Love on the Edge: Nine Shades of Romantic Suspense, page 41
“Wait, Carmine, we should probably search him. He might have a piece on him.”
Carmine looked incredulous. “Him? He’s a soccer player, whatta they know about–”
“If you was in Sandro’s position, you might start packing, don’tcha think?” Joey explained to Carmine, who obviously wasn’t too bright.
The light dawned in Carmine’s gaze. “Oh, yeah.” He patted Sandro down, found Marisa’s cell phone in Sandro’s pocket, determined it was okay, then continued his pat down. “He’s clean,” he said smugly.
Sandro adjusted his suit jacket and followed Carmine and Joey to a back room. Carlo hunched over a table, talking on his cell phone, surrounded by the remains of a takeout lunch. Sandro recognized the boxes from his restaurant.
At first, Carlo only gave a passing glance, then his gaze came back, his eyes widening. He quickly ended his call. Stuffing the phone in his jacket pocket, he stood and walked toward Sandro. With a wave, and an “outta here,” Carlo dismissed his two men.
“Sandro!” Carlo kissed Sandro on each cheek, then wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him toward the table with all the enthusiasm as if he were a long lost relative. “Nice to see you looking so well.”
Sandro didn’t buy the friendly act and knew any moment Carlo’s boisterous and fake enthusiasm would turn deadly quiet. Sandro didn’t allow his guard to lower.
“Sit down, sit down,” Carlo said, taking his seat, expecting Sandro to do the same, though the order had been couched in the most polite tone.
“I like the new look.” Carlo nodded, referring to Sandro’s short hair. “No wonder my men have had trouble locating you.” He took a sip from his wine at his right hand. “Ah, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?” He held up the glass as an invitation. “Or join me in Georgio’s excellent ravioli?”
Sandro only shook his head.
Carlo set the glass down, then leaned back in his chair with his hands folded over his stomach. He stared at Sandro. “I never would have guessed you’d give up your ponytail. Like that guy in the Bible, Sampson, who got his great strength from his hair—
“Samson,” Sandro corrected.
“Si, Si. I suppose I thought you might be suspicious and think your great soccer skills came from your hair.”
“I no longer need my skills for soccer, so it doesn’t matter if my hair is gone.”
“A pointed reference, I note. And a sound of blame, perhaps? You think you’ve had to give up soccer for me? If you’d only done what I had suggested, you would still be at the top of Serie A.”
Suggested? They had been out-and-out death threats. First in Italy. Then the same here in the United States—this time with nowhere else to run. “There is nothing honorable about following a criminal. I achieve my success on my own.”
“Sandro! Are you saying I am not an honorable man?” Carlo asked, ignoring Sandro’s reference to calling him a criminal. “Am I not a good husband to my poor invalid wife, a good father to my children? Do I not take good care of my ‘family’?” He spread his arms to indicate all the people around him. “Did I not take care of you? Is your restaurant not prosperous?”
The so-called good husband, the man responsible for making his wife an invalid, had a new mistress every month. And, because her father deemed it necessary, his children—at least Marisa—had been brought into the life of crime against her wishes. As for Sandro’s restaurant—
“My restaurant was successful before you ever came here.”
“Yes, it was,” Carlo conceded. “But I could have ruined it. Any business I want destroyed in this city—all I have to do is say the word. But because we were old friends, and had done business together before, I made you a part of my new family.”
“I want nothing to do with your ‘family’. Never have, never will. I want nothing to do with you.”
“You wound my soul, dear boy.” Carlo laid his hands dramatically over his heart. “I, who have loved you like a son, would have done anything for you.”
“Your price is too high, Carlo.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” Carlo asked, narrowing his eyes at Sandro. “I’m asking myself a question,” Carlo continued as if he didn’t expect an answer. As if Sandro had no way to defend himself. No weapon to fight with. “‘Why is he here?’ I say to myself. If not to dishonor himself to work with me, then why?” He cocked his head inquiringly. “Do you wish to plead for your life? Plead for your family, your very young son and lovely wife?”
“I do not come here to beg.”
“Then why do you show yourself? Ah,” he continued once again not allowing Sandro a chance to answer. “You must think you have something to bargain with. Some deal you want to make.”
Sandro knew Carlo was shrewd. A quick mind had kept the mobster in business and one step ahead of the legal system all these years. Still it was fascinating to watch Carlo’s brain work.
For once, Carlo waited expectantly for Sandro to answer.
Dragging out the moment, Sandro knew just how he wanted to jab the knife into Carlo, an inch at a time. He planned to start with Marisa.
But Massimo walked into the room before Sandro could speak.
He stopped behind Sandro. “I heard Sandro’s here.”
So much the better. Sandro could watch both their faces. He turned to face Carlo’s son. Massimo’s eyes widened. “It’s you! Your hair. It is gone.”
“Si, Massimo, we have already had this discussion,” Carlo said. “Very smart of Sandro I think, to cut his hair. But we knew he was intelligent.”
Massimo pulled out a chair at the table. Sitting down, he said, “I can’t believe you came here. You certainly have balls.” He turned to his father. “What’s he have that he thinks will keep him alive?”
“I don’t know,” Carlo answered. “We were just getting to the bargaining stages I think. Isn’t that right?”
“Si, I have a proposition for you.”
“I saw Nia earlier today.” This from Massimo, and obviously designed to throw Sandro off guard. From the look on Carlo’s face, Sandro suspected the news was just as much of a shock to him. But Carlo quickly recovered.
Sandro struggled to resist the urge to rip off Massimo’s head, while Carlo nodded as if the news were expected.
“And how is she feeling?” Carlo asked.
“She is feeling just fine.” This was said in a lewd tone to match Massimo’s wolfish grin.
With the deliberate emphasis on “feeling” and the self-satisfied grin, Sandro knew without a doubt Massimo had been touching Nia.
Sandro saw red. The whole world in front of him went fuzzy then burst into the brilliant bright color. He clenched his jaws and cautioned himself to patience. Self-control lay at the heart of a good soccer player. All his plans would do no good if they were forced to kill him now.
“I am glad to hear she is feeling well,” Carlo said to Massimo, then turned to Sandro. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”
Having no idea what Carlo meant, Sandro tried to keep his face blank and waited expectantly for Carlo to continue with his revelation. A revelation, no doubt calculated for the most emotional response. Carlo didn’t disappoint.
“It is always joyous to learn you are going to be a poppa again, don’t you agree?”
A poppa…again? Dio, was Nia pregnant? The idea slammed into Sandro’s gut. He searched his brain for any remembered sign. Had her breasts been fuller? Had she been more tired lately?
He couldn’t remember; he had been so caught up in his own problems of working with the FBI to rid himself of Carlo, he must have been neglectful. Remorse tore through him.
“Are you feeding her properly?” he asked, hoping to cover his lack of knowledge.
Carlo looked offended. “Of course we are feeding her properly. We wouldn’t defy una donna incinta proper nourishment.”
“Is she eating the food? Has she been sick?”
“Such concern is wonderful to see. Yes, I believe Angie said she is eating well. And she was rather ill one time, but none since, I don’t believe.”
Suddenly, Sandro had to know more. “What of my son? Is he safe?”
Carlo smiled at the desperation Sandro had unintentionally allowed to slip into his voice. It was like a cold stab of reality. Sandro forced himself back under control.
“Daniele is safe and happy with his momma. As long as she behaves herself, he will stay with her.”
Sandro allowed an inward smile that Nia had so obviously caused them trouble. Though he regretted the trouble that led to his son’s abduction and zio y zia’s injuries, and deaths of Dave’s men, in no way did Sandro blame her. Carlo was the one to blame. This whole disaster would not have happened without Carlo’s orders.
And even though so much tragedy had come as a result of his son’s abduction, perhaps Daniele was safer with his mother. Sandro knew she would die before she allowed harm to come to their child.
“Of course, how long they are safe is up to you,” Carlo pointed out. “And whether you decide to cooperate.”
“I rather hope he doesn’t cooperate,” Massimo said to his father, then turned to Sandro. “Nia is a beautiful woman. I have offered to take care of her—and your children, of course—once you are dead. With her fiery temper, I bet she is magnifico in bed.”
Sandro came up out of his chair and went after Massimo without a conscious thought other than to stomp the last breath out of the little bastard’s body.
Massimo jumped out of his chair, but Carlo moved quickly to intercept Sandro, shoving against his chest. Almost in his face, Carlo said in his deadly quiet voice, “Perhaps you see how much risk your family is in now. My son…well, he’s my son and I love him very much, of course, but sometimes he is rather…rough with his women. You understand?”
Brilliant stars burst in Sandro’s head, blurring his vision. Nose to nose with Carlo, Sandro’s breath came heavily as if he’d just run the length of a soccer field, flowing hard through his widened nostrils. He gritted his teeth, and forced control back into his body. As his vision cleared, he noticed at a glance that Massimo had wisely backed away from him.
Sandro turned to Carlo. And said deliberately. “I have your daughter.”
Carlo backed away. “Is this a threat?”
“If you love her, it is. Earlier you said you were a good father, no? A good father loves his children.” He pulled out Marisa’s necklace and dangled it in front of Carlo. “Recognize this?”
Color faded from Carlo’s face. “Si.”
“I want my family back. If you want your daughter back, you will be willing to make a trade.”
“Do you honestly think I believe you will hurt her?” Carlo quickly recovered from his initial shock.
“Do you honestly want to find out?” Sandro deliberately mimicked Carlo’s words.
“No, Sandro, you are a good boy.” Carlo smiled. “I do not think you would harm my daughter.”
“I am a desperate man, Carlo. Surely you know not to underestimate a desperate opponent. You know of what great lengths I go to on the soccer field when the situation is desperate.” Sandro had never hesitated to sacrifice his body if it meant a win for his team.
Carlo’s smile had not wavered. It was time to present him with the second part. “I have your money as well.”
Carlo’s smile dropped off his face. “Che?” Then he laughed. “You have my money? You are talking nonsense.”
“Unfortunately, you are wrong. Your money in your overseas accounts…I’m afraid it’s quite gone.” Sandro reached into the inside pocket on his suit jacket and pulled out the hard copy of Carlo’s accounts with the balance at the end of each account summary printed as a big fat zero.
“You see, you have no more money. Poof. No more. I have it all now.”
A red so bright it almost looked purple rushed into Carlo’s face. His eyes bugged as he stared at the papers. “Let me see.” He snatched the papers from Sandro’s hand. After studying them a moment, he reached into his pocket for his phone. He punched a number.
Nearly successful at regaining his composure, Sandro stood by and watched Carlo sweat.
“This is why they got Roberto,” he mumbled, when apparently no one answered.
“Roberto was understandably in the way, of course,” Sandro conceded.
Carlo’s eyes narrowed.
“In case you don’t believe me, though, I’ll give you time to think about it. I’m sure you might even want to put in a call to the bank managers. Let’s see, your banks are six hours ahead of us, so they are closed now, of course. You should be able to reach someone by two a.m. I’ll expect to hear from you after then. If not before.
“I have Marisa’s phone.” Sandro pulled the cell phone from his pocket to show a stunned and surprisingly quiet Carlo. “Call me on it.”
“What do you want, Sandro?” Carlo finally found his voice. “What do you hope to gain?”
“It’s very simple. I want my wife and child back. Your daughter for my son. Your money for my wife.”
“I can have you all killed when this is over.”
“Oh, Carlo, such a threat.” Sandro’s gaze narrowed. “It is not good to threaten an enemy when he’s holding all the cards. Perhaps then, you’ll be the one to die.
“I see in your eyes you do not believe me capable of murder, do you? Remember what I said. I’m a desperate man. I’ll do anything to keep my family safe. Including murder.
“So perhaps it will be better for us all to make this deal and live happily-ever-after, each going our separate ways. Remember, I’ve gotten the best of you once. I can do it again.”
Sandro turned to walk out. At the doorway, Carlo called to him.
“Sandro! While you are waiting for my answer, think about my son…and your wife. Together.”
Rage poured through Sandro as he turned back to Carlo. In his own deadly quiet voice, Sandro promised, “If Massimo touches Nia, I will rip him apart piece by piece.”
*
In the seconds after Sandro’s departure, Carlo stood stunned and silent.
Finally, Massimo spoke. “Poppa, let me go after Sandro. We can hold him hostage, too, torture him for the information. Do you not think he will talk as he watches me with his wife?”
A new respect entered Carlo’s eyes. “Very good, son. Very smart of you. Yes, yes, get him.”
Eagerly, Massimo took off running, pulling the gun Angie had taken away, then returned to him, out from beneath his jacket. He stormed into the front room. “We have to stop Sandro!” he ordered.
Instantly, three of his men were with him as he burst through the front doors. To be met with two men armed with semi-automatics.
“Going somewhere?” one of them asked.
Massimo and the other three stopped in their tracks. Pedestrians scattered away from the unfolding deadly drama.
“Drop the guns and hands up,” the man said. “That’s right.”
In frustration, Massimo raised his hands as he saw Sandro enter the passenger side of a car down the street. Massimo made mental note of the make, although the car was too far away for him to see the license number.
He turned his attention back to the men in front of him. “I know you,” he told the man who had been doing the talking. “You’re Frankie.”
Frankie only nodded.
So, the FBI was still helping Sandro, Massimo thought. Bad news for now. Good news for later. If Sandro was working with the law, then he wasn’t going to carry out the death threats he made. Massimo smiled to himself. Sandro was going to suffer. Massimo would make certain.
Frankie glanced down the street and saw Sandro drive off. “We’re just going to leave now.” He nodded to the other man who backed his way to a car parked out front and got into the driver’s side.
“And just in case you’re thinking of following us, Massimo…” Frankie turned to Massimo’s car and sent a spray of bullets into the tires. “…You’ll have to change the tires first, or find another car, I’m afraid.”
Frankie backed toward the car as his partner started the engine.
Massimo heard a noise behind him, from right inside the club. “Drop Massimo,” Joey whispered from the doorway.
Keeping his gaze trained on the agent getting into the car, Massimo yelled, “Now,” and he and his buddies hit the ground while Joey sent bullets flying toward the two agents.
*
“Shit.” Frankie stumbled backward from the onslaught, then sent more bullets toward Carlo’s club. “Haul ass,” he told Tony, diving into the car.
Tony stomped on the gas and pealed out of the parking place. Frankie covered them with bursts from his semi-automatic, not wanting to think of all the paperwork this shootout was going to cause him.
When they were out of range, he leaned back in the seat, his heart pounding. “Man, that was close.”
Tony looked at him. “Jesus, you’re shot.”
Frankie glanced at his shoulder and laid a hand over his wound, squeezing. “Just in the arm. I’ll be okay. My vest saved me from anything worse. Hurts like hell, but I’m okay.
“Think they’ll follow?”
Tony looked in the rearview mirror. “Oh, yeah, they’re following.”
“Let’s lose them, then.”
“Pedal is to the floor.” With that, the car jumped forward.
Frankie clicked the mike on his walkie-talkie, then turned to look behind him. “Sandro’s away, but they’re in pursuit. I’m sure Massimo got a good look at the car Steve and Sandro are in. We’re ready for phase two.”
Phase two was “Stop the Bad Guys.”
Frankie waved at the driver of a garbage truck as they sped by. A minute later, with perfect timing, the big truck pulled out and parked across the road. Tires squealed and then a crash rocked the big truck.
Frankie leaned back and grinned.
*
Luigi hurried toward the elevator of Marisa’s apartment building, not stopping for idle chitchat with the doorman this time. He punched the button and waited impatiently for the doors to open. Traffic had been a bitch, there had been some wreck with a garbage truck and it had taken him almost twenty minutes to detour around the snarl.
