Mr. Fiancé

by Lauren Landish

  "If you drive the way I think you will, it won't matter, will it?" Jake said. "Just remember to try and keep it at ground level, okay?"

  Actually, I cruised, enjoying the feeling of the sports car as I drove north along the Interstate toward the Bertoli mansion. "So how's life for you now?"

  "Not bad," Jake said. "You know the Don's got me working at the pizza joint?"

  "No shit?" I said with a laugh. Bertoli's Pizza was just one of my family's legitimate businesses. No Mafia family can go for long without having some legitimate business to filter all the profits of their other enterprises, and Bertoli's Pizza was a Seattle institution. We'd even catered the summer barbecue for the police union three years running for free. "What's he got you doing? Deliveries?"

  Jake laughed and shook his head. "Nah, learning how to actually do business. He's got me working the books in the office and stuff. He told me that the Army took care of the violent side of things, and they taught me about how to organize. Now, it’s time to put the finishing touches on me—his own words. So I've spent six months working in the back offices, doing orders for tomato sauce, cheese, flour, shit like that after I got reacquainted with Seattle. Worst part of it all is, I haven't even seen a slice of pizza the whole damn time. But what about you? You leave a bunch of heartbroken girls back in Alabama?"

  "Heartbroken? No way. Broken in? Hell yes." It wasn't the total truth, but I couldn't exactly tell Jake the truth. He wouldn't have understood.

  He laughed and we continued driving. Reaching the mansion, I stopped in front, getting out to take my bags.

  "You go say hi to your father. I'll park the car," Jake said. “And don't worry about the bags, either. You may want to do stuff on your own now, but remember, you're still part of the Bertoli family. There are people to do that sort of stuff around here. Your bags be in your room when you're done talking with the Don."

  I nodded and went inside, unconsciously checking my pants and shirt to make sure I looked okay. While Father would understand that I'd flown wearing track pants and a t-shirt, that didn't excuse if I'd shown up looking like a bum. Inside, I saw one of the maids, a nice girl named Jessie who'd been with the house for years. "Jessie?"

  "Master Bertoli, welcome home," she said, smiling shyly. Jessie was a few years older than me and had gotten married while I was in college. Still, we'd had a few nights back when we were both single that still left pleasant memories and warmed cold nights. Tiny, trim, and with a bobbed haircut that gave her sort of a pixie vibe, she'd always been a great maid, and she'd let me rock her world once or twice. "How was your flight?"

  "Good, but you know I don't like that Master stuff. Just Tomasso."

  Jessie blushed a little but shook her head. "I can't, sir. At least, not using your first name while working. I suppose you are looking for Mr. Bertoli?"

  "Yes, do you know where he is?"

  She pointed out toward the back. "I believe he's by the pool. He's on a bit of a fitness kick recently, if you can believe it."

  I shook my head. "Really? What caused that?"

  She leaned in close, whispering into my ear. "He tried on his tuxedo for Miss Bertoli's wedding to Daniel. Let's just say it didn't fit too well. Since then, he's been on a fitness kick. He wants to make sure things look good for the ceremony."

  I chuckled and shook my head. If my father had any weakness in terms of his thinking or actions, it was Adriana. Then again, since I agreed with his sparing of Daniel, I couldn't argue it too much. "Thanks, Jessie. I'll let you get your work done.”

  I left and found my father in the family pool. It was three lanes, and while not competition depth, it had let my brother, Angelo, do pretty well for a short, stocky Italian on the high school swim team. Of course, I suspect he joined the swim team only because he got to spend a lot of time around girls in swimsuits.

  Father, on the other hand, looked nothing at all like a swimmer or an athlete of any kind. As he went north of fifty years old, his paunch had spread, and his already somewhat weak jawline had receded more and more into his neck. Still, discounting Carlo Bertoli, even if you were his son, was a fool's errand. It was difficult, though, as he had for some reason insisted on wearing Speedos as he did his laps.

  Seeing me when he turned, he waved at me and stopped, touching down on the bottom of the pool. Walking his way back from the other end, he pulled his goggles off his head and wiped his face. "Tomasso! It's good to have you home, Son! I didn't expect you in for another two hours. What happened?"

  "I was able to catch an earlier connection coming out of Denver," I explained, walking closer to the pool. "It's good to see you, Dad."

  He got out of the pool and grabbed a robe off the deck chair he'd been using. Tying the belt, he came and hugged me, the two of us clapping each other on the back. "Oh, my boy, it's good to see you too. Ouch,” he said. “Watch it, you're going to hurt an old man's back!"

  I laughed and pounded him once more, then stepped back. "You're not old. You're still in the prime of your life."

  He chuckled and shook his head. "When a man starts giving away those he feels are his children, then the prime of his life is over. But I plan on hanging on to what's left as much as I can. Come, let's sit."

  I took the other seat, and Dad tapped a control on the table. "Can you bring some beer for me and Tomasso? No, wait—make it two sparkling waters."

  He clicked off the intercom and shrugged. "I don't want to look like a fool at Adriana's wedding."

  "You won't, I promise. I'm glad to be back in time for that as well."

  "So, now that you're back, Tommy, what do you plan to do? To be honest, when you left to go to school four years ago, I wasn't sure I'd see you back other than on holidays."

  "Actually, if you don't mind, Tomasso now," I said somberly. "I came back because I think it's time for me to set some ideas I had as a boy aside and become a man."

  He crossed his hands over his stomach, a gesture I'd come to know well. He was thinking, and his mind, which was stronger than any muscle any of his men may have had, was working. "You know, Tomasso, coming back is not like you just stepped out for a bit while going to school locally. The boys, the Family—they kind of knew you were unsure about this life. Now you're saying you want back in. How would I justify this to men like your friend, Jake, who only left because I told him to go into the military for a few years? How would that even look to his father?"

  I nodded, thinking. "I know. It's one reason why I want to earn my way up. The boys, the Family—they won't respect me if I just came in acting like some sort of heir-apparent. I don't want to be some pampered prince, nor do I think that is what you would want of me. So let me start near the bottom, where you think I can learn and show what I can offer.”

  Dad's eyes twinkled, and a small smile broke out on his face. "Is that so? You realize if I do that, I must place you under someone besides myself. I can't be the one to mentor you. That would damage the exact thing you are trying to establish."

  "I know," I said, thinking. Suddenly, an idea came to mind. "You know, Jake Marconi was the guy who picked me up at the airport. I take it that you have him in the office to learn from you?"

  Dad chuckled and took a sip of his water. "Jake is a good boy, but he is not cut out for the rough part of life. I kept tabs on him in the military through our connections, and while he's trustworthy and a good worker, he's not as sure on the trigger as I need him at this time. He's too sure of his words and his ability to use his charm. Useful tools, but more useful on the legitimate side of our business than the other side. Why?"

  "Well, why not place me under his father, Pietro? He's your most trusted lieutenant. He's one of the best men you've ever worked with, and if anyone can teach me what I need to know, he can do it. Also, let's face it—he's not an easy man to work for. How many men have come to you asking to be taken off his watch?"

  Dad laughed, raising his hands in the universal gesture of who knows? "But know this, Tomasso. If I do that, Pietro is goin
g to be your boss, not your father's lieutenant. Can you handle that?"

  "Give me a day to get unpacked and get my mind right, and we can talk to Pietro tomorrow," I said, taking a drink. "Would that be okay?"

  "Let's talk with him Sunday," Dad replied. "You should take a few more days and get your feet underneath you in Seattle again."

  Chapter 2

  Luisa

  Looking down from ten thousand feet in the United Airlines Boeing, I wished the plane weren’t circling Seattle. While it was summertime in the United States and the weather was reasonably warm, I missed my native land. July in Brazil was beautiful, and in my hometown of Porto Alegre, the midwinter weather was perfect. Brazil is in the Southern Hemisphere, so July is actually winter. Not too warm, the rainy season wasn't too bad, and the mid-summer cattle were coming in from the Pampas. Keep your wagyu, your Angus, and your Aussie. I'll take fresh Brazilian beef from the Pampas any day.

  Still, as part of my father's businesses, this trip was necessary. The Porto Alege Mendosa family is powerful, but only within our little section of Brazil. Compared to some of the families in Sao Paulo, Brasilia, or especially Rio de Janeiro, we were nothing but backwoods hicks, rednecks with a little bit of money and a lot of cojones. In order to stay strong, we often had to mix our legal and illegal businesses. Then again, many families in Brazil needed to mix their legal and, technically, illegal businesses. Some of the best of them became politicians.

  So I had to come to Seattle. There was a trade show being held over the next two weeks at the Civic Center, and of all the Mendosas, I was the one that not only had the best English, but also had the cleanest record. My father was known as a person of interest by Interpol, and while some of my brothers were not as well-known, they barely spoke any English, preferring to leave the boring, nerdy side of education to me and my sisters. Not that it was all I learned, of course.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we just got final clearance for landing at Seattle's SeaTac airport. For all of us in the flight crew, I'd like to thank you for flying with us today. Y'all have a great time, and see us again," the American pilot said over the intercom in his annoyingly Texas twang. At least my accent does not add syllables to words or just make them up entirely.

  I sighed and made sure my seat was fully up and my things ready. I looked around at the collection of Americans next to me, and I had to shake my head. None of them knew how to dress. Still, I had to admit that after being in various airplanes for going on eighteen hours with layovers and other delays, I could have switched places with one of them and enjoyed a t-shirt and yoga pants. But I had places to go when I got off the plane in Seattle and social calls I had to make.

  Those social calls, more than anything, irked me the most. You see, the purpose of my visit to Seattle wasn't just the trade show, which would reinforce my family's agricultural connections. We had a chance to make the sort of face-to-face connections that could lead to Mendosa beef being served in many restaurants in the United States, a market worth millions of dollars per year. But more importantly was the connection my father wanted to make with Carlo Bertoli. That was, if anything, more important than the trade show.

  Like Seattle, Porto Alegre was a seafaring city, with lots of cargo going in and out of the port every day. That, combined with a very tourist friendly nightlife, left a lot of opportunities for men such as my father to make a living.

  But to further our opportunities, we needed allies. The Bertoli family, with a hold on the Port of Seattle, could be a powerful ally. So my first stop in Seattle, even before I checked into my hotel, was the Bertoli mansion.

  Thankfully, I'd cleared American customs in Dallas, the last stopover I had before flying to Seattle. I'd even had a chance to take a nap on the airplane, so I wasn't too exhausted when I stepped out of the baggage terminal and walked to the shuttle bus that would take me to the car rental counter.

  At the counter, the clerk, a cute boy in that overconfident sort of way, tried to flirt with me as I checked out the Lincoln that I'd reserved. "So, uh, you'll be in Seattle for a while?"

  I raised an eyebrow at the clerk, who blushed. "Sorry?"

  The boy swallowed his nervousness and tried again. "Just . . . if you're free any night here when you're in Seattle, I was thinking that—"

  "I don't think I will have the free time. But thank you," I said, cutting him off. I was trying to be polite, but I had other things on my mind. I didn't have time for a young man with an overabundant fascination with my backside, though it was one of my best assets. What is that American saying? Real women have curves. I have them, and I'm proud of them. We figured that basic truth out in Brazil generations ago.

  Driving north toward what the car navigation system was telling me was my destination, I reviewed what I knew about Don Carlo Bertoli. He had taken over the Seattle area after his brother had been gunned down in a hit. In the ensuing struggle, he'd distinguished himself not only for his ruthlessness, but for his analytical mind. He'd quickly united the disjointed Bertoli troops under his command and enacted revenge on the men who'd killed his brother. He'd also taken care of his family, supporting both his sister-in-law and niece as well as his two sons. Widowed now, he ruled Seattle with a deceptively iron fist, in full control of the area.

  I knew that Bertoli increased his family's power and had expanded in both the legitimate and illegal areas of business. He was a man to both respect and be concerned about. I couldn't be anything but honest with the man, but at the same time, I couldn't be an open book. If I did, I would certainly give him information he could use against the Mendosas.

  I pulled up at the gate to the Bertoli mansion at just before five o'clock, looking up the driveway at the impressive building. I reached over and hit the buzzer button, and a male voice came back on immediately. "May we help you?"

  "I'm Luisa Mendosa. I have an appointment to see Don Bertoli?"

  I waited a moment, and then the man came back on the intercom. "Please pull up in front of the house. You will be met in the driveway."

  The gate buzzed and started swinging back, and I pulled directly in front of the front door and shut off my engine, getting out with my hands visible but not extended. I was an expected guest, not a hostage or some other lackey, and I was a Mendosa.

  The front door opened, and a man came out. He had the obvious look of an enforcer, but was a bit old for the position. I figured that he was one of the lieutenants. "Miss Mendosa? I'm Pietro Marconi. Don Bertoli is waiting for you inside. If you'd follow me?"

  "Of course, Mr. Marconi. Would you like to check my person?"

  He stopped and looked back, slightly surprised. "Miss Mendosa, that's not how Mr. Bertoli treats his guests and friends. Your father contacted him saying you would be in town, and he's very happy to receive you as a friend of the family. There's no need for us to treat each other with suspicion, is there?"

  I tilted my head, remembering that America operated on different rules than Brazil, and nodded. "My apologies, Mr. Marconi. Please, lead on."

  He led me through the house, which I saw had three wings in a reverse open rectangular pattern, quite standard and quite nice. Taking me through the main wing, we exited into a garden, where he led me along a concrete walkway to a small picnic area. "If you would wait here, he'll be out in a moment."

  I had just taken a seat at the table when a man approached, wearing a fine custom tailored Italian suit that had to have cost a couple of thousand dollars. He was slightly dumpy, but in his eyes burned an intelligence and power that only a fool would ignore. Then again, I'd met many fools in the short twenty-one years of my life to that point. I stood up, offering my hand to shake. "Don Bertoli?"

  "Miss Mendosa, it's a pleasure to have you in my home," the Don said, smiling and returning the handshake with vigor and strength. When he did, the steel in his face mellowed slightly. "Was your flight from Brazil reasonable?"

  "Reasonable? I'd say that would be a good word," I said with a slight laugh. I noticed that he
had an Italian accent, which somewhat surprised me. The family had been in the United States for at least three generations that I knew of, and Carlo Bertoli himself had been born in Seattle. How such a man still sounded like an Italian immigrant was beyond me. "The flight from Rio to Dallas was the longest part, of course. But I was able to fly in one of the new Dreamliners, so it wasn't too bad."

  "That's good to hear. Please, relax and have a seat. I'm sure you must be tired."

  "Actually sir, I had a good nap on the plane. I woke up just as we crossed into American airspace."

  "That's great." he said, smiling. "Well then, it'd be my honor to have you as my family's guest for dinner tonight.”

  Chapter 3

  Tomasso

  I was in the house gym, straining inside the press machine when Pietro came to the door. "Change of plans."

  "What’s up, Pietro?" I asked, letting the handles to the plate-loaded machine down slowly. While I wasn't the best fighter in the Bertoli house, that honor probably belonged to Daniel Neiman, nor the strongest, Lorenzo was certainly that, I more than held my own in both arenas. "I was just finishing up before going to do pickups like you ordered."

  "The Don wants you to delay the start of your work for tonight," Pietro said. "A visitor from Brazil came to pay respects, and he wants you to have dinner with the family. So it'll be you, your father, Mrs. Bertoli, and Miss Mendosa."

  "Mendosa, huh? She cute?" I asked with a grin. I realized I was acting like a spoiled boy and not a Bertoli man, and I stopped. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

  He smiled, not choosing to comment. “How quickly can you be ready?"

  "I had a few sets left, but I can stop now," I answered. "Give me fifteen minutes?"

  “Okay. Suit and tie, of course.” He gave me a nod and walked out. Even though I was supposed to be working for Pietro, I still had to respect my father's wishes.