Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

“What an asshole,” Kelly said. “But at least we know they're alive.”

  “For now they are. Go upstairs and keep me posted on what's happening.”

  “Why? Tony's watching the house and so are David and Orville. What are you going to do?”

  He picked up the Glock. “Wait by the front door. If Orazio comes out of that house, I'll be ready.”

  “You are not! You're gonna get a vest out of your car and put it on!”

  From the look of fury in her eyes, he knew better than to argue, and she was right. If Orazio left the house with Natalie and Bianca, he'd be packing. A Kevlar vest wouldn't guarantee his survival, but it would protect his vital organs. Take a bullet in the head and it was all over.

  He went to Kelly, put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Okay, but you're wearing one, too. There's an extra one in my trunk. Keep an eye on the house while I get them.”

  He went out the side door, jogged down the side street to his Dodge Charger and opened the trunk. And closed it. Why leave the car here? If something happened—and he had the feeling it might—he would need the car. He got in the Dodge and drove into Mary Hogan's driveway.

  Someone in the mob house might see it, but so what? Situation critical.

  He took two vests out of the trunk, went in the side door, put the vests on the counter and took off his sweatshirt. He strapped the larger vest over his T-shirt and heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Kelly hurried into the kitchen. About to give her the smaller vest, he noticed her stricken expression. “What's wrong?”

  “An FBI Hummer just drove past the mob house. The SWAT team has arrived.”

  CHAPTER 37

  6:50 PM

  She braced herself against the wall between the front window and her bed, staring at the door. No voices in the hall now, only footsteps.

  They stopped outside the door. Her heart pounded like a runaway freight train.

  The door flew open and Orazio strode into the room, his eyes cold and hard. Eyes without mercy. Eyes from hell.

  “Ready to go shopping?” he said.

  She gritted her teeth and put on her stone-face. Damned if she'd let Orazio see how terrified she was. Frank's text had given her a sliver of hope. But if she and Bianca got into a car with Orazio, there was no guarantee Frank could save them.

  Should she put up a fight? Refuse to go with him?

  Orazio crossed the room to Bianca, who stood by the table in front of the TV set. “Laura,” he said, “her pants are stained with food. Why didn't you change them? I told you I would take you Christmas shopping after dinner.”

  Bianca yelled in Italian, “I don't want to go shopping with you! You killed Mamma! I hate you!”

  Orazio smiled, seemingly amused. “You're quite the little spitfire.”

  “I hate you too!” Bianca screamed at Natalie. “You don't care about me. All you do is talk to your boyfriends on the phone.”

  Her heart slammed her ribs in a frenzy of fear. Bianca had uttered the worst possible words at the worst possible time.

  Orazio turned, his face livid with fury. “Who are these boyfriends you talk to?”

  “I don't have any boyfriends.”

  Orazio grabbed Bianca's arm. “Did you lie to me?” When Bianca started to cry, Orazio shouted, “Stop crying!”

  To Natalie he said, “You have a cellphone?”

  “Where would I get a cellphone?”

  He crossed the room in two strides and slapped her. “Where is it?”

  Stunned by the force of the blow, she struggled to catch her breath, finally managed to say, “I don't have one. I told you.”

  “You lie,” he said, looming over her. “You are una senora cattiva. Treacherous and deceitful.”

  Like an enraged bull, he began to search the room. He put her suitcase on her bed and opened it. She had unpacked her clothes so it was empty, but Orazio searched each pocket. Finding nothing, he went to the table between the beds and opened the drawer. No cellphone.

  Disgusted, he slammed the drawer shut. It sounded like a gunshot.

  Bianca screamed and ran to the bathroom door beyond her bed, her eyes brimming with tears, watching Orazio.

  With grim determination, he searched Bianca's suitcase, then crossed the room to the dresser that held the TV set. One by one he yanked open the drawers and pawed through their clothes.

  Filled with despair, Natalie watched him with mounting desperation. If he searched her pockets and found the Conti cellphone, he would kill her. He was in such a rage, he might kill Bianca, too.

  After a cursory glance at the coloring book on the table, he checked the box of crayons and dropped it on the table. Continuing his methodical search, he raised the cushions of both easy chairs and found no cellphone. His movements grew more agitated. He raised the mattress on Bianca's bed, first the foot, then the head. Finding nothing, he repeated the process with her bed. And found nothing.

  He slowly approached her and removed a cigar from his shirt pocket. Gazing at her, he took out a lighter, flicked it, held the flame to the tip of the cigar and puffed. And puffed and puffed. A pungent aroma filled the air. When the cigar was lighted to his satisfaction, he smiled at her, his eyes gleaming with demonic zeal. “Tell me where is this cellphone.”

  Her stomach clenched like a fist. “There is no cellphone.”

  He grabbed her left forearm and touched the flame-red end of the cigar to it.

  Shocked by the pain, she cried out. The sickening odor of burnt flesh filled the air. He released her arm.

  She staggered backward and sank onto her bed.

  “Where is the cellphone? Tell me or I will burn you again.”

  Bianca screamed, “Stop! Stop! It's in her pocket.”

  The air left her lungs in a whoosh. Natalie clenched her teeth in despair. Game over.

  Orazio yanked her to her feet. Searched one pocket and found nothing. Searched the other pocket and took out her Conti phone.

  “You lied to me, and not for the first time. Who is this woman in that house down the street?”

  When she didn't answer, he said, “Who else was in the house?”

  “No one.”

  Orazio puffed his cigar. “Who are these boyfriends you talk to?”

  She raised her chin and glared at him. “I don't have any boyfriends.”

  “You want me to burn the other arm?”

  “No!” Bianca shrieked and ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Orazio rushed to the bathroom and tried to open the door, but Bianca had locked it. Visibly angry, he kicked the door.

  “Come out here, you little vixen!” The door didn't open. Silence in the bathroom.

  He turned and approached her. But this time she was ready, poised in her Taekwondo fighter stance, legs apart, balanced on the balls of her feet, her arms by her sides, ready to strike.

  Surprise registered on his face. “What, you want to fight me with karate? Judo? Kung Fu? You call yourself Laura Lam and claim to be Chinese, but you are not.” His eyes bored into hers. “You lied to me. You are Vietnamese. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing,” she said, spitting the words at him. “You are despicable, a ruthless murderer who kills innocent people.”

  With no discernible reaction, he drew on the cigar and blew a plume of smoke. Set the cigar on the front windowsill, careful to leave the lighted end beyond the edge. Silently and methodically, he removed his jacket and laid it on her bed. Her heart jolted in fear.

  In a suit, he looked like a businessman. In shirtsleeves, his powerful physique was unmistakable, massive shoulders and muscular arms that strained the fabric of his white shirt. She tried to calm herself. He outweighed her by a hundred pounds, but she was quicker, more agile.

  “You want to fight me with your Asian martial arts? Go ahead.” He assumed a boxer's stance, his left fist tucked below his chin, his right fist clenched below it, ready to strike.

  Poised on the balls of her feet, she stepped to her left. His l
eft fist jabbed at her. She dodged it easily and kept circling left. He mirrored her move, his implacable gaze locked on her face. Now he was between her and the door. She was trapped.

  She pictured Clint Hammer dead on the salon floor, the man who'd killed Bruce. Orazio had killed Bianca's mother. Now he wanted to kill Bianca. She had to stop him. The odds were against her, but at least she would go down fighting.

  He swung his right fist, a knock-out punch had it landed, but she ducked and danced away, breathing hard, inhaling the smoke from his smoldering cigar on the windowsill. The pungent aroma inspired her.

  She grabbed the cigar and threw it at his eyes. The cigar hit his forehead and fell on the floor. Unfazed, he brushed ash off his forehead with one hand and stepped on the cigar, grinding it out in the rug, sending pungent smoke spiraling into the air.

  “You are no university student,” he said calmly. “You are a spy. Who sent you to us?”

  She kept circling left, watching his granite-hard eyes, watching for a signal that would reveal his next move. He blinked. Cocked his right fist.

  Gathering her energy, she breathed deep to her diaphragm. Found her center of energy. Focused.

  Exploding in a Taekwondo spin move, she leaped and kicked him in the head.

  With a loud grunt, he staggered and fell to one knee, planting his other foot on the floor.

  Her heart catapulted into her throat. She had landed a solid blow, one that would have felled most men, but Orazio seemed impervious to it.

  Desperate, she leaped again and kicked at his head, but he dodged her foot. His right hand snaked out and locked onto her ankle.

  Off balance and panting with exertion, she hopped on one foot. Inexorably, his powerful arms pulled her closer. She pummeled him with her fists, boxing his ear. He grabbed her forearm where he'd burned her and squeezed. Pain shot up her arm.

  Before she could recover, his fist slammed the side of her face. She fell to the floor, gasping with pain.

  Breathing hard, Orazio rose to his feet and stood over her. “My father warned me about you Asians. You are treacherous and deceitful.”

  A voice called from downstairs. “Mr. Antonetti, come quick. I need to talk to you!”

  “Just a moment,” Orazio called. He yanked her to her feet and sat her on the bed, glowering at her. “But first I will make sure my deceitful Vietnamese spy does not leave this room.”

  He turned and spotted the clothesline on the floor below the side window. As quick as a cat, he grabbed the clothesline and brought it to the bed. “Hold out your wrists. If you do not, I will punch you harder than before.”

  Knowing it was useless to resist, she held out her wrists. Quickly and efficiently, he bound them together, yanked her to her feet and hauled her to the side window. “Sit on the floor under the window.”

  Exhausted, she sank onto the floor. He wound the other end of the cord around the handle of the side window and tied it in a tight knot.

  “Mr. Antonetti!” called the guard, more urgently than before.

  “I'm coming,” Orazio yelled. He put on his jacket and stood over her, his eyes fixed on hers. His expression sent shivers down her spine.

  “Stay there and behave yourself,” he said in a quiet voice. “If you do not, I will come back and kill both of you. Believe it.”

  She had no doubt that he would.

  _____

  Orazio paused outside the door, fingering the lump on the side of his head. The treacherous Vietnamese spy had kicked him in the head and punched his ear, painful blows, but not powerful enough to defeat him. In the end, he had prevailed, but his head felt woozy. Blindsided by a fucking nanny who lied to appear innocent. He drew several deep breaths.

  Rocco wanted to talk to him, but he could not allow the guard to see him in a moment of weakness. When dealing with underlings, always show strength. When his head cleared, he descended the stairs to the landing at the halfway point. It required all of his deceptive skills to mask his rage.

  “Rocco,” he called. “What is the problem?”

  He heard rapid footsteps and Rocco appeared at the foot of the stairs, wide-eyed and agitated. “A big black Hummer drove by the house with men in FBI jackets! Looked like the SWAT teams you see on TV. Helmets and automatic rifles. I never seen anything like it.”

  His heart began to race. FBI? SWAT teams? He maintained a calm expression, but murderous thoughts rampaged in his mind, the first being: Silvano had ratted him out to the cops. No. Silvano would never send FBI agents to Tick-Tock's house. Maybe they were on this street to resolve a different matter. And maybe they weren't.

  When in doubt, prepare for the worst. “Who else is downstairs?”

  “Just the maid,” Rocco said. “She's in the kitchen, cleaning up.”

  “Tell her to finish up and go home.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rocco turned and ran down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Orazio went in his bedroom and looked out the front window. No sign of the Hummer.

  His head throbbed, a steady pain that distracted him. He touched the lump where the deceitful nanny had kicked him. Soon there would be swelling and a bruise. Fortunately, his hair would hide this. He studied himself in the mirror above the dresser. His ear was sore, but not red or inflamed. Nothing that Tommy or Catarina would notice.

  He took out his cellphone and called Silvano, who answered right away. “Hello, Orazio. How are you?”

  “Did you tell the cops your SUV was here?” This was no time for polite chit-chat. Be direct. Let the chips fall where they may.

  “Of course not. Why would I?”

  “The guard saw a SWAT team with FBI agents drive by Tick-Tock's house in a Hummer.”

  “Where are they now?” Silvano said sharply.

  “I don't know. I can't see them from the window in my room.”

  “Where is my SUV?”

  “In the garage,” he said, relieved that he'd gone to the airport parking garage after leaving Canal Place and had Tommy drive Silvano's SUV back to Tick-Tock's house.

  “Tell the maid to drive it to my house.” A pause. “Donna knows where I live.”

  Of course, Orazio thought. Silvano's wife had passed five years ago and a man had his needs.

  “I will send two cars, with eight of my best soldiers to help you. Here is the code to get into the room off the kitchen. In the closet you will find all the weapons you need.”

  He memorized the code, thanked Silvano and ended the call. He went to the dresser, grabbed the keys to Silvano's SUV and the rented SUV and ran to the stairs. “Rocco! Tell Donna to wait.”

  When he entered the kitchen, Donna, voluptuous and sexy even in her maid's uniform, looked at him with frightened eyes. He gave her the keys and said, “Drive Silvano's SUV to his house.”

  Without a word, she went into the garage. He gave the other set of keys to Rocco. “Back your car and the other SUV into the garage, nose out, and shut the garage door.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rocco said, already heading for the garage.

  Orazio strode to the door on the opposite side of the kitchen and punched in the code. A green light appeared on the keypad. He went inside and turned on the lights. No windows, no exit door. Two plush sofas faced a large movie screen. Behind them, a wet-bar with shelves of bottled liquor. Beside the bar was a gray-steel door. He opened it and stepped into a walk-in closet. A gun rack held two Remington shotguns and four Uzis. Beside it, a metal shelf held assorted handguns. The shelf above them held boxes of ammunition and spare magazines for the Uzis.

  He decided the Uzis would be the most useful and carried three of them into the kitchen.

  When Rocco came in from the garage, Orazio gave him one of the Uzis. Rocco smiled. “This will take out a few feds.”

  “Let us hope this will not be necessary.” Rocco wasn't too bright, but he knew how to handle a gun. “Stay in the dining room at the front windows. Alert me if you see the Hummer or a SWAT team.”

  Carrying the other two Uzis, he f
ollowed Rocco down the hall toward the front door. Catarina was useless when it came to guns, but she could stand at her bedroom window and watch the back of the house.

  As he went upstairs to his bedroom his thoughts returned to Laura. Who had she been talking to? Not boyfriends. Of this he was certain.

  He took her cellphone out of his pocket, a cheap model with a primitive keyboard. He powered it on and opened the contact list. Only two numbers, one for JC, another for F. He called the number for JC.

  A male voice with a foreign accent said, “'Allo?”

  Orazio said nothing.

  “Natalie, is that you?”

  The man's accent sounded European. But who was Natalie?

  “Who are you?” Orazio said.

  After a brief silence, “Agent John Conti. Who are you?”

  He ended the call. Agent John Conti. Interpol or Europol probably. The thought made him shudder.

  Forget the murders at the Vietnamese restaurant. This was about the carnage in Venice.

  Conti knew Laura, but called her Natalie, a common tactic when agents infiltrated Mafia gangs. FBI Agent Joe Pistone had done this in New York, masquerading as Donnie Brasco.

  Who was F, he wondered.

  But he had no time to find out. He had to prepare for the attack.

  Agent John Conti had sent a team of FBI agents here to arrest them.

  CHAPTER 38

  Frantic with worry, desperate to escape, Natalie tensed her muscles, straining against the clothesline that imprisoned her wrists. But the cord didn't give an inch. It only made the pain worse where Orazio had burned her. Exhausted, she sank back against the wall below the windowsill.

  Orazio had called her a Vietnamese spy. Her cover was blown. Worse, he had her Conti cellphone. She had deleted any texts she'd sent or received, but Conti's number was in it and so was Frank's.

  If Orazio called Conti, Conti would know someone had taken the phone from her, but he would do nothing to save her. If Orazio called Frank, Frank would know she was in trouble, but what good would that do? He knew she and Bianca were upstairs in her bedroom, but he didn't know she was a prisoner, shackled and unable to move.