Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  “Oh.” Tiffany put down the mascara wand and stared. “Oh, my.”

  Brandi surveyed herself in the mirror. “This’ll knock their eyes out.”

  Tiffany giggled. “Or poke them out.”

  “Whatever’s necessary.” Brandi sat on the lid of the toilet and pulled on her trouser socks and her stiletto heels, then stood and stretched her arms over her head. “I’m ready for action.”

  “Not quite.” Tiffany took off her large white-gold brooch sparkling with rhinestones, and pinned it on Brandi’s right shoulder. “There.”

  “Thank you, Mama. It’s perfect. It’s so bright it’s almost blinding.” And not at all her mother’s style. “Where’d you get it?”

  Then together they said, “Uncle Charles.”

  “I’m working on his taste in jewelry.” Tiffany put the finishing touches on her hair. “What do you think?”

  Brandi turned Tiffany to face the mirror. She stood beside her.

  Tiffany looked like her daughter, and Brandi looked like . . . well, she looked liked Brandi, but if all went according to plan, the Fossera boys would be miles away by the time she left the hotel.

  Brandi handed her mother the velvet winter-white coat she’d worn last night and the video chip Mr. Nguyen had hidden in her earring case. “Now remember: Have the cabbie go to the police station, but tell him to take the long way around. Once you’re inside you’ll be safe, and if the Fossera boys actually try to follow you in, you can give the chip to the officers and tell them those were the guys who killed the pawnshop owner. That should fix them.”

  “I won’t forget,” Tiffany promised. “This will be fun!”

  Picking up the long, dark coat Tiffany had worn into the hotel, Brandi pulled it on. She pulled on Tiffany’s fuzzy hat and her sunglasses. She checked the safety on the pistol and put it in her pocket. With a brisk nod to Tiffany, she said, “Let’s go.”

  Holding hands, they descended in the elevator. Tiffany tried to smile. “You’re the smartest, prettiest girl in the whole world, and I have absolute confidence you’ll make all the right moves.”

  And that was the difference between Tiffany and everybody else’s mother. She didn’t say, I’ll worry about you, so be careful. Instead she said, You’re going to succeed. In fact, now that Brandi thought about it, Brandi had been so successful not because she’d inherited her father’s intelligence, but because her mother had always shown absolute confidence in her daughter’s superiority.

  And no matter how big a fool Roberto Bartolini had made of her, she still knew her father was wrong. She wasn’t stupid. She was smart, she was ruthless, and she was coming out of this alive.

  And she would make sure Roberto did, too.

  “Thank you, Mama. I will succeed.” Taking a leaf from her mother’s book, Brandi hugged her hard and said, “You will, too, because you’re the smartest, prettiest mother in the whole world. Joseph and Tyler Fossera don’t stand a chance.”

  As the doors opened into the lobby, Tiffany stepped out, shoulders back, dress clinging to every curve. She was the picture of insouciance with the white Gucci coat draped over her shoulder and caught on one hooked finger. She smiled at the bellman, the desk clerk, and every late-night reveler that she met, searing them with the heat of her beauty. As she approached the doors, the doorman leaped to open it for her, and she strolled out into the freezing cold wearing nothing but a blue velvet dress and a steely determination.

  The doorman summoned her a taxi and helped her in.

  The cab drove off.

  The Fossera boys grabbed the next taxi.

  The FBI man leaped for his car and followed them both.

  Brandi grinned. The diversion had worked.

  Her mirth faded. And she’d sent her mother into danger.

  “Be careful, Mama,” she whispered, her hands folded in prayer. “Please be careful.”

  27

  H ead down, Brandi strode toward the door.

  Nobody in the lobby glanced twice at her.

  She walked out and down Michigan Avenue and to the next hotel, where she caught a cab. “Take me to the Stuffed Dog,” she said. “And hurry. There’s a good tip in it for you.”

  “Sure, lady.” Before they pulled up to the small diner, they’d been airborne three times.

  She paid the cabbie, giving him enough to make him say, “Thank you !” She stepped into the street.

  It was almost two in the morning, a clear night with stars so cold they looked brittle. Steam covered the windows of the Stuffed Dog. Inside Brandi could see a dispirited waitress sitting on a stool at the counter and two bedraggled customers hunched over cups of coffee.

  Mossimo Fossera sat with his back against the far wall. The table before him held an empty plate and dirty silverware shoved off to the side and a silver laptop. He was tensely watching a movie on the monitor.

  But she knew it wasn’t a movie. It was the real thing. Inside the museum the Fosseras were filming Roberto as he worked and sending the feed to Mossimo.

  Mossimo faced the door so she couldn’t see the screen, but she was able to read his body language. It was like observing a man watching a football game. He flinched. He dodged. Once he stood up, then sat back down. She knew everything was going well or he wouldn’t still be there. Yet frequently his eyes narrowed and his lips moved in a disgruntled manner.

  She could read that, too. No matter how ruthless or clever he was, he had none of Roberto’s skills. Jealousy ate at him, greed kept him in his seat, and she was freezing to death waiting on the streets for Roberto to arrive.

  She shivered as the wind swirled under her coat.

  Unfortunately, she was literally freezing to death. She glanced at her watch. If everything went according to schedule, Roberto would be here in twenty minutes. Until then, she had to walk or she’d turn into a Popsicle before she could even start to save him from prison for eternity.

  She hurried down the empty street, then walked back to the Stuffed Dog and glanced in the window again.

  Mossimo was on his feet, grinning, holding his arms over his head and shaking his fists.

  Roberto had stolen the diamond.

  Well. He had landed on his feet. He was still alive.

  She paced away again. Her stiletto heels tinked hollowly on the frozen sidewalk.

  When she was at the end of the block, she heard a car coming. She turned.

  The brown Infiniti F45 stopped at the curb, and two guys draped in coats and scarves jumped out and went into the restaurant.

  She hurried toward the restaurant and arrived in time to see them peeling off their hats. She recognized them: two of the guys from Mossimo’s party. They handed Mossimo a small case; he opened it, nodded, and put it in his pocket. The two men took chairs behind Mossimo, and they listened as Mossimo waved at the screen and told them what had happened. Then they faced the door in an attitude of waiting.

  A woman’s slurred voice spoke near her shoulder. “I didn’t know they played football this late at night.”

  Brandi swung around.

  What looked like a short bundle of rags stood there weaving in the wind, but when Brandi looked closer she discerned two bright eyes and a smiling mouth.

  “It’s probably a rerun,” Brandi said. “It’s awfully cold and late.” And Roberto and Mossimo’s men were coming with the diamond. Then the trouble would start. This woman needed to be well away. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

  “Don’t you?” The little thing was a foot shorter than Brandi. She smelled of whiskey and garbage, and she shoved at Brandi as if urging her to leave.

  “I’m going to stay here until my boyfriend comes to pick me up.” Which was not really a lie. When he saw her, he was going to pick her up and run with her out the door.

  She hoped.

  “You see, that’s not a good idea.” The woman’s voice wasn’t as slurred now. “This is a bad neighborhood at night, and a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here. Why don’t I call you a ca
b and send you back to the hotel?”

  “What?” How did she know Brandi came from a hotel?

  “I can get you a cab,” the rag woman said clearly. Then she jumped as if stung. She pressed her hand to her ear. “Shit. All right. I’ll get in position.”

  Brandi stared as the woman shambled up to the door of the Stuffed Dog.

  Had the voices in her head told her to go in?

  A lone car drove down the street toward the restaurant.

  Brandi stepped into the shadows to see if it would stop.

  It did, and Roberto stepped out and headed for the door. Ricky, Dante, and Greg Fossera piled out and followed him.

  Brandi slipped in on their heels.

  Nobody paid any attention to her. The two Fosseras with Mossimo stood up and met the guys with Roberto, and the younger Fosseras laughed, slapped one another on the back, and generally acted like new fathers who had delivered their own baby.

  Roberto stood in the middle, smiling and accepting their congratulations as if they were his due.

  Stupid, lying, heartbreaking son of a bitch.

  The old rag lady and two customers seemed oblivious to the celebration—probably drunk or hungover or just too smart to get involved.

  Brandi wished she could be like them.

  Mossimo sat at his table, watching and sneering, looking like a fat toad.

  Brandi slid over close to the bar and the light switch, watching the scene, waiting for her chance, wondering if she really had the nerve to shoot someone and hoping that, if she did, it would be Roberto.

  Putting his fingers in his mouth, Mossimo gave a shrill whistle.

  The revelry died down at once, although the young Fosseras still grinned.

  “Where’s Fico?” Mossimo asked.

  “He didn’t show,” Ricky said.

  The men exchanged significant glances.

  “The next time anyone sees Fico, kill him,” Mossimo said.

  The restaurant grew chilly and quiet. The customers slid low into their seats. The rag lady slipped behind the counter and crouched down.

  Brandi slowly, quietly slid the safety off the pistol in her pocket.

  “But we didn’t need him,” Dante said. “There was an alarm we didn’t know about, but Greg here figured it out—”

  Greg wagged his head.

  “—and I disarmed it,” Dante continued with a return of exuberance. “Then Roberto went to work. He’s an artist. An artist, I tell you! No one even knows the Romanov Blaze is gone, and unless they look hard they’ll never know, because the fake we replaced it with looks good!”

  “Yeah, man,” Greg said. “We were slick! We were clean! We got the diamond!”

  “We did get it,” Ricky pointed out.

  “So where is it?” Mossimo snapped his fingers and pointed to his empty palm.

  Ricky indicated Roberto while Greg and Dante pretended to prostrate themselves before him.

  He drew out of his pocket a package about the size of his fist and wrapped in a black velvet drawstring bag.

  Stupid, lying, heartbreaking son of a bitch. When Brandi finished this, she hoped the feds would give her a cell next to Roberto’s so she could shriek her opinion of him for the next twenty-five years.

  He started to hand it to Mossimo.

  Heart pounding, Brandi drew her pistol.

  Roberto stepped back. “But first, Mossimo, what about my ruby? You promised me the Patterson ruby in exchange for my work.”

  Brandi slid the gun out of sight.

  Mossimo pulled the case out of his pocket and offered it to Roberto.

  “Let me see it,” Roberto instructed.

  “So distrusting,” Mossimo said in a chiding tone, but he opened the case and showed the gem to Roberto.

  The setting glittered, and shafts of fire glinted off its glowing red facets.

  Roberto nodded and smiled. “Bella.” He accepted the case, snapped it closed, and stowed it in his pocket.

  Then with the air of a showman, he cradled the diamond. He gave it a warm kiss.

  Brandi wanted to shoot him so badly the hand holding the pistol started shaking.

  He started to give it to Mossimo.

  Again Brandi pulled her pistol. She pointed it at him. “Roberto!” she shouted.

  Roberto wheeled around. At the sight of her, his incredulous expression gave way to terror.

  “Give me the diamond,” she said.

  28

  Guns appeared in every Fossera hand, pointing at Brandi, at Roberto, at one another.

  Mossimo snatched the diamond away from Roberto. “Kill her!”

  “Don’t shoot,” Roberto shouted. “For the love of God, don’t shoot!” He ran toward her, knocking chairs aside.

  One chair took Greg out at the knees.

  Greg’s pistol blasted. Ceiling tile and insulation rained down.

  Another chair sent Ricky backward over a table.

  In Roberto’s hands, the chairs were weapons.

  He raced halfway across the restaurant. One of the customers tackled him. They crashed to the floor and slid along the linoleum, hitting chairs like dominoes.

  “Kill them all,” Mossimo shouted.

  He left Brandi no choice. She leveled the pistol at Mossimo.

  From behind, someone grabbed her by the hair.

  She went down on one knee, the pain bringing tears to her eyes.

  “I got her,” the guy yelled, and twisted.

  Her hat slid over her eyes. She shoved it off.

  Joseph. It was Joseph, Mr. Nguyen’s murderer, the little prick who’d tried to kill Roberto and Brandi.

  How had he gotten here? Where was Tyler? What had he done to her mother?

  Getting her foot under her, she stomped on his instep, sinking her stiletto heel deep into his shoe.

  Yelping with pain, he let her go.

  “Brandi, get down!” Roberto shouted. “Drop to the floor!”

  So Joseph could kick her to death? No way.

  “Bitch. I’m going to kill you!” Joseph grabbed for her again.

  Ballerina Brandi performed a grand jeté that would have made George Balanchine proud. In stilettos. She hit Joseph right in the chest.

  He went down, arms flailing.

  She landed off balance, fell against the counter. She righted herself, but when she tried to put her weight on her foot, her ankle twisted.

  She glanced down. Her mother’s shoe. When she kicked Joseph, she’d broken the heel on her mother’s favorite Jimmy Choo shoe. Furious, she turned back to Joseph.

  Pandemonium reigned in the Stuffed Dog. Another chair smacked the wall. Fists hit flesh, and something cracked. Men and women were shouting, “Drop it! Drop it!”

  Joseph’s livid gaze had settled on Roberto. He lifted his knife, aimed it with the skill of a professional—

  So she shot him.

  The recoil slammed her elbow into the counter. The retort blasted her ears.

  The knife whistled past so closely it sliced off a piece of her newly highlighted and beautifully cut hair.

  Joseph screamed. Screamed like a little girl. He writhed on the floor clutching his thigh. Blood seeped through his jeans.

  Incensed, gun raised, she turned back to the room.

  The whole scene had changed.

  The rag lady was pointing a pistol—not one like Brandi’s, but a big long one—at Mossimo Fossera. The waitress held a shotgun. The two customers were pointing guns at the younger Fosseras, who were carefully putting their pistols down on the floor. People—agents—were pouring into the restaurant from the back and from the front, and they were all carrying guns. Shotguns and . . . well . . . some kind of really long guns.

  Roberto leaned against a table, shaking his hand as if it hurt and glaring at Dante, who was flat on the floor and holding his bloody nose.

  Brandi was a smart girl, but it didn’t take brains to figure out that Roberto had never faced a threat here. He couldn’t be any safer in a monastery.


  The agent who had been guarding the hotel, the one Tiffany had lured away, walked in. He looked at her in disgust. “You and your mother. Couple of smart-asses.”

  By that she assumed Tiffany was fine. Thank God.

  Roberto looked up at her. He sagged with relief.

  Then his expression changed. He frowned, and a fire lit his eyes.

  Yeah, she would bet he was mad. She’d interfered and screwed up his whole heroic operation.

  Too damned bad. Maybe he should have trusted her, like he kept saying she should trust him. “Bastard,” she said.

  With the noise in the restaurant, he couldn’t have heard her, but he read her lips. He walked toward her.

  “You double-crossed me!” Mossimo shouted, clutching the diamond to his chest. “You bastard son of an Italian whore! You double-crossed me!”

  Roberto stopped. He turned back to Mossimo. In a move so clean Brandi never saw it happen, he knocked Mossimo’s feet out from underneath him. The whole restaurant shook as Mossimo landed flat on his back.

  Roberto leaned over the wheezing bully. “The nice FBI agents are going to take you away now, Mossimo, and while you may not be happy to go to prison for two hundred years, I know one Fossera who will be glad to see you go.”

  “Fico. That turncoat Fico,” Mossimo said.

  “No,” Roberto said, “I was talking about your wife.”

  The FBI agents laughed.

  Brandi didn’t.

  “That jewel you’re clutching? It’s cubic zirconium,” Roberto said. “The real Romanov Blaze left the country three days ago.”

  Mossimo unwrapped the stone. He held it up to the lights. The facets glittered with glory, mocking him.

  Mocking Brandi.

  As hard as he could, Mossimo threw the fake diamond at Roberto.

  Roberto caught it, and in a gesture that celebrated his triumph, tossed it in the air. It landed in his open palm, and with a grin he closed his fingers over it.

  Celebration. Sure. If Brandi had pulled off a sting this complex, with the faked theft of a phony famous Russian diamond, the real theft of an authentic ruby, and the fall of an entire family of his grandfather’s enemies, she’d celebrate, too.