by Misty Evans
How many times had he covertly checked her into the spa? How many times had he helped her through withdrawal? Even threatening to put her in jail hadn’t done the trick, and eventually, as their relationship continued to fall apart, he’d thrown her dealer in prison. Within days of completing yet another rehab stint, he’d found her passed out on the bathroom floor, cocaine dust under her nose.
Tracee never went anywhere without paparazzi following her, and sure enough, as he scanned the parking lot, he saw a man with a camera duck behind an SUV. A car trolled the lot, bypassing open spaces, probably another tabloid reporter.
Great, that’s all he needed. “It’s good to see you,” he lied, “but I have to get back to work.”
He turned to go and she grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Vic, I’m sorry. I really am. Don’t go. I want to talk. Like the old days. I’m clean now, and I’d really like us to try again. I mean it. For real this time. You were the best thing I ever had in my life. I know that now.”
The same old words. He remembered the hope he’d always felt when she said them. I’m clean. I’m sorry. Let’s try again. Now, all he felt was an odd detachment.
“I’m seeing someone.” And even if I wasn’t, there’s no way I’d go down that rabbit hole with you again. “But I wish you all the best, like always.”
It wasn’t often he admitted defeat, but when it came to Tracee, he’d already slotted her into the lost cause category.
“Oh, I see.” She looked truly surprised. Probably was, considering she knew he was a total workaholic. But also, somewhere deep inside, her ego probably convinced her he could never care for anyone else as much as he did her. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
Her acting skills couldn’t carry her this time. She stepped back and gave him a sad smile. “Anyone I know?”
“No.” He wasn’t about to discuss Olivia with her. “She’s devoted to the job like I am. We make a good team.”
Tracee nodded, avoiding his eyes as she tried to make a clean escape. “I hope it works out for you. You deserve some happiness.”
“Thank you.” He felt like a heel, even though he didn’t know why. She’d shown up unexpectedly and tried to manipulate him. “Tracee?”
Her driver opened the door for her and she glanced back, placing a hand on it, hope in her eyes. “Yes?”
“Take care of yourself.”
Her smile faltered. Without another word, she slipped into the limo.
He didn’t wait on the sidewalk for it to drive away. He’d cared deeply for her once, but she’d cared more about getting high. He knew it was an addiction, but he couldn’t play second fiddle to cocaine, and he’d tried his best to help her find meaning to her life that didn’t involve escaping reality. She had advantages other people who resorted to drugs never had. She had fame and fortune, opportunities, friends and contacts who could help her whenever she needed it. A lot of time and frustration had passed, but he’d realized cocaine was a crutch, a way for her to play the victim. He hoped one day someone could help her, but bottom-line, she had to help herself.
On the cardiac floor, he located Cooper’s room. Roman was inside, discussing theories with him and Celina. Celina looked almost as bad as Cooper. Dark shadows hung under her eyes, her normally tawny skin was sallow.
She got up and motioned Victor to her chair. “I’m going to take a bathroom break. Back in a few minutes.”
Cooper was half sitting in the hospital bed, his brow furrowed with a mixture of anger and stress. A morphine drip was taped to his arm, but he wasn’t using the little button to medicate himself. “Roman told me about the backpack link to the bomb. I need to get my files from the office, see if I can figure out which one of the Kings is directly involved.”
Victor appreciated his commitment, and understood his drive to be involved in the case. Revenge was an intense motivator, but rarely an effective one, regardless of what Hollywood liked to advocate. “Roman and I are headed to the safe house to meet up with Thomas and Ronni. Thomas has already been digging into your files, so far to no avail, but I’ll crosscheck all of the taskforce cases in the past year with the FBI database intel on the Suarez gang. Your job is to stay here and follow doctor’s orders.”
Cooper started to argue. No surprise there. Victor held up a hand. “Save your breath, take some morphine. This isn’t just about you, Cooper. Nothing is anymore. You have a wife and daughter, and they need you. If nothing else, you need to do what I say in order to help Celina and Via. They need you healthy. I need you healthy. We will hunt down whoever shot you. We will find the bomber as well. You are no good to any of us, if you end up dead, especially if it’s due to your bullheadedness.”
Celina rushed in, holding up her phone so Cooper could see it. “Sophia called. Via wants to see her Daddy!”
The little girl’s face was on the screen and Victor heard her giggle and say something. She was still too young to actually make sense, but her baby talk was enough to light up Cooper’s expression. “There’s my girl!”
As Celina leaned over the bed and the two of them FaceTimed with their daughter, Roman and Victor waved a silent goodbye and left the room.
Outside in the hall, an orderly rushed by, followed by a nurse. Roman and Victor moved aside before loitering a few rooms down.
“If I didn’t know better,” Roman said, “I would swear you had that planned down to the very second.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was like you scripted the whole thing. You were talking about his family and, bam, a second later the kid is on the phone, wanting to see him. I knew you had skills, Director, but that’s pretty damn impressive. Not to mention the fact Tracee Tyson shows up here to say hi? Damn.”
Sometimes the universe worked in his favor, keeping the others looking up to him. He clapped Roman on the shoulder as they headed for the elevator. “That’s how we do it at the FBI. You ever decide to jump ship, I’ve got a place for you on my teams.”
At seven that evening in Oceanside, Olivia walked through the back door of Alfonso’s house and drew up short as the scent of homemade Italian gravy hit her. Americans called it spaghetti sauce.
She closed her eyes and breathed deep. It was the same every time, the scent transporting her back to her childhood with her mother and grandmother fussing around the kitchen all day long, the gravy warming in a big stock pot. Rainy days when she would come home from school to be enveloped by her grandmother’s loving arms and fresh cookies. Holidays, where fifty people would be crammed into their house, the food and drinks flowing as easily as the laughter.
“Did you bring the wine, doll?” Alfonso called from the kitchen.
She carried in the two bottles she’d picked up at the local liquor store, one Merlot and a Cabernet, setting them on the counter. Alfie wore his usual dark dress pants and button-down shirt with an apron that said “Kiss the cook. I’m Italian.”
He was generously handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, a sculpted Italian nose. He worked out regularly and filled his shirt to the max, his body moving with easy grace around the kitchen.
Alfie was her age, and they’d both grown up with hitmen for fathers. Alfie had gone to law school, gotten married, and had a daughter, but had ended up back in the “family” after his wife died in an unfortunate car accident involving a drunk semi driver delivering fresh produce to a major grocery store chain. He claimed to have returned to the Fifty-seven Gang because Frankie Molina had kept him from wallowing in severe depression after his wife’s death. Supposedly, Frankie had made him realize how much his daughter needed him.
Alfie had sued the grocery store company and won several million dollars. His dad was incarcerated at that point and Frankie had offered Alfie his father’s job, alluding to the idea that Frankie would keep Lorenzo Barone safe in prison and keep his father’s spot in the mob family open so when he got out, he could return to the family. But only if Alfie took his place until Lorenzo was released. Lorenzo had received a sentence of
seventeen years, and still had ten left. One thing was for sure, Alfie protected his family.
Grabbing a bottle opener, Olivia went to work on the Merlot’s cork. “Where’s Mary Margaret?”
Alfie pulled down two wine glasses and set them next to the bottles. “She’s at a birthday sleepover. Kid was all excited about it. She keeps to herself most of the time, a real introvert, and doesn’t make friends easily. I don’t understand it. She’s bright, cute, and funny. What’s wrong with kids these days?”
So it was just the two of them tonight. She’d left her weapon in the car down the street, not sure if the girl would be inside. They’d only met a couple of times briefly. Alfie always made sure Mary Margaret was safely out of the house whenever Olivia was coming over. “Kids are tough on each other, especially girls. It’s good that she’s at a friend’s, for her and us. We won’t have to censor what we talk about.”
“True.” Alfie grinned, and went back to stirring the gravy. A timer dinged on the stove. He turned off one burner and drained the pasta. “but first, we eat and have a decent glass of wine.”
As if she were back home, Olivia took the two glasses to the table and laid out place settings while Alfie brought out the garlic bread and salad. He loaded two plates with pasta, sprinkling shredded parmesan on top of his amazing sauce and hustled them over. Shucking off his apron, he sat, then lifted his glass in salute. “To strong family alliances.”
Olivia raised her fork instead of her glass. “We are not family, Alfie.”
“You wouldn’t be disrespecting me at my own dinner table, now would you? We’re not enemies tonight. Quit trying to pick a fight and be nice. I made you food. We’re family.”
Family was an elusive word. She had one, but she didn’t. She wanted one, but she didn’t. What was it about this guy that made her put down the fork and raise her glass? Maybe she could blame it on her good manners, rather than him pulling on her heartstrings.
He clinked his glass against hers and drank half in one gulp. Working his lips around, his brow knitted. “Where did you get this? Tastes like cheap ass crap.”
“I’m all out of the good stuff.”
He eyed her as he shoveled pasta into his mouth and chewed. “I like that stuff from the Sacramento winery.”
So did she, but he’d finished off her last bottle during their previous meal. “That’s my favorite too, but I don’t have any more. You drank it all.”
He grunted. “When you heading north again? Next time you hit the winery, buy extra.”
“I’m a little busy down here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He handed her the basket of garlic bread. “You work too much.”
“I have a lot of mob guys to put behind bars.”
He rolled his eyes and continued to eat. “We need to find you a safer job.”
The pasta was awesome, and the garlic bread homemade. Olivia savored the blend of bread and butter, trying to ignore the emotions Alfie’s concern elicited. He sounded like her mother, like her brother, God rest his soul.
It’s fake. Don’t be gullible. “I wouldn’t have to work so much if you would get me the evidence I need against Frankie B and Gino.”
His dark eyes scanned her face, as if he were trying to read her mind. “DeStefano didn’t kill your brother, you know.”
The words attacked her like a sharp knife slicing into her stomach. She could barely find her voice. “You know who killed Dezi?”
He waived off the question. “Course not. If I did, I’d take the guy out for you. What I do know is that Gino DeStefano didn’t pull the trigger.”
Her stomach felt like she’d eaten ice cubes rather than pasta. In her mind, she saw her brother on the ground in that wet, dark alley, his blood running into the puddles around him. “How do you know? Who did pull the trigger, Alfie?”
“Someone—not Gino, though—wanted to send a message to your old man. Dezi got caught in the crossfire, simple as that.”
Everything in her continued to feel cold as ice, frozen. Alfie had never volunteered information about her brother’s murder. She hadn’t realized he even knew the specifics of what had happened. “What message?”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Felix was always pissing everybody off. He had big plans, you know. He liked to push people around, get rid of those who didn’t agree with his vision of how things should be. My guess is he pushed the wrong person and they pushed back. Might not have even been anyone in the family. Maybe it was a dirty cop or something.”
“My father was a hitman in Chicago with the Carlota syndicate, in direct competition with the Fifty-seven Gang. It was someone in the mob, I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe. Whoever did it wanted your dad to back off, but he didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, the job always came before the family.”
Alfie reared back. “You really believe that?”
“He should’ve protected Dezi. That’s what fathers are supposed to do! Not put their kids in the line of fire.”
“Your brother knew what he was getting into when he followed in your father’s footsteps. You can’t go blaming the whole thing on your dad.”
The ice cubes melted and turned to a blazing fire. “Are you defending him? Seriously? You don’t even know him. You have no idea what he put me through—us through.”
He went back to eating, avoiding her anger. “All I’m saying is there are two sides to every story, doll, sometimes more than two. You’re right, I don’t know Felix, but I understand him better than you think. He loved you and your brother. Don’t you ever doubt that. For sure, there were things he could’ve done differently and maybe they would’ve made a difference, but you can’t blame him for every single thing that went wrong in your life.”
There was no way she could eat now, and she needed to detach from this whole situation. Do not get emotionally involved. It was the only thing that kept her focused on her job dealing with a killer minute by minute. “You’re lucky I don’t rip the gun hidden under the table out of its duct tape and shoot you right here.”
His brows rose, and he swallowed his pasta. “You been snoopin’ around again?”
Alfie was always prepared. He had weapons hidden all over the house in case anyone ever surprised him. Olivia was also prepared and had noticed a couple when she had been checking things out, but she imagined he had many more. “I’m doing my job, keeping an eye on you. Enough about my family. You got a name for me?”
“Just like that? You’re back to being Deputy US Marshal Olivia Fiorelli? You can’t sit and enjoy a good meal and pleasant company?”
His tone was teasing now, as if he could shift gears with ease, while she sat seething and only pretending to have her emotions under control. “Who is it that Gino and Frankie are going after? You said it was a high-ranking Fed putting the screws to the cartel.”
Making a disgusted sound, he wiped his hands on a napkin and dropped it on the tabletop. “It’s not a Fed. My guy ponied up a little more. The target is a DEA agent.”
Cooper. “Did your guy say anything else? Like who actually did the shooting?”
“You think that agent in San Diego was the target? I don’t know, he doesn’t seem right for it.”
“Why not?”
Alfie turned his hands up. “I’ve never even heard of the guy, how big and important can he be? Plus, if the hit had already taken place, I would know. It’s gotta be someone else.”
“And you’re sure Frankie’s going after a DEA agent?”
“Look, I don’t have a direct line to Frankie’s every thought, but he likes to talk, and my informant is close to him. He hears a lot. I’m only passing on what he said.”
She reached for her last ounce of patience. “Any other details? Such as, when is the hit going down? Who’s executing it? Where’s it going to take place?”
He shook his head. “There was nothing else.”
Of course not. Was he simply dicking her around? “Doesn’t sound like this guy has a cl
ue to me. I think he’s yanking your chain, Alfie.”
Irritation crossed to his face before he forced it away. “I’ll keep working on him. Give me some time.”
He started to say something else, but his phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket. Another wave of irritation crossed his face. “Sorry, doll, I need to take this. Back in a second.”
It rang two more times as he headed down the hallway. She heard a door slam.
Dinner was a bust, but maybe she could get something worthwhile before she left. Tossing her napkin on the table, she rose and quietly tiptoed down the hallway. Outside the closed door, she turned her ear toward the office and listened.
“No, it’s not a good time. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” A pause. “Yeah, yeah, did you do what I told you to do? … Good. You earned your reward, but you got to stay with him, get close again.”
Was he talking to one of his cronies? Sounded like a subordinate. What was this “reward”?
“Look, give me an hour and I’ll deliver the stuff personally.” A longer pause. “You haven’t been out a day and already you’re desperate? Tough, you’ll survive. I’ll text you when and where, and no bodyguards, you hear me? Just you and me, but listen up. You got to bring me more next time or the supply is going to be cut off. You have to pay for the product, one way or the other. I don’t want your money, I want information, and you’re the one person who can get it for me.”
Bodyguards? Product? She mentally sighed. Had to be drugs.
“Someone new, huh?” Alfie’s voice sounded pensive. “Interesting. Don’t you worry about that. No guy in his right mind is immune to your looks or charms. You can do this, just keep your head on straight and do what I tell ya.”
He was wrapping up the call. Olivia stole back down the hallway and resumed her seat. She even took a sip of the wine, swirling it in the glass in time with her equally swirling thoughts. He was talking to a woman. Not exactly what she’d expected, and doubtful that this caller was the “guy” close to Frankie B, but maybe Alfie was only making her think his informant was a man. Frankie liked the women, so maybe this one was actually female.