Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2)

by Lauren Landish

  "It's magic, for sure. But I'd say the enchantment is mutual," I replied as Tomasso tightened the straps. "Because you have put thoughts in my head that I've never had before."

  Tomasso stopped and looked up, his eyes full of pain. "Like you said last night, maybe it’s safer if we don’t give words to those thoughts. Safer for both of us."

  I gulped and nodded, a cold dose of reality crashing in on our fantasy. I nodded and went back to my drawers, dressing quietly while he found his clean t-shirt. We left the disguise he'd worn the night before on the floor to be disposed of later, unneeded any longer. I found his crutches and picked them up, bringing them to him. He looked at me with pain in his eyes as he took them from me.

  I smiled at him and shook my head. "Just promise me, for the time until I leave—no regrets? I want to have a happy memory of my time in Seattle. It’ll give me a reason to try to come back."

  Tomasso smiled and got to his feet, setting his crutches aside to pull me close and kiss me. "That I promise. Now, let's go deal with the fallout from last night."

  We left my room, finding Margaret working on a laptop out by the pool. "Good afternoon, you two," she greeted with a smirk. "Sleep well?"

  "Best I've had in my entire life," I said honestly, chuckling when Tomasso blushed. "And you?"

  “I’ve had better,” Margaret replied, laughing quietly as she knew exactly what we were talking about. "Well, your timing is perfect. I just got off the phone with Carlo, and he'd like to talk with you both when he gets home. After last night, he’s cutting his business trip short and coming home, so he's flying into King County Airport in a few hours. Chartered flight."

  "Still not getting that Dreamliner flight he told me he wanted," I commented as I sat down. "Although a chartered flight is also a luxury. I hope he isn't put out by it."

  "Oh no, Carlo does that about half the time anyway, and almost all the time when he flies internationally," Margaret said. "As you know, it sometimes helps to not have to file enormous amounts of paperwork with the FAA about destinations—things like that."

  I nodded in agreement as Tomasso reappeared with two Tupperware containers in a bag, one of which he set in front of me. "Here, it was what was still hot on the stove. When is Dad getting back?"

  "He said his plane is scheduled to arrive at four, so you two have a few hours to make sure you've got all your information lined up," Margaret said. "I don't think he's angry, but you never can tell with him. After all, Pietro did just shoot his own son, then there's the diner staff to shut up and some other stuff to deal with. How about you two walk me through your thought processes in all of this?"

  Tomasso did, and Margaret nodded, asking few questions. "Why'd you go to Daniel and not Carlo or me?" she asked at one point, when that came into the conversation. "Didn't trust us?"

  "I didn't know who I could trust," Tomasso said simply. "Daniel’s separated from this situation. He's also one of the best I know at quickly hacking out information, and I knew he could get me what I wanted."

  Margaret nodded. "Okay. I should be hurt, but I'm not. You acted the way you should have. I'm impressed you thought to bring in Daniel. He's the perfect person to bring in."

  We finished our story, with me adding in a few details until the point when we left the diner the night before. “Well, I can't find any fault in what you did. You were caught in a Catch-22, and you did what you felt was right. Now, if you two don't mind, I have some work that I need to finish up before Carlo gets back. Tomasso, if you have a chance, check in with Pietro before you get ready to go to the airport. He did just shoot his son, regardless of what his words were."

  We found Mr. Marconi at Bertoli Pizza's offices, cleaning out his son's desk. He looked older, like a man nearing sixty instead of the well-composed early fifties that I'd seen earlier. "Pietro, I hope I'm not interrupting."

  He looked up, his face grave, and shook his head. "No, not at all. What can I do for you, Mr. Bertoli, Miss Mendosa?"

  So we were still with the formal titling. Like Tomasso, I detested it with someone who I'd formed a closer relationship with, but I understood it at least. Most of my father's men called me Señorita Mendosa—I tolerated it.

  Tomasso rested his butt on the edge of the desk, looking down at him. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. And how cleanup and everything else went this morning."

  "The late night diners were a bit put off by the place being closed, but the staff were happy enough with their little bonus, and they know that the same could come to them if they open their mouths," Pietro replied. “There’s little else to worry about. I retrieved the shell from my pistol. There's no evidence of anything left at the diner. They reopened by four thirty this morning to catch the early work crowd."

  Tomasso nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "And Jake?"

  "He went home to say goodbye to his mother and get a quick bandage," Pietro said. "When I checked his apartment this morning, nobody was home and a lot of his things were gone. I checked with some of the doctors and clinics that we use, but there was no report. The word's out, though—he's on the DOA list."

  Tomasso swallowed and looked up, controlling his emotions while I rubbed my chin. "Pietro," I said after a moment of silence. "What about you?"

  “I’ll do my duty as I’ve always done,” he said softly, going back to cleaning out the desk. "After that . . . maybe I'll talk with the Don. It's been years since I took a decent vacation."

  Tomasso looked back at the older man and searched for the words. “Can I ask you to do something as well, then?"

  "Maybe, Mr. Bertoli. If I can."

  Tomasso nodded, then propped his hands on the edge of the desk. "I'm not ready yet. I still need your guidance, your teaching. Even if you do want to step back, take a vacation, whatever . . . I'd still like the privilege of working with you."

  Pietro nodded, thinking. "I can't give you an answer right now, Mr. Bertoli. It wouldn't be fair to do so. But thank you. I’ll think about it."

  We left, and in the car back to the mansion, I looked at Tomasso. "Why’d you ask him to stay on?"

  "I was being honest," Tomasso said simply, looking out the window and speaking softly. I knew he was struggling to control his emotions, and I knew also how much it all had affected him. "I need his wisdom and guidance. He's never done anything wrong, and I wouldn't have my family lose such a man if it could be helped."

  We drove back to the mansion, where Margaret was waiting for us. "Come on. Carlo's expected to touch down in less than an hour," she said. "I'm driving."

  It was nice to once again be a passenger in a car, especially in one as luxurious as Margaret's Maserati. We went to the charter terminal, where we could actually go onto the taxiway as the small Learjet pulled up. The ground crew opened the door and Carlo Bertoli got out, looking confident and powerful in his suit with sunglasses over his eyes. He looked like a man who was lord of all he surveyed, and I guess in quite a few ways, he was. Seeing us, he waved casually while the three of us made our way to the foot of the stairs.

  "It's good to see you," Carlo said, his voice not as warm as his words. He was reserved. After all, there was a situation that had to be dealt with, but he was glad to see his family again. His smile to me was only polite, though, and I felt a small chill travel down my spine as I felt a bit of fear. I knew what Margaret had told me that afternoon, but to see Carlo's somewhat predatory glance, I knew I was still in danger. It also reassured me that Carlo Bertoli, despite his friendly demeanor with his family and warmth when he was in a good mood, was still the Godfather of the Seattle area.

  In the car, I sat in the back next to Carlo while Margaret drove and Tomasso sat next to her. Carlo broached the subject first, only moments after the car had started up. “Before I say anything, let me hear the recording."

  I handed my phone up, and Tomasso cued up the conversation, which was remarkably short when listening to it again. I had to blush at some of my flirtatious comments, but I shivered again
in fear and nervousness when I confronted Jake in the audio.

  When the final words came out and the file ended, Carlo sat quietly, considering. He looked over at me, then at his son. "Why didn’t you confront Jake by yourself, Tomasso?"

  "I'm on one leg. If he tried something, I probably wouldn’t have fared too well," Tomasso answered, keeping his voice calm and controlled. "I needed a way to put my enemy off guard. Besides, Luisa was the target and deserved to be involved."

  Carlo nodded, then sighed. "You did the right thing. There is a time to be up front, and there is a time to be smart. You didn't let your ego get in the way. All right, let's head home. We can discuss the fallout from this later. Miss Mendosa, I feel I should apologize. You were supposed to be my guest, and it seems someone in my household put you in danger.”

  I shook my head, knowing it was time to be gracious and understanding. It wasn't that hard, really—I didn't have any hurt feelings, and in fact, it had been sort of fun working with Tomasso. "Don Bertoli, your family has treated me with respect, and regardless of what my father says about this, you have my friendship."

  "Good. Then let's go talk with your father. Maybe some good can be salvaged from all of this."

  Chapter 17

  Tomasso

  I didn't want to go into the doctor's office a few days later, knowing what was waiting for me. Luisa seemed a little slow walking toward the door, both of us knowing it was inevitable. When we got to the door, she reached up and pulled her hand back from the handle, not wanting to touch it, but eventually doing so and opening it for me.

  The nights since my father came back home had been the best of my life. After discussing business with Guillermo Mendosa, the two crime lords agreed on a beneficial partnership, one that would give the Mendosas a foothold in the Pacific Northwest with their beef and agricultural exports, while the Bertolis would be the exclusive distribution company for said exports. It was a win-win for both parties, and one that could exist totally above-board, giving legitimacy to both groups and giving the IRS another reason to stay off our collective asses.

  The evenings with Luisa were the highlight for me, though. We made love every night, starting from just after dinner until we both fell asleep in my bed. We were insatiable, hungry for each other's body as much as we were relishing in the discovery of the person who truly was our soul mate. The only thing we didn't do was say the three words that were on the tips of both of our tongues. Our inevitable parting would be painful enough without those words hanging in the air between us.

  Which brought us to the day at the doctor's office. Not our family doctor, but the orthopedic surgeon who’d done the repair of my ankle. "Mr. Bertoli, in the twenty years I've been doing surgery, I've done maybe a hundred ankle reconstructions," he said as he studied the x-rays again. "It's not one of those surgeries that you get to do a lot of, and it's certainly not the type that you expect people to quickly recover from. In fact, most of my patients walk with some sort of hitch in their step for the rest of their lives. In your case, I can say that you’re recovering faster and stronger than most patients that I treat. The bones in your ankle are setting well, and even the tendon reattachments seem to be strengthening. We don't normally see that until six weeks or more from now, when movement is started. This is remarkable."

  "Oh . . . great," I muttered, trying not to sound too down. It was of course great news, but Luisa and I both knew what was to come.

  Still, the doctor noticed, and he looked up from the chart he'd been scribbling on. "I would’ve expected a more enthusiastic reaction, Mr. Bertoli. You should be back to your normal self before you know it.”

  I blinked and put a fake smile on my face. "It's great news, doc—just other things on my mind, that's all."

  "I see. Well, you can start putting weight on the foot as long as you keep that brace on. Slowly increase weight as you go, but you'll need to keep your crutches for at least another two or three weeks. After that, we can look at transitioning you to a cane or something. Let me go talk to my assistant, and we'll get you scheduled for your next checkup. Is there anything in your schedule that we need to accommodate?”

  "No," I said quietly, "nothing." Nothing except I want you to smack my fucking leg with a baseball bat so I can have an excuse for Luisa to stay longer, I thought as he left the room. Alone, I looked at her. She kept a brave, calm look on her face. The doctor came back, holding an appointment slip, and that was that.

  Walking out, both of us were glum, and the ride back to the mansion was practically silent, with not even the radio playing to break up the depressing atmosphere. We got home and were greeted by Dad, who saw our somber expressions. "Your ankle doing better?"

  "Ahead of schedule," I replied, looking down at the offensive limb and cursing it. "Apparently, all the care and attention from Luisa has given me super recuperative powers."

  My father nodded and took a deep breath. "I see. Luisa, I’d love to have you stay longer, but your tourist visa will expire soon, and now that my son is semi-mobile . . .”

  "I know, Mr. Bertoli," Luisa whispered. “My father expects me home soon. Can you have someone make the arrangements for me?"

  "Of course. I spoke with him while you were at the doctor—he’s a little anxious. He wants you to fly out tomorrow." Dad looked at the two of us for a minute, then turned. "We'll have dinner at seven. Adriana and Daniel caught an early flight, so they’ll be joining us."

  "Thanks," I said, taking Luisa's hand. "We'll look forward to it."

  We went to Luisa's room, where she picked her suitcase up out of the corner where she'd been keeping it and set it on the bed. "If you don’t mind, I think I'll pack," she said quietly. "I need the time to think."

  “You don’t want help?” I asked. "I can at least carry some clothes."

  She shook her head, looking up at me for the first time in a half-hour. Her eyes were full of pain, and she looked like she was about to cry. "I need this time alone—I'll see you at dinner."

  I swallowed and nodded, crutch-walking out to the pool and taking a seat next to the table. I watched the late afternoon sun reflect on the pool, the never repeating but still strangely familiar patterns of the sun against the pool bottom lulling me into at least a half-stupor. I was startled when I heard the screen door to the mansion slide shut, and I looked to see my cousin crossing the pool deck toward me. She looked healthy and happy, and despite the sadness of the day, I was glad to see her. "Hey, Red."

  "Hey, Tommy," she said before stopping to correct herself. "Sorry . . . Tomasso."

  I shook my head, waving it off. “How're you doing?"

  "Better than you are, from the looks of it," she said, taking the chair next to me. "You look like someone just gave you a terminal diagnosis. From what Uncle Carlo said, you should be doing backflips into the deep end of the pool. Or at least doing fist pumps."

  I didn't react to her little joke, and she tried again. "You know, I start up my senior year soon. Classes start just after your birthday. Any advice?”

  "No," I said, looking back into the pool. "You got everything you need out of college anyways. You've got the skills and you've got the vision. This year is just going to be a breeze for you."

  "So she leaves tomorrow?"

  "Early flight . . .” I rasped, my voice catching in my throat. I coughed twice, then tried again. "Early flight," I repeated, more clear this time.

  Adriana nodded. "And then?"

  I shrugged. "What is there to say? She goes back to Brazil, and I go back to work and rehab. We'll swap emails for a while, maybe a video call once in a while, but life will get in the way. She'll miss a call, I'll miss an email, and suddenly, we're realizing that we haven't heard from each other in three or four months, and the pain won't be as bad as we thought it would be. Life goes on."

  She looked at me and shook her head. "It doesn't have to be that way. You could tell her how you feel."

  “I don’t have to—she knows. She’s committed to her father and
her family . . . I can’t ask her to leave that. Besides, her father would never allow it. What can I do?"

  "I don't know," Adriana said. "Promise me one thing, though."

  "What?"

  "Tell her before she leaves, even if you think she already knows. Miracles do happen. I should know."

  The next morning, Daniel dropped us off at SeaTac. The skycap came around and took Luisa's bags, and we went to check-in, where she showed her passport and got her e-reservation stamped. "First class, just like your father promised," she whispered as she looked at the boarding pass. "Thank him for me."

  "I will," I said. My eyes were red, although with sadness or exhaustion, I wasn't sure. We'd made love one last time the night before, tears mixing with our other sounds as we were sure it would be our last time. I hadn't slept, afraid to miss any second or shared moment I had left with her. She’d been the same way, and this morning, both of us looked like hell. Breakfast was nothing more than a quick mug of what Daniel called 'ultra bulletproof coffee,' meant to combine caffeine with enough calories to keep us both going till lunch. I had no idea how many spoonfuls of coconut oil he had stirred in, but it was something I never wanted to drink again.

  "Do you have your book?" I asked, trying to think of anything to say.

  "Yes—thank you," she said, patting her backpack. I'd given her the book she'd picked out for me during my stay in the hospital, and on the inside, I'd written my email as well as my phone number. "I don't know how much I'm going to read on the flight, though. I'll probably be asleep before I even reach cruising altitude."

  “I’m exhausted too,” I said, walking slowly. Ahead, we could see the start of the security checkpoints where we had to part ways. I looked up at the clock, hating that the damn thing seemed to be going so fast. "Shit."