by Karin Tabke
So, while she couldn’t outright ask a model if he was gay, she had her hetero-meter. Herself. Reese came right to attention. In fact, she couldn’t remember a cock saluting so nicely and so quickly. She clicked through the pictures again. Indecision flared again. Her instinct told her she was making a colossal mistake by letting Reese slip through her fingers. Her emotions told her to run as far away from him as possible.
She pounded her fists on her desktop and winced at the pain shooting up her arm.
How would her father make his decision? The answer was simple: with no emotion. Papa would do whatever was necessary to ensure Skin’s survival — even if that meant putting himself at risk, emotionally or financially.
Frankie unclenched her fists. What was best for Skin was a specific model who was guaranteed to be temperamental and manipulative, with the potential to disrupt her carefully controlled life. He was also one she couldn’t afford.
Her mood darkened at the implications of hiring Reese. A war waged inside of her. Her gut instincts versus fear. “Go with your gut, Francesca,” her father had drilled into her. “Your intuition will never let you down.”
Her gut told her Reese was the man to garner her magazine much-needed respect. And with that respect, respect for her personally in the industry.
Her gut also marked him as trouble. Big, bad, expensive trouble.
Reese’s dark eyes making a statement words never could toyed with her. Was she woman enough to resist? To draw the line?
“Shit!” She stood.
“Tawny!” she called. “Get my banker on the phone.”
As soon as her conversation with the bank was over she called Tawny again.
“Yes, boss lady.” The perky little assistant poked her head into the office.
“Dig out Reese Barrett’s contact info. Then call him and tell him if he wants this job, he’d best be here by eight tomorrow morning to sign contracts. If he’s a minute late, we go to Plan B.”
Tawny grinned and snatched the file from her boss’s hand. “Gladly. And as your valued right arm, I expect to be in on the more candid shots.”
Frankie shook her head, her hair swirling around her shoulders. Irritated, she swooped it back away from her face. “Yeah, you and every other person in this building.”
Tawny clapped her hands like a three-year-old getting the biggest piece of cake. “I can’t wait!”
“Me either,” Frankie mumbled to herself, wondering why she wasn’t more excited.
Just as she was going through Reese’s pics again, Tawny knocked on the door and popped her head in. She was grinning ear to ear. Frankie cocked her right brow. “What?”
“Ah, yes, I just spoke to Mr. Barrett and he said he wouldn’t accept unless he heard the offer from your mouth.”
Frankie’s jaw dropped. The audacity of the man! “Tell him to” — she cut off the words — “shove it up his fine ass.”
Tawny squirmed and handed Frankie Reese’s file. “He said he has a meeting to go to and if he didn’t hear from you in the next five minutes, you were more than welcome to go to your Plan B and he would go to his.”
Rage infiltrated Frankie’s cells. The hell she would grovel. She didn’t need him that bad.
Jesus, yes, she did.
“Thank you, Tawny.”
The assistant appeared to deflate. “You’re going to call him, aren’t you?”
Slowly, Frankie shook her head.
“C’mon, Frankie, he’s the hottest thing to hit this town since, since, hell, ever!”
“No one tells me what to do. You of all people know that.”
Tawny entered the office and shut the door behind her. She lowered her voice to a high whisper. “I know you and Anthony don’t see eye to eye and I can understand why. He’s mean and you can’t trust him, but I happen to like my job and just because you’re being spiteful and, well, dumb, I’m in serious jeopardy of losing my job. If you can’t swallow your pride for yourself, think about the rest of us who depend on this magazine for a paycheck.”
Now it was Frankie’s turn to deflate. Tawny was right, and shame on her for jeopardizing her employees’ livelihoods because she was a pile of vindictive emotional mush right now. “I’ll call him.” Frankie plopped down into her chair and swung her legs up to the corner of her desk. She sat back and folded her hands behind her head just like she’d seen her father do before he inevitably screwed someone’s life up, including hers and her mother’s. “But on my time.”
Tawny threw her hands up into the air. “I’ll be clearing my desk.”
Frankie stared at the number on the piece of paper in her hand. Five minutes came and went, stretching into fifteen minutes. Her money was on Reese’s ego wanting the job as much as she wanted him to have it. Leisurely, she pressed the numbers on her telephone.
“You’ve reached Reese, leave a message at the beep — oh, and if this is Miss Donatello, your five minutes are up, and so is my price, but thanks for the call.”
Beep.
Frankie stared at her handset. What the hell? Who was this guy? She hung up. Then she hit Redial. After his smart-ass message and the beep she said, “Tag, Mr. Barrett, you’re it. My terms are the same. Either show up at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow for your original fee or we both go to Plan B.” She hung up. She’d show him. She’d learned from the master how to make people squirm. Telling her that her five minutes were up and his fee as well? She snorted.
This guy had no idea who he was tangling with. Five minutes are up, my ass.
She sat up straight in her chair. Shit, what if he meant it?
Reality set in. Just in case, she dug through the remaining portfolios on her desk and pulled two distant second-and third-place candidates. She studied the shots of two very attractive men. Even with their well-muscled, well-endowed, and well-oiled physiques, their sex appeal didn’t convey well from the photo. Not like Reese’s did. His charisma jumped off the page. She pulled a pic from his portfolio and studied it. No contest. Setting the other photos down, Frankie stared at Reese’s unsmiling face.
Odd, she thought as she looked into his deep blue eyes. He had no laugh lines around his eyes or mouth. For a man who seemed so comfortable with himself and with her, how strange he didn’t come off as the sexy smart aleck he did today. Was he naturally so serious but putting up a front to get this job? She looked harder at the hooded eyes. Dark secrets hid behind them. Suddenly she wanted to know what they were.
Reese sat in a dark van across the street from the corporate offices of the late Santini Donatello and his cohorts. The nondescript three-story yellow brick building looked like any other building in North Beach. The only deviation was La Trattoria, the little Italian restaurant that took up most of the first floor. It was also the congregating place for the Donatello network of made men all the way down to runners. Reese whistled. If those walls could talk, what a story they would tell. Too bad the warrant for the wiretap was being held up. They were missing out. By the time they got in there and set it up, Santini’s hit would be old news.
Old-man Donatello, known to his cronies as Santo Gabriel because of his uncanny ability to pounce on opportunity with no fear, was also the man the little people came to for protection. He never wavered in offering it, but always for a price. A price many ultimately paid for with their lives. There was nothing saintly about Sonny Donatello. He was a plague to society, and, Reese thought ruefully, his fruit did not fall far from the tree. While Santini had been old-school mob, his son, Anthony, was the new flash mob. A wiseguy with no rep except his father’s name to back him. Yet he knew Anthony was smart — but could his sister be smarter?
Reese popped a toothpick in his mouth and chewed it. Time would tell, and maybe they wouldn’t even have to make a move. The mob did a better job of cleaning up their messes than the cops ever could. They had no compunction when it came to taking out one of their own.
A chill swept across Reese’s skin. How far had Francesca fallen from the paternal tree? Was
she part of the family business? If so, how deep was she in? It was common knowledge she and her father didn’t jibe. The word on the street was the powers that be were none too impressed with the son. The elder brother, Carmine Donatello, seemed the obvious choice to pick up Santini’s fallen reins. Carmine was smart, and patient. Anthony was the polar opposite. The combination should be interesting. Would Carmine mentor his nephew? Or take him out and pronounce himself Santini’s heir apparent? Or — Reese bit down on the toothpick, snapping it in half — if Anthony had given the word on his old man, would he do the same on his uncle?
Reese hunched down lower into the battered van. He jolted when his cell phone vibrated in his lap, then grinned when he saw the number that flashed across his LED. Frankie was calling. It took a fair amount of his willpower to resist answering the call.
He frowned when she didn’t leave a message. It was even harder to ignore the second call from her. But he grinned like an idiot when his voice mail beeped. He grinned wider when he listened to her message.
He liked her spunkiness, and the way her body reflected the emotion flashing across her face. Francesca Donatello might be a cagey businesswoman, and quite possibly a murderer, but she did a lousy job hiding her emotions. Reese’s happy face vanished into a scowl. Showing emotions was dangerous, especially in his line of work. He’d learned long ago it didn’t pay to play out feelings, no matter how deeply felt.
Old hurts welled up, and despite his best effort to stuff them back into the darkest corners of his mind as he had done for years, they erupted, unwilling to be denied. For the first time in more years than he could remember, Reese wondered if his parents were still alive, and felt surprised as pain stabbed at his heart. He winced when the vision of his little sister Missy’s smiling face flashed into his brain. She was riding June Bug, her prize pony, her face radiating happiness.
Reese’s hands clenched and unclenched, his teeth ground, the sound grating. It would be so easy to blame his mother for his sister’s death, but he knew it was he who was to blame. Even after all these years, the pain and guilt was as fresh as the day Missy died.
Anthony Donatello sauntered out of the building, and abruptly, Reese’s thoughts cleared. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. He bet sis was still holed up in her office, cursing him. He smiled. So long as she was thinking of him, he didn’t care how. A woman darted up the steps toward Anthony. The gangster feigned a smile. Reese knew it for what it was; after all, he’d mastered it. The woman looked familiar. She turned and snuggled into Anthony’s arm as he ushered her toward a waiting car. Tawny, Frankie’s assistant. Interesting. Only a few reasons for her to be hooking up with Donatello, and no matter which one he chose, it didn’t bode well for his soon-to-be boss lady. He followed the black town car.
Chapter Five
Frankie glanced at her watch. Seven thirty. She needed to get to Unk’s. Systematically, she shut down her computer, drew the window blinds, and threw a few things in her purse. For a long moment she stood at her desk, feeling like she was forgetting something. Reese’s face popped up in her mind and she smiled smugly. Impulsively, she grabbed a contract from a file drawer, then jotted Reese’s number down from the open file on her desk.
As she drove to her uncle’s she called Reese.
“Barrett.”
“It’s Francesca. I want you to meet me at nine tonight at La Trattoria on Columbus.”
“I have plans.”
“Change them. I want this contract signed tonight.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t.”
There was a long pause, then Reese said, “Fine.”
She smiled and hung up.
A few minutes later, Frankie pulled up in front of the family building. Several minutes went by and she still sat quietly in the seat of her ragtop Bimmer. Part of her wanted to run up the stairs to Unk’s — and what was once her father’s — office and scream and vent until she was hoarse. The other part wanted to contemplate and scheme. She waved to old Mrs. Loguzzo, whose black suitcasesize purse was no doubt loaded with bread and leftovers, her fifty-year-old bachelor nephew, Phil, in tow as they exited La Trattoria, another family-owned business, this one run by her cousins Della and Louie.
Of course her father and now Anthony had their fingers in the Trattoria pie, but it was how things were done. In the alley there were two entrances to the restaurant. One frequented by delivery trucks and employees, the second, the private entrance, reserved for her father’s men, who could usually be found sitting around their favorite table, shooting the breeze, smoking cigars, or eating. It was through the back door that much of the family business comings and goings transpired. Frankie preferred to use the front door.
As she made her way down the hallway to Unk’s office on the third floor, it occurred to her how quiet it was, the usual boisterous voices of Unk’s entourage absent. Alarm bells shrilled in her head, and she hurried to his office. The door stood ajar.
“Unk?”
“In here, Francesca.”
Relief flooded through her. She was getting paranoid. Frankie smiled despite her anxiety and urgency to get answers. Unk always called her by her full name, never in anger, always with love. Why couldn’t he have been her father? She slowed her agitated gait and decided she wouldn’t unload on her uncle as she had intended.
“Francesca?” he called, a note of urgency raising his normally deep voice.
“Coming, Zio, coming.” She picked up her pace.
The rich aroma of fresh ground espresso beans tantalized the air. She’d forgotten Unk had his own espresso machine, one of his few indulgences. The light from his small corner office lit her way forward. Her smile widened. That was Unk, hard at work after everyone else had packed it in for the day, the quiet, unpretentious force behind Donatello Brothers, Inc. Unlike her hotheaded father, who liked the trophy wives, custom suits, and hand-rolled Cubanos, Carmine was old-school Italian. Formal but loving, and as level as the horizon. She wondered why Unk wasn’t the figurehead of the family and the business.
She greeted him as she always did, with a hug. For a long moment she held on to the man who had shielded her from her father and, on more than one occasion, herself. She inhaled his fine tobacco and basil scent.
Unk liked his pasta. He was the polar opposite of her father. Whereas Papa had been tall, dark, and angry, Carmine was short, round, and jovial. He pulled back just enough to take her face into his sausage-plump hands and smile down at her, his dark brown eyes glittering.
“Bella, bella, bella, como esti?”
“Bueno, Zio.”
He kissed her on each cheek and took her hand. “Come. Here, I have an espresso for you.”
She raised the bag she carried in her hand. “And I have Gina’s cannoli for you.” His dark eyes beamed. He bustled around the little table that held the espresso press and poured her a cup of the thick, hot liquid. “Come into my office, it’s too cold out here.” It was a beautiful autumn evening, the temperature perfect. But she didn’t argue the point. If he said it was thirty below zero, she would humor the man.
Like a mother hen, he pulled out a plush chair for her from the corner of his small office after setting her tiny espresso cup on his desk. His disheveled appearance didn’t go unnoticed by her. “You look like you’ve been working too hard, Unk.” He looked up from the napkin he spread out on his desk. “I have. With Sonny gone, it all falls into my lap.” He quickly made the sign of the cross and said, “Sit, and mange.”
She wasn’t hungry, but even if she had been, she steered clear of sweets. Her Italian heritage made her thighs subject to cellulite and she worked hard to keep from resembling her matronly cousins. She sipped the hot espresso, then set the cup down on its saucer.
“I didn’t see any of the boys around, Unk.”
The old man shrugged and waved a hand like he was the Pope in Saint Peter’s Square. “They’re downstairs having dinner. I told them I wanted some peace and quiet with m
y niece. Since the assassination, they’ve been worse than Nona Cece around her grandchildren.”
“That’s not a bad thing —”
“No, but it’s annoying. I’ve never had the craving for people fluttering around me like your father and brother. You’d think they were Elvis or someone.”
“You need to be careful. I don’t think I could stand losing you too.” The unexpected sting of tears pricked her eyes. From years of practice, Frankie sucked it up before her weakness could be detected. She wasn’t quick enough.
Unk patted her hand. “We all need to be careful, especially in these times. Suspect everyone, Francesca.”
Frankie nodded, but an icy shiver raced along her spine. In all of the years she had been alive, there had never been the dark tension hovering over the family like there was now. A war was brewing, and not for the first time she wished she was just a normal girl, living a normal life with a normal family.
“Do you miss him?”
“Sonny?”
She nodded.
“Si, I do. More than I thought possible. We didn’t see eye to eye on everything, but our styles worked. We were a good team, Sonny and me.”
Now it was Carmine’s turn for melancholy.
She understood all too well his bipolar feelings for his brother. A part of her had so much bottled up anger, frustration, and, she admitted, love for her father that the cool indifference she’d worked so hard to perfect over the years had become the norm, no longer the exception. Had she become as callous as her father? Like him and Anthony, turning off emotions like faucets?
“Did you love him?” she asked.
Her uncle choked on his second cannoli. The dusting of white powdered sugar Gina used as a garnish shot into the air like tiny snowflakes.
“Of course.” His eyes watered. Frankie stood and hurried around to his back and thumped hard. Carmine coughed and sputtered but raised a hand, signaling her to stop.