Last Man Standing

by Wendy Rosnau

  After Lavina ushered them to the quiet corner spot, she disappeared with their coats. Lucky pulled out a chair for Elena, and once she was seated, he took the chair opposite that allowed him to sit with his back to the wall and gave him a view of the entire room, the entrance and the hallway that advertised rest rooms.

  When Lavina returned, Lucky said, “Vina, this is Elena. Elena, this is Jacky’s mama.”

  The woman’s smile was genuine when she locked eyes with Elena. “Jackson said you looked like your mother. He just never mentioned how much.” She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “My condolences on the passing of your father.”

  “Thank you,” Elena said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ward. You have a charming restaurant.”

  “I’ll bring menus and a bottle of vino della casa.” Her eyes shifted to Lucky. “Or do you want—”

  “Wine is fine. But we’ll forgo the menus. Elena wants to try your famous monkfish and linguine, Vina.”

  Elena opened her mouth to protest, then just as quickly smiled. “Yes, please. I’ve heard it’s the best in the city.”

  “I make it with aglio and a pinch of zenzero. You will like it.”

  After Lavina returned to the kitchen, Elena refocused on Lucky and found him staring at the ruby cradled in her cleavage.

  She’d chosen a black scooped-neck sweater and black pants to wear to the lawyer’s office. She touched the ruby. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  His eyes lingered a moment longer, lingered until Elena felt a warm flush surface on her cheeks. Finally he said, “Sì, very beautiful.”

  Lucky was right about the monkfish. Elena had never tasted anything so delicious. It was understandable why the small restaurant was so popular.

  There wasn’t one patron in the restaurant, however, whom Lucky didn’t take apart from head to toe. Elena noticed he’d taken a special interest in a dark-haired man across the room from them. He was a big man with a face like a bulldog and a scar that disfigured his nose.

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  “No one you will ever meet. Ignore him.” Lucky shoved his empty plate to the side and reached for his wine glass.

  He’d had only one glass of wine with his meal, though Lavina had left a full bottle. Elena wondered about that. Wondered if the therapy sessions had relieved enough pain to negate his need for alcohol, or if something else had caused him to let go of the Scotch. But she knew something was different—he no longer smelled like a distillery.

  He emptied his glass of wine as she took the last bite of her fish. When he set the glass down, he asked, “Are you ready?”

  “Are we in a hurry?”

  “No.”

  “I liked the fish,” she said softly.

  “I knew you would. Let’s go.”

  “I thought we weren’t in a hurry.” She glanced at the table where the man with the ugly nose had been sitting. He was gone.

  “I should get you back.”

  “Before we return to Dante Armanno, would you take me by the house where you and Joey grew up with Frank?” When he looked as though he was going to say no, Elena reached out and took his hand. “Don’t say no, Lucky. Please.”

  It was like many of the neighborhoods in Little Italy, run-down and in need of serious repair. The Masado house was a small two-story brick structure, but a step above the ones on either side. A large oak tree graced the front yard.

  Elena climbed out of the Ferrari, noticing the young boy shoveling the snow off the path to Lucky’s house. Or trying to. Five boys of similar size were giving him a hard time.

  “Stay here,” Lucky told her as he rounded the car and strolled up the path. He said nothing as a warning, simply walked into the group of boys and put his arm around the one with the shovel. Elena heard Lucky call the boy Tito. She remembered that was the name of the cab driver’s son from the other night.

  Suddenly Lucky was holding the shovel, and he had persuaded four of the boys to back off. Then she heard him say, “If he stays on his feet, another of you will take a turn at him. Then another and another. No knives.” Then he smiled at the boys, who were suddenly fidgeting and eyeing one another with worried looks on their faces.

  One of the boys said, “It’s him, ain’t it? Nine-Lives Lucky.”

  Another nodded. “We’re all dead.”

  “No,” Lucky told the boy. “A little smarter tomorrow, maybe. Sore in a few places, but not dead.”

  It took fifteen minutes for Tito to show the bullies he knew how to fight. And yes, the boys would be sore tomorrow, all five of them.

  As they walked down the street, each one of them nursing a bruise or wiping blood, Lucky said to Tito, “You wait too long to throw your left, amico. Twist your body and use your legs, too. One, two, three, jab. One, two, three, kick. Mix it up. Move. Always move.” He took hold of the teenager’s chin and eyed the growing bruise on his cheek. “Go home. You can finish this tomorrow. Have you been keeping Lavina Ward’s walkway shoveled, too?”

  “Yes. Just like you said I should. And her roof.”

  “Good. Keep up the good work.”

  Once the boy left, Elena came forward. In the past week she had gotten to know who Lucky Masado really was. She knew he was the most feared soldato in the city, but also the most respected. Her father was right. He was the American Armanno.

  “So this is how you used to spend your days as a young boy. Fighting in the street.”

  He smiled that half smile that told her his body was never without pain. “Sometimes.” He gestured to the house. “This is it. Where Joey and I grew up.”

  “Can we go inside?”

  He studied her a moment. “I suppose this is what I get for making you eat monkfish. A tour of my humble beginnings. Though I did notice you almost licked the plate.”

  His teasing was followed by an awkward moment of silence. Abruptly he took her arm and escorted her up the path. They climbed four steps, then he unlocked the door with a key he’d produced from his jeans. As soon as he closed the door behind them, Lucky said, “I’ll turn up the heat.”

  When he disappeared down the hall, Elena walked into the living room. She noticed a row of pictures on an old upright piano and walked past the couch to look at them. One, she assumed, was a picture of Lucky’s mother. She was pregnant, and a small boy stood beside her. She was a pretty woman with dark hair and eyes. She looked happy.

  When Elena turned from examining the pictures, she found Lucky standing next to a table a few feet away. She hadn’t even heard him enter the room.

  He reached out and turned on the lamp. “Seen enough?”

  “Have you always lived here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother… Frank said she died.”

  “Yes. She died in the hospital having me.”

  It was the first that Elena had heard of that. He held out his hand and she stepped forward and took it. He led her down the hall, then into the kitchen. This room was brighter, the shade at the windows covering only half the glass. He pulled it up, then pointed to the fence that lined the backyard. “See that tree a couple of houses over? The big one with the crazy branch?” He pulled her in front of him. “See it?”

  “The twisted branch?”

  “Sì, that’s the one. I fell out of that tree and almost broke my neck when I was four. Got my first scar that day. That white house there.” He pointed. “That’s where Jacky grew up. Where we all grew up, you might say. I spent more time there the first fifteen years of my life than I did here.”

  Elena turned, knowing it would put her in his arms. For days she had been able to touch him at will in the therapy room, and it had only served to make her more mesmerized by him. “And this first scar,” she said softly, “where is it?”

  “Left shoulder.”

  Elena nodded, remembering it. “Two inches long. More than a scratch.”

  He stared down at her. “We should go.”

  “I haven’t seen the rest of the house yet.”
<
br />   “It’s nothing special, you can see that.”

  It was special because he’d lived here, but Elena kept her thoughts to herself. He stepped back and they left the kitchen. When she saw the stairway leading to the second level, she headed for it.

  “Elena, there’s nothing up there. Just bedrooms and a bathroom.”

  “I’d like to use the bathroom if you don’t mind.” She turned on the third stair. “Is that all right?”

  “First door on the left.”

  She climbed the stairs, found the bathroom. As she returned to the hallway minutes later, she left her coat on the stair railing and went room to room in search of Lucky’s bedroom. It was the smallest room, the one with the least amount of books and clutter. How she knew that, she couldn’t say.

  Spying a hinged wooden box on the dresser, she rounded the double bed and opened it. Inside she found several colorful small rocks, a pocket knife and two crudely carved wooden animals.

  “This is the second door on the right, Elena.”

  She jumped. Turned.

  Lucky was leaning against the wall. He’d shed his jacket, leaving him in one of his collarless hemp shirts. She liked his shirts, liked how they opened at his throat and draped his broad shoulders. Liked the fact that he never took off the unusual cross that hung around his neck. Not even when he was on her therapy table.

  “Why is your room half the size of the other two?”

  “I don’t know.” He crossed his arms and sent his gaze over her. “Maybe I don’t need a lot of space.”

  “How long have you lived here alone?”

  “Five years.”

  “And this room, how long have you had this room?”

  “Since I was born, I guess. Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

  “It’s not late. It’s two in the afternoon.” She glanced at the bed. It had no bedspread, just a blue blanket that appeared to have been washed too many times. Leaving the box open, she crossed to the bed and sat. “My father told me the day before he died that becoming his heir makes you the richest man in Chicago. But you don’t care, do you? What do you care about, Lucky?”

  “You ask too many questions, Elena.” He shoved away from the wall, held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Instead of getting up, Elena lay down, resting her head on one of the pillows. “Make love to me. Make love to me here.” She touched the space beside her.

  He dropped his hand. “Be careful, Elena.”

  “I don’t want to be careful today.”

  “Get off the bed, Elena.”

  “I know you want to. Be my amante, Lucky.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Would you be my lover if I wasn’t a virgin?”

  “If you think this is going to buy you another day or two at Dante Armanno, you’re wrong. No more deals. No more games. I’m flying you home tomorrow night.”

  Elena had never thrown herself at a man before. It wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. She knew Lucky cared about her. Knew by the way he looked at her, by the way he wanted on top of her, as he’d once put it.

  But suddenly she felt cheap and embarrassed. She sat up quickly, glad when her hair swung forward to hide the color flooding her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, then bolted past him and out the door.

  “Elena!”

  She wasn’t going to cry, she promised herself as a ball of humiliation swelled her throat and made it hard to breathe. God, what had she been thinking, begging him like some pathetic desperate virgin?

  She heard him coming after her, heard him swearing.

  She ran faster, determined to get away.

  He caught her before she reached the stairs. Grabbing her arm, he spun her around even as he propelled her backward and up against the wall. His jaw was set and his nostrils were flared. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. But it didn’t matter. He was there, and she felt his warm breath as he swore at her, damning her. Damning the situation. Her father. His father. Then he was no longer saying anything as his mouth covered hers.

  His hot demanding lips jolted Elena’s senses. She opened her eyes, jerked her head back. “No,” she protested. “No!”

  “Dammit, don’t say no,” he demanded. “It’s too late for that now.”

  Suddenly his hands were on her hips and he was pulling her away from the wall, cupping her backside to bring her against him. He was hard as steel, and the feel of his desire stopped Elena’s struggle.

  Quieter now, against her lips, he whispered, “Let me in.” His mouth nipped at her upper lip, then brushed over her warm cheek. “Let me have your gift.”

  The power of his words, the heat of his hard body, made Elena’s knees weak. His hands moved to the buttons on her black sweater, and she sank against the wall in surrender. In a matter of seconds, her sweater was open and his hands were shoving the sweater off her shoulders, revealing her sheer blue bra.

  He leaned back and looked his fill as the cool air puckered her nipples. Then he was groaning and lowering his head.

  The feel of his mouth on her breast sent another rush of heat into her veins. Elena bit back a strangled moan. Unable to stop herself, she arched her back and fed herself to him. “Yes,” she moaned softly. “I’ve been dreaming of you there. Everywhere. Don’t stop. Piacere, Lucky,” she sighed. “Don’t stop.”

  Chapter 10

  Lucky carried Elena back into the bedroom, then set her on her feet, his gaze searching her face for any sign that she’d changed her mind.

  But there was no indication that she was anything but willing to continue what they’d started in the hallway. Her sweater was still out there, and she stood looking at him, wearing a sexy sheer bra that hid nothing from his eyes. The bra and her mother’s ruby necklace.

  All morning he’d been aware of her black pants hugging her hips and butt. Aware of her sexy scent and the way her black hair shone in the sunlight.

  She had a beautiful face, and her body was just as beautiful. He knew that because he’d seen her naked on the beach at Santa Palazzo. He’d seen the swell of her breasts and the flare of her hips. The length of her legs. The black curls between her thighs.

  Yes, he’d watched her when she was unaware he was looking, but this time he wanted her to know he was looking.

  The situation was complicated, and nothing had changed that. But he wasn’t going to walk away this time. He couldn’t. She wanted him, and he had wanted her since he’d seen her on the beach.

  She must have thought he was going to change his mind, because she shook her head and said, “Don’t think too much,” then reached out and undid several buttons on his shirt.

  When she leaned forward and kissed his chest, he closed his eyes, her velvety mouth causing desire to pool low in his gut. He felt her fingers free more buttons. Felt her sweet breath warm his skin.

  “Elena…”

  “I like the way you hold on to my name when you say it,” she whispered. She sent her tongue over his nipples. “You say it like—” she looked up “—like I’m torturing you.”

  She had that right, Lucky thought. She had indeed been torturing him since the day he’d laid eyes on her.

  He needed to get his gun out of his pants before the damn thing went off. He set her away from him, then unbuttoned the top button on his jeans and slid his hand inside. While she watched, he pulled the .22 from its warm resting place.

  “Are you planning on shooting me?”

  The question parted his lips in an open smile. “No, I just don’t want to go off too soon.”

  Her innocent blush could melt snow, he thought. It had certainly melted his heart. And mushed his brains, he conceded. Why else hadn’t he come to his senses yet?

  He laid the gun on his dresser and stepped back close enough to touch her. To have her touch him.

  She didn’t hesitate. She spread his shirt wide and kissed his chest, ran her fingers along his ribs. He moaned, slid his hands over her backside and squeezed gently. “You don’
t act like a virgin, Elena. Maledizione, you make me hot.”

  With his words, she stopped torturing him and stepped back. “Meaning what? I’m lying?”

  “No.”

  “Meaning I’m not shy like the others you’ve had?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that, either.” He eyed the gold ring in her navel. “I couldn’t say how other virgins act. I’ve never had one.” She seemed surprised by his claim and that annoyed him. “Is that a problem for you? Looking for a pro the first time out?”

  She backed up, folded her arms over her breasts. “You’re right, maybe a pro is what I’m looking for, after all. Maybe—”

  “Unzip your pants, Elena. We’re going to do this. We’re going to do everything, as you put it. You started this, and I’m going to finish it.”

  She glanced at the bed.

  “You picked the place. It’s too late to order a king-size and room service. Pro or not, I’m your ride. So take ’em off. Take ’em off slowly.”

  He backed up, reached behind him and closed the door, then leaned against it.

  She did the same, backing up in the opposite direction until she met the wall. Still shielding her breasts with her crossed arms, she relaxed against it. “What if I’ve changed my mind?” she said softly.

  “You haven’t changed your mind.”

  Her pretty lips parted, and she shifted her eyes to his crotch. “You like to watch, don’t you? Is that why you hang out at the Shedd? Why you followed me on the beach?”

  “Pull ’em down, Elena.”

  She uncovered her breasts and raised one long leg and unzipped her short black boot. Slow and easy, she pulled it off, then tossed it at him. He caught it and waited for the next one. It sailed across the room a few seconds later.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  Her counterplay surprised him, but he dropped her boots and shoved away from the door to pull his shirt off his shoulders, then threw it at her.

  She caught it. But instead of dropping it, she slipped it on and her lovely breasts became a mystery once again.

  “What kind of game are you playing now, Elena?”