he set his team to work.
“Any of those phone calls you’ve been taking from Sandro?” she asked sometime later, with a worried expression she couldn’t quite hide.
So, she had been watching him even while avoiding the unpleasantness of the work he had to do. “No. He hasn’t had time to make it downtown yet. Even if he’d been speeding.”
“No doubt he was speeding. I’m surprised we didn’t pass him on the way here, though.”
“More than likely he got a car we didn’t recognize. It’s also possible he took another road in.” Dave wrapped his arm around Marisa’s shoulders and led her toward his government-issued Crown Vic. “Come on, I’m finished here. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
Beneath his arm, she felt tense, brittle. Her teeth were chattering; he suspected it was from more than the cold. The sooner this was over, the better. “We’re going to your place. I’ll drop you off, then go to the office to check on the paperwork for Roberto. When I know something definite, you can get those accounts transferred.”
“Yes,” she agreed, a hard set to her face. “It’s time to end this.”
Dave pulled into the underground parking to her apartment and rushed around to open her car door.
“Thanks.” Her voice cracked on the word.
Alarmed, he took her arms. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She cleared her throat. Attempted a shrug. “Nothing, I told you. Just--”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He wasn’t fooled in spite of the way she pulled herself together.
She looked at him, then sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about that murdered man. What if the same thing happens to Sandro? To you?” She gritted her teeth and sniffed, obviously still fighting for control
“Ah, Princess.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I didn’t even think how that must have affected you.”
She rested against his chest. “Do you know what it makes me feel like? Knowing my father is responsible for that innocent man’s murder. He had a wife. A baby girl. Now you know why he must be stopped.” She pulled back and looked at him. “By any means necessary.” Her words were firm, although there was a bit of moisture in her eyes she tried to hide by blinking.
Dave felt his control slip. Compassion was not something he experienced. He strove to be analytical. Aloof. Professional. There was no room for emotion with his job. And yet . . . he pulled her close and brushed his lips in her hair. Then found himself saying, “Come on, I’ll take you upstairs. Make you some coffee, something to eat. You haven’t eaten all day, you know.”
“I don’t think I can eat.” She s
tepped away. “Besides, I don’t have any food.”
He led her to the garage elevator. “I’ll order in, then. And you’ll eat or I’ll force feed you.”
She gave a thin-lipped smile, and attempted humor. “There you go being forceful.”
He shrugged and pushed the button to the elevator. “Sorry, it’s just my nature.”
She seemed fascinated by the elevator doors closing. “Sometimes a woman likes a forceful man.”
The statement said in a thoughtful monotone, almost as if she were only talking to herself, left Dave at a loss to answer. He knew how he’d like to answer, but he’d crossed the lines of impropriety with her enough already. He suddenly found the elevator doors fascinating as well.
“I have coffee,” she said once they were in her apartment. “I’ll make some.” She slipped into the serving role; he knew it was an act. He’d seen his mom do the same thing in times of stress.
“No, I’ll make it, and I’ll order something to eat. Do you want to shower or something?”
“A shower would be nice,”she agreed.
Her quick acquiescence clued him that she was off-kilter. Marisa never gave in so easily. “Where’s a close place to order food?”
“A deli’s around the corner. The number is on my refrigerator.”
When she came out of her room again, she was wearing a fluffy maroon robe and towel-drying her hair. Dave had the table set, food arranged neatly on the plates.
“I called about Roberto, we’re good to go. He should be picked up within the hour. We’ll eat, then get to work on those accounts.”
She gave a quick nod. “That was faster than I expected.” She pointed at the table to indicate she meant the food and not Roberto. It was almost as if she were shutting down about the realities confronting her.
“I paid them extra to hurry.”
A half-smile spread her lips. “It isn’t as if I’ll waste away if I miss a couple of meals.”
He stared at her, glad to see some of the worry lines ease in her face. “You’ll feel better once you eat. I hope you like roast beef.”
“Roast beef is fine.”
He pulled out the chair for her. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Dave, I can get my own--”
“Sit down,” he ordered. “Eat.”
When he returned with her coffee, she was absentmindedly playing with her food. Picking at the crust and rolling it into little balls, not noticing her robe gaped open offering him a small view of naked skin. Whoa. He definitely needed not to go there. Setting the cup on the table, he hunkered down beside her chair, putting him below her eye level and out of sight of naked flesh.
“You don’t like it?”
“What?”
He nodded at her plate.
She blinked. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.”
He picked up a sandwich half and held it in front of her mouth.
“Really, Dave, I’m just not--”
“Open.”
She stared at him, then the sandwich in his hand. He thought he had her, when suddenly, she pushed the chair back and ran from the room.
Dave heard her crying and sighed. “Damn.” He slowly put the sandwich down and pushed to his feet.
He found her in the bathroom, splashing her face with water. He had the hand towel ready when she reached for it. She wiped her face.
“I’m . . . sorry.” The crying made her hiccup. “I . . . I just--” She wiped her face with the towel again. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about that man and how he’d never eat again. How Sandro or you might never eat again. How . . . how Paolo will never eat again. How can my father be such a monster?” The last words were a whisper.
“Come on, Princess.” Dave swung her into his arms. He carried her to the living room, ignoring the stark, utilitarian wing chairs and chose the sofa--still staid and stiff, but more comfortable. Cradling her, he let her cry her tears, thinking it interesting that twice now, she’d worried about his safety or Sandro’s safety, but never her own.
Did she think she was immune from being killed? Would a father kill his daughter if he found out she betrayed him? Something told Dave no, or he hoped not. More than likely Carlo would send her off to another country. Maybe. Dave frowned. The thought of her risking her life didn’t set well with him.
Finally her tears slowed, and he used the towel to dry her face. He kissed her forehead. In the silence, the only sound was their breathing. Absentmindedly, he stroked her hair, almost dry now. He noticed some hair was caught it in her silver-cross Florentine necklace. He pulled the hair free. “Did you shower with your necklace?”
She turned watery, big brown eyes on him. “I told you I never take it off. It was my nonna’s. She never took it off either--until the day she died. On that day, she gave it to me. She must have known.”
“It must be very special to you. I like it. It looks good against your skin.”
“Grazie,” she murmured. She held onto the cross pendant and smiled.
He let her calm a few more moments, then asked something he knew he shouldn’t. It was none of his business. But he found he was wanting to know more about her. “Was Paolo your cop?”
She stared off toward the kitchen. “Si.”
“Tell me about him. Where did you meet?” Perhaps talking about the past would help settle her, distract her from today’s problems, Dave told himself.
She seemed willing enough. “I knew him already. Or knew of him, more truthfully. He was Giuseppe’s son.”
“Giuseppe? Sandro’s uncle? Paolo was Sandro’s cousin then?”
“Si.” There was pain in that one word.
“What happened, Princess?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”
“Paolo approached me one day. He worked for the police, I knew this. He tried to convince me to testify against my father.” She took a breath. “What he offered was tempting, but I was afraid.
“So, he started seeing me more often--in secret of course. After the first couple of times he stopped trying to convince me to testify, and we just talked. Got to know each other. And fell in love. I broke the engagement with Sandro long before that point. I knew I wasn’t in love with him. He didn’t love me. It would never have worked between us.”
Dave wasn’t sure how he felt hearing her talk about someone she once loved. Instead, he tried to piece the timeline together. “Was Sandro involved with your father then?”
She shook her head. “No. It happened as he told you. My father never approached him with family business until that World Cup when Italy made the finals and poppa forced Sandro--and others, of course--to throw the game. He’d bet heavily against Italy. He had something on each of the players, he always had something to make sure he got his way.”
Dave didn’t like the sound of that. Carlo had something on Sandro? “Define what you mean by something? Something they’d done wrong to hold over their head?” There was a time Dave would have loved that sort of information to discredit Sandro with Nia.
“Sometimes, it was information,” Marisa revealed. “More often it was people.”
“People?”
“Si, you know, he threatened their family. With Sandro, he threatened his Sandro’s zia y zio, his aunt and uncle, as well as . . . Nia and her family.”
She cut a look at him. He was sure she saw shock in his gaze. “Nia?” he choked out.
“Si. Poppa knew all about her. Her brothers.”
She’d been at risk? And then Sandro took her to Italy? Carlo had still been in Italy a decade ago. Dave’s blood pressure soared.
“After that, my father tried to bring Sandro into the business, he wanted Giuseppe’s business, but Sandro refused. Poppa ruined his soccer career in Italy in retaliation. Forced Sandro to flee to America. The rest you know. It is only fate that we all ended up in New York together.”
Dave struggled to bring his spinning thoughts back to the story, when in reality, at the moment all he wanted to do was strangle Sandro. It was his fault N
ia was in danger now. Sandro kept her in his life knowing she would be in danger. He could have broken off their relationship, flown back to Italy and left her to Dave. Yeah, he’d royally screwed up, but she would have forgiven him. And he could have made her happy. Without endangering her life.
Marisa watched him as if she knew all his thoughts. That idea made him uncomfortable. Then again, was she not baring a part of herself to him?
He swallowed his frustration. “And Paolo. What about him?”
Marisa picked up her story. “As I got to know him more, he told me about my mother.”
“Your mother?” What could he tell her about her mother? As far as Dave knew, her mother had a stroke that left her not much more than a vegetable. It happened back in Italy, when Marisa was still a young girl--which had to be hard on an only daughter. “What could he tell you about your mother? I thought she had a stroke?”
“This is what my father tells the world. To me, he said that she had overdosed.”
“Overdosed? As in drugs? Why would she do that?” Was there abuse involved? Did the woman have a moral dilemma when she realized she was married to a mobster? Did she try to leave and couldn’t escape? But no, what sort of mother would abandon her child? Was Marisa a child? He tried to calculate the years, how old Marisa would have been, but his thoughts were a jumble.
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“Was it an accidental overdose? Is that it?”
Marisa shook her head.
Dave guessed again. “She tried to kill herself then? Why would she do that when she had a young daughter who needed her?”
Marisa dropped her gaze and was silent so long that he thought she wasn’t going to answer him.
But Paolo had known. Dave felt a twinge of jealousy that this cop, the one who died, the one who she loved, knew the truth and Dave didn’t. No, wait. Paolo told her the truth, Dave realized. She hadn’t known.
A truth that she obviously didn’t want to share with Dave. “I’m sorry, I’m over--”
