by Howes, Ann
Something flickers across his face and for the millionth time I wish I could read what was going on inside that handsome head.
“Never mentioned he saw you. Were you two dating again?”
For a moment I consider lying, to see his reaction, but I decide no. I’m not into playing mind games. “No, we weren’t.’
“How about telling me when you got back to San Francisco?”
“Three months ago, but why does that matter?”
A muscle in his jaw ripples. “Explains a few things. Were you ever gonna come by and say hello?”
“To you?” My brow creases.
“Yeah, De Luca. To me.”
I have no answer to that as I’m not about to tell him that to preserve my sanity I’d erased him from my head.
He studies me for a while, then gives a little shake of his head, like he was about to divulge something, but changed his mind.
“Were you seeing him again?” The pitch in his voice lowers and for some reason he seems more imposing. As if that big, solid body got bigger. “And this time I want the truth.”
“I already told you no. Why do you keep asking?”
“He was my brother and if…”
“Yeah? He was your brother and you never thought I was good enough for him. Probably still think it, don’t you? You were always such an asshole to me.”
He puts his glass down and takes a step closer, forcing me to look up into those eyes, now stormy and clouded yet shimmering in the low light.
“Yeah, I was. I’ll admit that. Was it him?” he asks suddenly.
Huh? “Was what him?”
His finger brushes my cheek, just below my eye. “Did he hurt you?”
“No!” My eyes pop wide and I push his hand away. “Why does everybody think that?”
“You knew him so well, you tell me.”
“Joey would never hurt me.”
“You sure about that?”
Okay. He cheated on my ass but I’m pretty sure that isn’t what he means.
“Yes, I’m sure, and you’re too close.”
“Then back up.”
“You back up.” I jam a finger into his chest. It may as well have been a fly because he doesn’t even blink. “What’s your problem with me, Gianni?”
“Don’t have a problem with you, De Luca.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’ve got it backwards, woman.”
“Backwards?” This time I use both hands to shove him away. It still has no effect on him, but the heat from his body burning through my hands sure has an effect on me.
Dammit.
“How?”
“Careful.” He growls. “You put your hands on me you better be prepared for what you get.”
“What am I going to get? More proof you’re an asshole?”
“You need more proof?”
“Nope. Got all I need.”
The next second, in less time than it takes to blink, one arm snakes around my waist slamming me flat against his body. The other tangles into my hair, tugging my head back.
I gasp, my fingers curling into his tee-shirt.
“The fuck you playing at?” A pulse beats wildly in his temple as his heart thumps against my knuckles.
His anger is hot and his body solid everywhere. He lowers his head, lips hovering over mine. My heartbeat ticks up and my mouth dries in anticipation. How would he taste? Like man, sex and wine? My tongue touches the split in my lower lip and he stiffens, then sucks in a hard breath and shuts his eyes. A moment later he pushes me away.
First disappointment, then rejection wrap around me in equal measures like the cold San Francisco fog. I turn away, mostly to hide the humiliation on my face.
“You’re fucking dangerous,” he says in a voice that’s rough and a little harsh.
My brows furrow. I’m dangerous?
“I made a mistake coming here tonight.” Then his gaze turns flat and drops to my mouth. “I’m gonna go before I do something stupid that we both regret.”
“Then why did you come? You could’ve given my glasses to Billy, or, wow…here’s a concept. Stuck them in the mail.”
Really, how fucked up am I that not a single molecule in my body wants him to leave?
He stares at me for a long time before he hooks his jacket and tosses it over his shoulder.
“I’ll let you figure that out,” he mutters, snagging his helmet then marching to my door.
Thank God I have a healthy dose of pride, and do nothing to stop him.
Damn him.
He called me dangerous, but he’s the one who has the power to ruin me, ruin my heart again and, therefore, probably my life.
I flop onto the barstool, rest my elbows on the counter and groan into my palms.
Dammit to hell.
His wine glass mocks me. I pick it up and consider throwing it across the room. Instead I place my lips on the faint smudge on the glass indicating where his lips were, and sip. Likely the closest thing to a kiss I’ll ever have from him.
The put-put of Harley pipes breaks through the city noise below, and because I’m an idiot, I move to the window and watch him pull away from the curb and roar down the street.
Some men look good on a bike. Gianni looks like he was made for one. His tail lights glow red as he approaches a street sign and without coming to a complete stop, he turns the corner and disappears behind a building, into the night.
I stand at the window until I can’t hear him anymore and I’m not sure how long it takes after that before I become aware of the tears sliding down my cheeks.
5
What’s good for the goose
* * *
Saturday dawns clear and beautiful. Birds chirping, angels singing and all that shit. The same can’t be said about my head. It pounds from lack of sleep, too many tears and way too much alcohol.
I’d love to waste the day in bed watching TV, wallowing in misery. Too bad my phone’s vibrating on my kitchen counter with a text.
Groaning, I stick my toes out from underneath my warm old comforter, testing the air before slipping off the bed and into the kitchen. With each step my frontal lobe thumps, punishing me.
Thoughts of Gianni’s rejection play on a loop in my head and regardless of what I did or how much wine I drank, (which was a lot) they were there to stay.
My phone, lying next to the Sig, vibrates again.
Billy: Target practice at ten. Bringing breakfast.
Crap.
According to my phone that’s an hour from now. No chance of going back to bed and sleeping today away. I blow air through my lips, making a sound that reminds me of a Harley, so I stop.
After setting my coffee pot to brew, I pop two Advil, hit the shower, then stop dead at my reflection in the mirror.
Lovely!
A hungover vampire with a shiner.
As the coffee aroma wafts through my apartment, my stomach grumbles. I pour a cup, add milk and sugar and wait for the magic to work. After my second cup, and slightly less hungover, I shimmy into skinny blue jeans, a hooded pink sweatshirt and thick-soled, clunky combat boots I bought from an army surplus store.
Billy arrives, bearing a white box full of freshly baked goodies and my apartment smells like a French patisserie.
“You’re going to make me fat if you keep feeding me like this,” I say, biting into a chocolate covered doughnut. It’s warm sweetness dissolves in my mouth and suddenly my day already looks better.
“These are fantastic. You weren’t kidding when you said Carmine did a good job.”
Billy grunts as he bites into a bear claw. “Told you.”
“Okay, you’re forgiven,” I say.
“For what? For feeding you?”
“For telling Gianni where I live. I was contemplating shooting you last night.”
He shoots me a sideways look. “Why’s that a problem?”
“He was here.”
“Again…why is that a problem?”
“It de
pends on what you told him.”
“About Melnikov?” His thick black eyebrows rise.
I nod.
“We didn’t talk about him. It was before I came over. He said he wanted to return your sunglasses. Was that not why he came?” He’s still eyeing me.
I shrug and look away. “I think he’s curious about me and Joey.” I take another nibble, swallowing it with the last of my coffee. Billy hands me his mug. I point to the pot, but he shakes his head and I dump them in the sink.
“What about you two?” he asks.
“There was nothing. We hung out a couple times. If Dean thought I was seeing anyone else, things wouldn’t have gone down well.”
“Things didn’t go down well, kiddo.”
No shit.
“Let me ask you, what did Alfie mean by suggesting Joey should’ve stayed out of trouble?” I wash the two mugs with a soapy sponge and place them on a wooden dish drainer.
“He had issues. Stuck his nose into something he shouldn’t have.”
I snort. “The whole family is into something they shouldn’t be.”
“Not so much anymore. Things have changed since you’ve been gone. Gianni’s gone legit.”
“Legit?” I pull my head back in surprise. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Ever since the old man died five years ago.”
Wow.
“He’s a good man, Shelley. Don’t judge him too harshly.”
“What makes you think I’m judging him?”
He gives me a don’t be stupid look.
I sigh.
“You could use one in your life.”
Yeah. Problem is he’s not available and he rejected me.
“That’s what I have you for.” I squeeze his arm. “Are you done? Let’s head out, it’s a gorgeous day and I hate to waste a well-caffeinated sugar buzz.”
Even if I am still hungover.
Billy chuckles and closes the pastry box while I grab my keys and sunglasses. I stash Ziggy, the Sig, in my purse and hustle Billy out my apartment door, making sure to lock the deadbolt.
“Where’re we going?” I ask as I push the down button for the elevator.
“Shooting range on the Peninsula. A friend of mine runs it, so behave yourself.” He gives me a look that tells me he’s only half joking.
I pout. “I’ll do my best.”
We reach the lobby and exit through the doors, dodging a young couple coming in. The woman, my neighbor, shoots me a smile as she passes by. This must be the third guy she’s brought home this week. Lucky her! I can’t even get one to kiss me. Doesn’t do much for my self-esteem.
We step outside into the late fall sunshine. There’s no wind and the bay glitters like a giant blue sapphire. Seagulls are everywhere. Two screech and fight over the remains of a roast-beef sandwich someone dropped on the sidewalk.
We cross the hilly street, wait for a passing car and climb into a red Land Rover. After we merge into the city traffic I take a deep breath, bracing myself for things I may not want to hear. But if I don’t ask now, I probably never will and I have to know.
“Billy, what do you remember about Dad’s murder? Did they ever figure out who killed him?”
“No, kiddo.” His voice carries a tinge of regret. “Just a random drive-by. Your dad was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Random.” I shake my head and turn in my seat to face him. “You know how many times Mom said that? Just a random accident.”
He takes his eyes off the road for a second, his expression solemn.
“I have issues with that.”
“I get it.” He nods. “I had issues with that for years. Asked around, because, believe me, I wanted to kill the bastard. Lost my best friend that day and somebody was gonna pay.”
“I can’t help thinking there was more to it.”
“I was angry for a long time,” he says, “but I kept getting the same answers over and over. Nobody knew anything and at some point, I had to let it go and that wasn’t easy for me.”
“Mom never shared details. What happened, exactly?”
“She didn’t for a reason, honey. You sure you wanna know?
“If I don’t, I’ll always wonder. And if I’m always wondering, how can I move past it?”
Billy grunts, seemingly wrestling with sharing the details. “Remember Papa’s brother Joseph?”
“Uncle Joe?” Joeys namesake. “I met him at the Sea Cliff house many times. Who could forget that nose?”
“Poor bastard got his looks from the other side of the family.”
“Or those eyebrows,” I say. “They were like black caterpillars. I kept waiting for them to turn into demonic butterflies and take off.”
“That was him.” He clears his throat and takes a moment before he continues. “Anyhow, they were in a meeting at Joe’s restaurant and the bullet came from the street. Hit your dad in the throat and he bled out. There was nothing anyone could do.”
“In the throat?”
“Yup.”
God.
My sugar high nose dives.
“Who was in the meeting?”
“Papa, Joe and your dad as far as I know.”
“Was it a hit? I always wondered if Papa or Uncle Joe knew anything.”
“No.” He’s silent for a long moment. “That I'm certain about. I checked it out. Quietly, of course. Jimmy was valuable. Too much information went with him.”
Tears burn the corners of my eyes. My father lying on the dirty floor of a grubby little restaurant. Bleeding to death, choking on his own blood is not something I visualized before.
“God, that’s messed up. No wonder Mom never wanted to tell me. I guess she didn’t want that in my head.”
Billy nods, and digs in his pants’ pocket. The Land Rover swerves a little when he pulls out a handkerchief and passes it to me. I eye it, grateful it looks clean, then blow my nose.
“Always thought it was a retaliation thing, you know,” I say after a while. By now we’re heading south on Highway 101, about to leave the city and I stare at the traffic, not really seeing anything.
“We all did. For a long time. The Cadoras were in a beef with the Caruso family at the time, but they weren’t involved,” Billy says quietly.
“The Carusos? I remember them trying to inch in on Uncle Joe’s chop shops.” Even though I was protected from the details of whatever went down about the encroachment, I still heard things. Like Mickey Caruso, second-in-line and son of Frankie Caruso, fire-bombed Uncle Joe’s garage. He ended up with a bullet in both his legs. I never knew who put them there, but I had my suspicions. Billy wasn’t the enforcer for nothing.
“Yep. Bad bunch of fuckers, most of them dead or in prison. Partnered with the Russians. Big mistake.”
“I never understood why Mom made us leave so suddenly. I always thought since everyone we knew was here, it would have been safer for us to stay.”
“What matters is, it made sense to her at the time. You all got settled in a new life and she didn’t want to uproot you again.”
“How sure are we it was random?”
“No one copped to it. Ever! And that just don’t happen. I had feelers out, all my informants had their ears open. Someone always talks, they get drunk and stupid enough. But no one did.”
We drive in silence while I process this. Finally, we take an exit, a left, another left, and pull into an empty parking lot. The shooting range is next to a tidal canal fed from the bay where several Canada geese have taken up residence.
A lone pair stretch their necks and honk as we select a spot. One makes a show of spreading its wings and flapping them.
“You okay?” Billy asks me, eyeing the birds, assessing the risk of getting out of the car.
I sigh and nod. “I’ll be fine. All of this is new and I still don’t understand why she’d never talk to me.”
“Need a minute?”
I shake my head. “Let’s do it. It’ll take my mind off.” I blow my nose agai
n and shove the handkerchief into my purse. Then pull my hair into a ponytail.
“Right,” Billy says. “Let’s head in there before the masses arrive. We’ve a private session.”
He opens the door and steps out of the car. “Jesus,” Billy exclaims, side-stepping the pair of pissed-off geese. “What the hell is up with these birds?”
They honk and stalk us as we cross the parking lot until we’re out of their territory, entering through double glass doors into a large front room. Posters of the Avengers and X-Men decorate drab, gun-metal gray walls, but other than that, the place is pretty stark.
A tall, muscular man in a tight camouflage tee-shirt standing behind the L-shaped glass counter recognizes Billy.
“Son of a bitch,” he says, his face lighting up. “How you doing, man?” He and Billy do some complicated man-greeting, hooking fingers and bumping fists, while I admire a bulging arm inked with a saluting soldier wrapped in an American flag.
“And who’s this?” His eyebrows shoot up as his gaze rests on my black eye.
“I’m Shelley.” I extend my hand.
“Okay,” he says, taking it. “I get it.” His grin dims a little. “You need protection from the dipshit who pounded on your face. I’m Bob, by the way.”
He has moss green eyes, dark auburn hair in need of a cut and a very nice boy-next-door face. He holds my hand, still grinning until I let out a self-conscious giggle.
“Let her go, Bob,” Billy interrupts, frowning, looking between Bob and myself. “She can’t shoot when you’re holding onto her.”
“Yes sir,” Bob responds, flicking Billy a grin. He indicates with his head. “This way.”
Once inside an office, he reaches out his hand. “I have to inspect your weapon and ammo, check they’re in good shape.” He shrugs without taking his eyes off me. “Protocol.”
I remove Ziggy from my purse and pass her over.
He checks her, breaking her down into separate components, inspecting the barrel and other parts before putting her back together again.
“Nice choice,” he pronounces. “The Sig’s a good weapon as long as you take care of her. Make sure you clean after each use.”
He fits us with safety glasses and protective ear-gear and leads us down a long hallway to the shooting booth while going over some rules. “Load your weapon. Let me see your stance.”