Last Man Standing

by Wendy Rosnau

  “I take it this has happened before. You don’t look too surprised.”

  No, he wasn’t surprised. His doctor had warned him that the scar tissue from his old wound had begun to strangle his spinal cord. Internal adhesions—those were the words used—were constricting the blood flow. He’d had a few problems with the scar over the years. But it had gotten a helluva lot worse since Milo’s boys had worked him over a few months ago and he’d wound up in the hospital losing a kidney.

  “Should I call someone?”

  “No.”

  She reached out and pulled his shirt from his jeans. When she began to unbutton it, he grabbed one of her wrists. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to check out the problem to see what I can do to help.”

  He shoved her hand away. “What you can do to help is go back home.”

  “You can’t feel your legs, can you?”

  He looked down to see that she’d curled her hands around his legs just above his knees and that she was squeezing. He knew that because he could see it, not because he could feel it. “Of course I can feel my legs.”

  Her hand moved to his front pocket.

  “What the hell are you doing now?”

  “I’m getting your knife so I can stab you in the leg. I wager a thousand that you won’t feel it go in or out.”

  Lucky grabbed her wrist again. “Go sit over there.”

  She tucked a black strand of hair behind her ear. “And if I don’t, what will you do? Get up and make me?”

  He let go of her wrist and drilled her with a look that normally sent his men running for cover, but it didn’t move her back even an inch.

  “That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, reached out and resumed unbuttoning his shirt.

  This time, as her fingers brushed his bare chest, Lucky closed his eyes and allowed himself the pleasure of actually feeling her hands on him. A minute later he felt cool air on his chest and knew she’d finished the task.

  Angry all of a sudden that he’d succumbed to her so easily, he said, “Anxious to get rid of your little problem, are you?”

  “My problem?”

  “Your virginal status,” he clarified.

  “Years ago it would have been considered a gift. But I suppose these days the real gift to the modern man is variety and experience.” She glanced at his legs. “It looks like I’m stuck with my problem, and you’re stuck with yours. I wonder which is worse—inexperience or inadequacy.”

  Lucky reached out and grabbed her arms, then jerked her forward onto his body. “My legs are useless at the moment, but everything else is working fine. Am I right?”

  Her sweet mouth parted, and she sucked in a breath of air. “Sì, ho capito. Now let me up. You’ve proved you’re still…capable,” she managed.

  “If you’re willing to do a little of the work, I could show you just how capable, Elena. We could start working on that experience you lack.”

  She squirmed, tried to roll off him, the friction only adding more fuel to his capability. He closed his eyes, hoping that would help take his mind off what her body was doing to him, but her sexy scent filled his nostrils, and the result was another inch.

  “Lucky…”

  Her voice told him she was aware of what had just occurred. He let go of her, knowing he was making himself suffer needlessly. He had no intention of sleeping with Vito Tandi’s daughter. He might want to, but he wouldn’t. Temptation was a fool’s game, and everybody in Chicago knew Lucky Masado was no fool.

  Chapter 4

  The rules on sex, dating and men are as follows, Lannie. Don’t ever let your body rule your head. Don’t say yes when you mean no. And never let a man get you cornered or down. Down as in off your feet and on your back. If it happens, Lannie, be prepared to feel the snake come alive. Am I making myself clear, darling? If you feel the snake, you’re in trouble and you must knee the beast and run. Run like hell, Lannie. That is, unless you want to be caught. You’ll want to be caught one day, darling. All women do. But we’ll talk about that when you’re older. For now I’ll ask Romano to teach you some self-defense.

  Her mother’s words had been offered to her when she was twelve, and Elena had gotten several more lessons on sex, dating and men in the years that followed. And defense lessons from Romano.

  Elena stood between Lucky’s legs, aware that what she’d felt moments ago had been the snake. Her gaze drifted to the front of his jeans. Not thinking too clearly, she asked, “Does this happen often? You know—” her eyes darted to his face “—ah, your back locking up and your legs going limp. I mean, numb.”

  She focused on the vivid scar that curled around his hipbone just above his jeans. It had to be the one, she thought. The legendary scar that went on forever. Did it go up or down? If it went up, it likely climbed his back to merge with the scar on his neck.

  Accustomed to touching people in her line of work, Elena reached out and ran her finger across the visible five inches of the questionable scar. “I went to school at a medical institute for myofascial therapy. My interest, in the beginning, was just to help my mother with her pain.” When he said nothing, she continued to carefully examine the portion of the scar she could see.

  Her professor at the college had told her that her personal experience with her mother had given her compassion, as well as the dedication needed to become an effective therapist.

  She asked, “When you lose the feeling in your legs, how long does it last?”

  He didn’t answer, which told Elena that he was either being stubborn for pride’s sake, or that the paralysis was still in an inconsistent state.

  She continued to study the thick fibrotic tissue, pressing into the scar with her thumb, adding more pressure as she moved it over the scar with immeasurable slowness.

  On an intake of breath, he grumbled, “Go ask Blacky for a bottle of Scotch.”

  She kept her eyes on her fingers as she examined the scar. “You don’t need more to drink. What you need is—”

  “Scotch, Elena.”

  His tone was razor sharp and she looked up.

  “Two bottles.” When she still hesitated, his nostrils flared. “Now!”

  Elena backed away from him and left the room. She found Blacky standing at the end of the red carpet enjoying the show on the catwalk. This time the half-naked woman was a six-foot redhead with breasts the size of Florida grapefruits.

  She quickly instructed him to bring two bottles of Scotch to number sixteen, and when she returned to the room, she saw that Lucky had pulled himself up against the headboard.

  “Blacky’s on his way with your order,” she said tightly. “What else will you be needing besides a new liver and a breath mint?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Sì. Come here, Elena. Come push one of these pillows behind me so I can sit up straighter. I’m helpless, remember?”

  “As helpless as a viper, you mean.”

  His gaze drifted over her, slowly and deliberately. “Come here.”

  She did what he asked. Rounded the bed and climbed onto the mattress. In the process of shoving a pillow behind him, a hard rap sounded at the door. It was the only warning they got before the door opened.

  Elena looked up expecting to see Blacky, then gasped when Moody Trafano walked into the room wearing his lizard’s grin and carrying Lucky’s two bottles of Scotch.

  This just wasn’t his night, Lucky decided as Moody Trafano kick the door shut. “Where’s Blacky?” he inquired, knowing the answer before he asked the question.

  “Taking a nap in number five.” Moody’s gaze locked on Elena. “You should have been nicer to me at the bar, doll.”

  Lucky tried to move his legs, but even as he worked at the hopeless cause, he saw Moody’s grin grow wide. The bastard had already guessed why he was still sprawled on the bed, instead of on his feet.

  “I thought it was all talk, you becoming a cripple. Guess there’s a reason for you drin
king a case of Scotch a day, after all.” Moody’s smile shifted to Elena where she sat on her knees on the bed. “You scared yet, doll? You should be. I don’t like mouthy women unless they’re on their knees.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “You don’t want to do this, Trafano,” Lucky warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you touch her. Kill you slow. Capiche?”

  “Maybe I’ll just have to kill you first.” Moody set one of the bottles of Scotch on the table. Opened the other one. Motioning to Elena, he said, “Unbutton your sweater and come here. I want to look at you.”

  Instead of doing as she was told, Elena rebuttoned the top two buttons on her sweater.

  “What’s the matter? Not as mouthy without a knife, doll?” Moody tipped up the bottle, took several swallows. “It’s too late for regrets, sweet milk. You should have given me the respect I deserve.”

  “You don’t know what the word means,” Elena replied.

  Moody raised the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he set the bottle on the table. Then he pulled his dark green sweater off over his head to reveal a clean-shaven muscular chest. He flexed his biceps. “Come on now, doll. We both know you’re not shy, so bring that sweet ass of yours over here.”

  Reaching for the bottle, Moody pulled a chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Taking a seat on it, he tipped his head back and chugged more liquor.

  “Don’t get off the bed, Elena,” Lucky whispered. “Stay where you are.”

  “And that’s going to help us in what way?” She whispered back. “Maybe if I pretend to like him, I can—”

  Lucky gripped her wrist. “Don’t leave my side.”

  “You can’t move, remember?” She twisted her wrist free.

  “Do as I say, Elena.”

  “Give me your knife,” she suddenly suggested. “The Hibben, not the Haug. I’ve never liked how that style handle fits my hand.”

  Her words brought his head around, his eyes searching hers. “How do you know what I’m carrying or the difference between…”

  His thought process shifted when he felt her hand on his hip. Remembering how quickly she’d stolen his knife at the bar, Lucky covered her hand with his, then curled his fingers around hers and slowly squeezed. If he wanted to, he could break her fingers one by one. “I’ll handle this,” he mouthed at her.

  She mouthed back, “Without legs? I don’t think so.”

  Moody finally came up for air after he’d drained half the bottle. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.”

  He licked his thin lips, studied the last two inches in the bottle. As he tipped his head back to drain what was left, Lucky slid his hand to the front of his jeans and unzipped himself.

  “What are you doing?” Elena whispered.

  “Handling it,” was Lucky’s answer as he slid his hand into the opening to palm the .22 tucked next to his groin. Then, easing the weapon out through his open fly, he aimed it at Moody Trafano’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

  Elena fidgeted in the back seat of a cold taxicab. The aging Buick sat idling nosily under a lamppost behind the Shedd.

  Thirty minutes ago she’d been escorted out the back entrance into the alley by Blacky—who was wearing an angry purple welt on his forehead. There, he had placed her in the cab and told her to sit tight.

  The image of Lucky’s hand going into his jeans by way of his zipper and coming out with a gun flashed behind Elena’s eyes. What followed was Moody Trafano screaming in pain as he toppled off the chair clutching his shattered knee.

  She’d never witnessed a man being shot before. The blast had made her ears ring and she’d felt physically sick. Dazed, she’d been unable to move as the door had flown open seconds later and a man brandishing a .38 had charged inside demanding, “Dammit, Lucky, what the hell’s going on in here?”

  She had learned minutes later that the man was a cop, as well as Lucky’s friend. Jackson Ward was as tall and dark as Lucky, with a heavy-hitter voice and an aggressive nature. In short order, he’d looked over the situation, sworn when he locked eyes on the smoking gun in Lucky’s hand, then promptly went to work.

  In mop-up mode, he had flashed his badge at a number of curious employees and customers who had collected in the hallway, establishing himself as the one in control of the situation. After that, he’d handled everything with the efficiency of an army general while Lucky had continued to lie on the bed.

  Moments ago a van had pulled into the alley and Blacky had carried Moody Trafano out and loaded him into it. Elena imagined that he would be taken to the hospital. Either that or…

  No, if Lucky had wanted him dead, he would have killed him, instead of wounding him. There had been no hesitation or indecision as he’d aimed and pulled the trigger.

  Elena laced her fingers together and worked at peeling another layer of skin off her lower lip. It felt raw and it stung, and yet she had continued to nervously pull off layer after layer.

  She sighed, glanced at the back of the cabbie’s head, then at the people who passed by on their way to wherever they were going at one in the morning.

  Lucky carried a loaded gun between his legs. The reality again sent Elena’s heart racing. What kind of man did something like that?

  As if the silent question summoned the man himself, Lucky stepped out the back entrance of the Shedd into the blowing snow smoking a cigarette. He was walking on his own power, moving as if nothing was wrong with him.

  Her gaze drifted…settled on his crotch. Was it there? Was the deadly little .22 there inside his jeans?

  Jackson Ward came through the door seconds later. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket similar to Lucky’s minus the bullet holes—yes, Elena now believed that was exactly what they were. Jackson stopped beneath the street lamp to exchange a few words with Lucky, then climbed into the van with Moody Trafano.

  When the van drove away, Lucky’s gaze shifted to the taxicab as he continued to smoke his cigarette underneath the street lamp, blowing smoke into the crisp cold air. A full minute later, or maybe two, he started forward, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth with a casualness that said he’d been at it a long time.

  Elena watched him close the distance, ripping another layer of skin off her lip. He tossed the cigarette before opening the back door of the cab. Climbing inside, he brought with him the renewed scent of Scotch and a blast of cold air.

  She shivered, scooted along the leather seat to give him room. Her coat wasn’t meant for winter weather, and she burrowed into the seat, wishing she’d taken the time to buy something more substantial.

  “Paulie, let’s go,” he said to the cabbie.

  Elena wondered if they were friends, or if Lucky knew all the cab drivers in the city.

  As they swung into the traffic, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Home.”

  She had been looking straight ahead. Now she snapped her head around and looked at him in the dark of the back seat. “Home? I’m not going back to Santa Palazzo without—”

  “My home.”

  “Oh.”

  A horn honked as Paulie floored the cab and crossed lanes, then turned right at the next corner. The sharp turn sent Elena leaning into Lucky. She jerked herself back, but not before their eyes locked.

  She quickly angled her head to stare out the window.

  “So now you’re afraid of me,” he said. “Is that it?”

  She looked back at him, the smell of liquor drifting up between them—that noxious sweet odor that couldn’t be ignored no matter how hard she tried. “No. You were protecting me. Grazie.”

  It was clear why he drank. But alcohol wasn’t going to fix his back. It might dull the pain he was experiencing temporarily. But eventually he was going to have to address whatever was causing the paralysis.

  Her gaze drifted to his legs and she tried to imagine him in a wheelchair. The thought made her shiver, and she hugged herself.

  He must have
noticed because he said, “Paulie, turn up the heat.”

  “You got it, Mr. Masado.”

  The heater made a high-pitched buzzing noise as it sent a blast of warm air into the back seat. It was followed by a ringing sound that had Lucky sliding his hand into the inside lining of his jacket to retrieve his cell phone.

  Flipping the phone open, he said, “Talk fast, I’m busy. Palone… Now? Do you know what time it is? Non posso. I’m busy at the moment. Why not tomorrow? All right, dammit! Tell him, yes. I’ll be there.” After he’d pocketed the phone, he said to the cab driver, “Take the next exit, Paulie, and head north. There’s been a change in plans.”

  Lucky hated the idea of taking Elena with him, but he couldn’t very well leave her somewhere alone. And if he dropped her off at Joey and Rhea’s penthouse, he would have to explain what she was doing in Chicago.

  For weeks he’d intended to tell his brother the truth—that Elena wasn’t their sister. But he’d put it off, looking for the right time. It would take some extensive explaining, and at the moment he didn’t have a couple of hours to untangle the lies and make sense of the whole complicated story to Joey’s satisfaction.

  “Punch it, amico. Dante Armanno in ten minutes.”

  “Ten,” Paulie promised, then pressed the accelerator.

  “How is Rosa and your boy?” Lucky asked, trying to take his mind off the woman beside him.

  “Fine now that Tito has come home. He is doing much better, too.”

  Lucky dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a card and dropped it over the seat. “Tell Tito to call me if he’s looking to earn some money. I have a job for him if he’s interested.”

  “Grazie. Rosa bake you her special focaccia. You know she is a good cook.” Grinning ear to ear, Paulie floored the gas pedal the minute he pulled onto the Kennedy Expressway.

  Lucky glanced at Elena, who was trying hard not to look at him. He knew the incident with Trafano had shaken her. At Santa Palazzo she was used to a quiet sheltered life. Though not too sheltered, he reminded himself, recalling how she’d handled his stiletto in the bar.