The Name of Honor

by Susan Fanetti

  Giada shimmied to his side in that sultry silk gown and took his hand again. “Okay. In a minute you can show me what you got.”

  “I’m not doing some Footloose thing with you, doll. I’ll dance, but I won’t perform.”

  “Don’t call me doll, Angelo. I’m not a doll. Or a girl.”

  He looked down into her determined eyes. What color was that green? Was it jade? “No, you’re not.”

  She was a helluva woman, in fact.

  The terrible song ended, and the bandleader said, “Okay, we’ve had a couple requests already, so we’re gonna shift gears a little and see if we can’t get everybody on the dance floor. Here’s an old standard done our way.” He counted off a beat, and then the band jumped into ‘Fly Me to the Moon.’

  “You got them to play Sinatra? How the fuck did you manage that?”

  “I’m a dealmaker. Making people think what I want is what they want is what I do.” She tugged on his hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

  Angie’s taste in musicians from Jersey was more Bon Jovi than Sinatra, but everybody loved Ol’ Blue Eyes. This band’s version of the song had a sort of poppy twist, but the singer had a great, rich voice, and it worked. Even the youngsters cheered, and the dance floor filled up.

  Angie took the lead and spun Giada onto the floor before it filled up so much he didn’t have room. She laughed as he caught her in his arms. Smiling up at him, she set a hand at the back of his neck. He held her other hand up and put his free hand at the small of her back. He drew her close, so her gorgeous dress brushed his legs, and showed her what his mother had made him learn so he would have the tools he needed to fall in love.

  ~oOo~

  “Tell me.”

  Nick handed Angie a crystal glass of scotch on the rocks and sat in an armchair at one side of the sitting area of his hotel suite. Donnie sat on the same sofa with Angie, at the opposite side. They were all still wearing their tuxes, though they’d loosened their ties and opened the most constraining buttons, at the throat.

  It was past two in the morning, and Nick look exhausted. Once, and not so long ago, he could have gone through a whole night of dangerous work and not shown fatigue.

  This was the first time since the attack on Dominic’s that Angie had been with the don at so late an hour, he realized. In this moment, in privacy and at the end of a long day, Angie saw something new, something he didn’t want to face. Nick had weakened.

  No. Absolutely not. He was just tired. They all were. Angie probably looked like shit, too.

  He pushed the awful thought away and answered his don’s demand. “There’s not much to tell that you don’t know. I think you probably saw more than I did. My attention was on Giada.”

  “We noticed,” Donnie said, with a strange edge on his voice.

  Angie started to ask what he meant by that, but Nick spoke before he could. “Give me a read on that clash with Tommy.”

  The words jammed up in Angie’s throat, and the hesitation surprised him. He sipped his scotch to cover the pause. “I think he beats her—or there’s a history like that, at least.”

  Donnie muttered fuck, but Nick only nodded. “How’d you get that read?”

  “The tension between them was right for it, you know?” That hesitant tightness in his throat was still trying to block up his words. He coughed, but that didn’t help. He felt strangely guilty—probably for not doing more at the time. “And he grabbed her arm, hard, left a mark that took about fifteen minutes to fade. I thought I was gonna have to get between them and punch the stronzo, but she shook him off.” Searching Nick’s intense eyes, Angie asked the question he’d grappled with: “Should I have?”

  “You wanted to,” Nick said. Which wasn’t an answer—or really a question, though Angie understood an answer was expected.

  “Of course I did. He was hurting her, and I was right there, like he didn’t give a fuck who saw him do it.”

  Nick contemplated his own glass of scotch for a moment. “I trust you, Angie. To know the right thing, and remember what’s at stake.”

  That wasn’t an answer at all, as far as Angie could see, but he knew he wouldn’t get more. He accepted Nick’s reply with a nod. After another drink of his scotch, he asked, “Did you learn what you wanted to learn?”

  Just then, Nick cleared his throat. That clearing became a cough, and then he was coughing hard, enough to be worrisome. He sat forward with the back of his fist across his mouth, the other clutching the arm of his chair, and the coughing took him over.

  Angie jumped up to find water, and he nearly crashed into Bev, who’d come flying out of another room in the suite, with a bottle of pills.

  She wore a hotel robe, and her hair was down from the elegant style she’d worn for the reception. Bev had been a beautiful woman once, but she hadn’t really bothered to fight the aging process. She was in her early fifties, only a few years older than he was, and just letting her hair go grey and her body go soft. She always dressed nicely, did her hair and wore makeup, but she looked her age. It was a damn shame, if anybody asked him.

  Giada was practically ageless, because she took care of herself. Damn, that woman was gorgeous. And so fucking smart.

  “He needs water,” she ordered, and Angie snapped to. He couldn’t believe that blip of a thought had taken him over for even a half-second at that moment—dissecting the looks of Nick’s wife? Comparing her to a chick he barely knew? While something was clearly wrong with Nick? Shit, he was obviously tired, too. No other reason—and no excuse.

  Angie got the water. Nick’s cough had calmed down, and he pushed Donnie, who’d stood at his side with a hand on his shoulder, away. Bev shook out a couple of pills from the bottle in her hand. As she moved to hand them to him, Nick picked up his glass of scotch.

  Bev grabbed for the glass, and then Angie saw something that shocked him out of his socks. Nick’s hand slammed down on his wife’s wrist, and he snarled at her. “Beverly, stop! Enough!”

  The coughing jag had strafed his voice, but the bark in his tone was clear, and Angie had never, not in more than twenty years, heard Nick speak to his wife like that. His love for Bev was the stuff of weepy movies and fairy tales. And his impulse to protect her was practically feral.

  Bev simply froze. She didn’t back off, or come back at him. She stood where she was, with Nick’s hand on her arm, and, after a beat, spoke in a quietly firm voice. “I’m not going to let you drink these down with scotch, Nick.”

  Angie felt his mouth trying to grin at that. He glanced at Donnie, who was still watching Nick, so they missed that chance for nonverbal communication. The thought of anybody letting Nick do something—or not letting him do it—was pretty funny, even now.

  The don’s grip eased from Bev’s arm. “I’m sorry, bella. But I’m okay. I don’t need them.”

  “Nick.” Just that, his name. But they all knew she’d won their battle. She looked up. “Water?”

  “I got it.” Angie brought it over. With a keen, still irritated look at his wife, Don Pagano set his scotch down and took the water. Bev handed him the pills, and he swallowed them down with a long drink.

  He didn’t protest when Bev picked up his half-drunk scotch and carried it to the bar. She turned to face the men. “It’s late, guys. Can you pick this up tomorrow, after everybody gets some sleep?”

  Nick laid a serious look, heavy with intent, on her. Angie knew that look. The don’s patience was stretched. “We’re almost done. Go on.”

  Bev wanted to push more, and she stood there and stared back for a second, but finally, she conceded. As she headed out of the room, she paused and looked to Donnie. “It’s late.”

  “Beverly.” That one word, just his wife’s name, throbbed with the same power as his name in her mouth had.

  She nodded. “Good night, guys.”

  Donnie and Angie both responded in kind.

  ~oOo~

  They did wrap up after just another few minutes, without getting into any more de
tails about the night. Neither of them asked Nick about the coughing, because they’d known he’d say only that he was fine.

  Angie and Donnie strode the short distance down the hall to Donnie’s suite next door to Nick’s. Angie’s room was on the same floor, but he’d taken a regular room, seeing as he had no woman to pamper and didn’t really care about hotel luxury, so he was around the corner.

  The elegant corridor of this hoity-toity hotel was fairly crowded. Pagano men—Angie’s men—were on guard detail on this side, where Nick and Donnie and their women were staying, patrolling the floor and stationed at the elevators.

  Angie wanted to talk to Donnie, about the reception, and about Nick, but it was clear he wasn’t in the mood, and there were too many ears around. So, at Donnie’s suite, before he used his keycard, Angie simply asked, “Anything I should know?”

  “Nothing pressing. We saw what Nick wanted to see, and some things we weren’t expecting. But it’s good. We’ll talk on home ground. It’ll keep till then.”

  “Okay. See you on the flip, then.”

  “Night, Ange.”

  Donnie slipped into a dark room. Angie stood where he was until he heard all the locks engage.

  ~oOo~

  He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not unless he hit the mini-bar with gusto, and he wasn’t doing that so far from home, with Nick and Donnie away from the security of the Cove.

  That security had been sorely tested last summer and found wanting, so Angie had been working since to improve it. But here in Manhattan? If anybody wanted to totally destroy the whole fucking American Mafia, they could get a good start tonight, with just about everybody of note, from the East Coast to the Nevada desert, in one place. Even the New York families had booked rooms here for the weekend.

  The room felt hot. Angie went to the thermostat, but it was set at 68 and wouldn’t go lower. He didn’t know if that was some money-saving thing of the hotel or if it was broken. He flicked it with an aggravated finger and gave up. Instead, he tore off his shirt and undershirt and hurled them toward a chair by the window. He kicked off his shoes and sent them in the same direction.

  Jesus, he was restless. A hundred thoughts whirled in his head, throwing shit around willy-nilly in there. He was worried about Nick. He didn’t like being so far from home in this hotel full of Mafiosi and surrounded by Feds. He was still pissed at Tommy for the way he’d come at Giada, and pissed at himself for not getting in his way. And he wanted to know Nick and Donnie’s thoughts about the reception—what had they learned? What had his hanging with Giada all night accomplished?

  Giada. It hadn’t been hard duty at all to pay her some attention. She was smart and savvy. She was sarcastic, but she delivered her barbs with a smile, so you were bleeding before you knew you’d been cut. He appreciated that kind of humor best of all. She was easy on the eyes, and she’d felt good in his arms while they’d danced. She’d taken lessons, too, and was a good partner. He hadn’t minded whirling her around the dance floor.

  When the band played more of that shitty music for the youngsters, they’d simply gone back to the bar to talk. Not about anything deep. Mainly, they’d remarked on the wedding guests. Giada was a natural people-watcher, too, and had noticed almost as many details as he had.

  He’d caught Tommy’s eyes several times, and the don was always angry and suspicious. This was one of the primary reasons he really, really wanted to talk to Nick and Donnie about the night. There’d been several points where Angie had sort of forgotten the purpose of his spending time with Giada and simply been spending time with her, and he was worried they’d been too chummy for their audience. Nick wanted rumor, not scandal. He’d wanted nothing more than a room he could read. If Tommy was alerted to the chance for trouble, then Angie had blown this evening badly.

  Shit, he’d even almost kissed her. She’d gone to the ladies’ room, and, because it was ingrained in him to be protective, he’d followed after her, waiting in the discreet nook where the restrooms were tucked away.

  She hadn’t known he’d followed, so when she came out, he got a wry chuckle and a pat for his trouble. Good guard dog, she’d said with that distinctive twist of a smile she made when she said something with a claw at its tip.

  He didn’t know why, but that moment shifted something a little, and they’d both just stared at each other. She’d stepped in close, and he’d known what she was after. He’d almost given it to her, almost leaned down to kiss her. He’d wanted to, for sure. His cock had been all the way in on the idea, in fact. Not that he’d had any faith it would have continued to cooperate if he’d gone so far as to get her naked.

  That thought had been the dash of icy water he’d needed, and he’d remembered himself and stopped before he’d made any kind of move.

  Kissing Giada Sacco at Vio Marconi’s daughter’s wedding would have been a serious gaffe. Possibly the life-ending kind. Kissing her anywhere would be stupid as fuck. They didn’t need Tommy’s antennae pinging trouble ahead of time. Also, Nick didn’t want Angie truly involved with Giada; he’d said that straight out. He wanted rumor, not scandal. And no divided loyalties.

  I trust you, Angie. To know the right thing, and remember what’s at stake.

  Suddenly, he thought he understood Nick’s cryptic statement, which had been an answer after all. He had been too friendly with Giada, and Nick had seen it. He’d gotten wrapped up in her actual company and forgotten the point of the job.

  Fuck.

  Angie found himself some scotch. He’d just dropped some ice into a glass when there was a knock at his door.

  It was two-thirty in the morning.

  He set the glass down and pulled his Beretta from its shoulder rig. Padding on his sock feet, he sidled to the door and checked the peephole.

  Giada Sacco was standing there. She wore a red silk robe, and her hair was down from its twist, lying in waves over her shoulders. She stared straight at the peephole, meeting his eyes.

  His cock went hard at once.

  Fuck.

  ~ 8 ~

  Giada stood at Angie’s door and waited. She’d passed a couple Pagano guards on her way from the elevators, and she knew they’d taken keen notice of her, but she’d ignored them.

  It would be harder to ignore them on the return trip, however, if she were forced to walk away from this closed door and go back to her own room.

  Earlier in that room, as she’d worked her way out of her dress and freed herself from the corset, she’d played the evening over in her mind. Flirting with Angie had been much easier, and more enjoyable, than she’d anticipated. He had a keen sense of humor and a sharp eye on the world. Yes, he was a typically boorish he-man with a double dose of brash, but he was intelligent, too.

  Of course he was smart; he was the Chief Operations Officer of Pagano Brothers Shipping, the capo in charge of security and enforcement for the Pagano Brothers Family, and one of Nick Pagano’s closest advisors. Nick wouldn’t keep a fool so close to him, or give him such power in all his businesses.

  She’d also replayed that scene with Tommy—Tommy’s behavior as well as Angie’s reaction to it. And something interesting had occurred to her. Something that had incited a change in strategy.

  She knocked again, watching the peephole.

  Was he already asleep? Or not in his room at all? She very much did not want to walk away from this door right now. That would be a walk of a different kind of shame—and would complicate the first plan and its revision as well.

  Finally, she heard the security bolt shift, and the lock turn. The door opened, and Angie stood there, half-dressed, his white dress shirt open over a bare chest. A thick rope of gold chain held a crucifix just below the notch of his throat. The ridges of his abdominal muscles peeked enticingly from between the unbuttoned plackets of his shirt.

  His face had taken on a heavy shadow of beard; she hadn’t noticed that happening over the course of the evening.

  To the personal assets of good humor, sharp percept
ion, and keen intellect, add rugged good looks and an excellent physique.

  This change in strategy had myriad benefits.

  But he was frowning. “Giada, what’re you doing here?”

  She smiled. “I couldn’t sleep. You either, apparently.”

  His brow drew in more tightly as his confusion deepened. “I haven’t tried yet.” He ducked his head out, over hers—without her stilettos on, she only came up to about his shoulder—and checked the corridor.

  “Only your men saw me. There’s no guard on me.”

  His head jerked down. “You’re not protected?”

  “No.” Tommy wouldn’t think of it. Giada wasn’t part of the underworld, officially, no matter how much of that business she handled, and if she were taken he’d let her be killed rather than bow to a ransom, so there was no need, in his view, to protect her.

  Still frowning, Angie took her arm—gently—and drew her into his room. “That doesn’t mean you’re not watched.”

  Of course she was watched. “True. But it occurred to me we can use that to our advantage.”

  He closed the door and locked it every way he could. “What do you mean? I was just thinking we maybe raised too many questions tonight, with your brother especially. We played it up too well.”

  Giada walked away from the door, into his room. Not a suite, just a regular room, without a park view. No doubt he could afford a suite, or at least a view; she found it interesting that he’d chosen something humbler—within the context of any room at the Ritz.

  There was a 9mm Beretta sitting on a dresser, beside its shoulder holster. Giada understood the delay in answering the door: he must have gone to the door with his gun, seen who was waiting, and set the gun aside. It didn’t account for all the time she’d waited, but almost enough. Maybe he’d been in the middle of undressing when she’d first knocked. In fact, his shoes and the long tongue of his undone bow tie were tossed haphazardly at a chair.

  She turned to face him; he stood near the door, his hands in his trouser pockets. When she walked toward him, he stood straight and locked his shoulders, like he expected her to hit him.