"I doubt it," Luisa hissed back, closing the curtain to the changing area. I left and headed up to Adriana’s room, where I found one of her old painting t-shirts and some basketball shorts folded in her drawers. Taking them down, I left them for Luisa, pausing to marvel at the silhouette that was barely visible against the shower curtain. Despite her bitchiness and her obvious distaste for when I was trying to be smooth, she was certainly beautiful, and I knew that I was attracted to her. I'd be a fool not to be.
"Here are your clothes," I said loudly enough to make sure I was heard. "I'll set them on the stool."
She didn't reply, and I shrugged, figuring that she was still pissed about my father's decision. I turned to go when I heard her turn the water off, and her voice was soft in the sudden silence. "Tomasso?"
"Yes, Luisa? Need something?”
"No," she said quietly, unlike her. "Just . . . thank you. I know you were trying to take care of me. Thank you."
Chapter 6
Luisa
"You want me to what?"
I was speaking in Portuguese, but it was close enough to Spanish and Italian that I knew both Tomasso and Don Bertoli were able to understand my conversation with my father. If they couldn't get every word, they certainly could tell what I felt about the situation.
"Luisa, these terrorists are not just in Seattle. Some of our allies in Brasilia and even Argentina have confirmed for me that they too have gotten threats or even action from these men. We’re going to teach them a lesson."
My father's face loomed large in the monitor that had been set up for the video call, and I was impressed by how advanced the office was. It certainly hadn't appeared that way when I first walked in. “This is outrageous. I understand giving the police the description of the man that I have told you about, but to stay in this . . . city and continue to cooperate? To act like some sort of bait, to see if they come after me? This is madness!"
I stepped over the line, but I honestly didn't care. His face grew flushed, and he looked over his shoulder. I saw some motion in the background, and I knew he'd sent away everyone who could listen in. When he turned back, he was angrier than I'd seen him in a long time. "You are my daughter, and there is no way a daughter of mine is going to disrespect me in front of my men like that. Ever. So I’ll say this only one more time. You will stay at the Bertoli house, you will do exactly what Don Bertoli asks of you, and you will come home when I say you will. Do you have any questions?”
I gritted my teeth and shook my head slowly. "No."
"Señor Mendosa, I have a request," Don Bertoli said, giving me a glance. He saw an opportunity, and he was going to take it, that was for sure. “I’ve asked my son to look after your Luisa. He’ll make sure that your daughter is safe and sound the rest of her time in Seattle."
My father immediately brightened, smiling his most friendly smile. I'd seen it often. It was the one he used when he was actually pleased, or if someone had massaged his ego just right. There are a lot of misconceptions about the idea of macho, but there is a lot of truth to it too, and my father oozed macho. "Don Bertoli," he said, switching to heavily accented English that to me was nearly as unintelligible as Chinese, "I would be honored. My daughter will remain in your care, and your son shall be responsible for her safety. Thank you for such a high level of respect."
"Of course, Señor Mendosa. Once this is taken care of, we can discuss how we might be able to turn this unfortunate event to both our advantage by discussing a more permanent business arrangement." Leave it to men like Don Bertoli and my father—they always had at least part of their minds focused on business.
"That would make me a happy man, Don Bertoli. Thank you."
Father hung up without saying goodbye to me, and I stood, fuming. I always hated my father's chauvinistic tendencies, and for him to demonstrate them so openly in front of others infuriated me even more. I was nearly in tears, both from shame and frustration. I looked from the Don to his son and clamped my fingers tightly together to control my outer expression. I wouldn’t cry in front of these men. "Don Bertoli, if I’m to stay in your house, I need a bedroom. Is there one I can use?"
He gave me an understanding look, one that threatened to undo all of the control I had placed on myself, and I squeezed my fingers so tightly they threatened to break. "Of course, Miss Mendosa. Tomasso, could you find a room for her, please?"
"I can do that,” Tomasso said, not unkindly. Considering the conversation we'd had that afternoon over coffee, he at least partially understood my frustration. He looked at me now with understanding written on his face, which for some reason just made me angrier. "Luisa, would you come with me, please?"
In the hallway, I stopped and stared down the richly carpeted surface. Tomasso closed the door to his father's study behind him, and I looked over. "You said please. I appreciate it."
He turned and looked at me carefully. His face was collected, but his voice was slightly haughty and commanding. "Luisa, I don't like this any more than you do. You don't want to be in Seattle—I get it. You've got some bug up your ass about Americans—I get that too. Right now, I'm just as frustrated because I haven't even learned all the parts of being an errand boy for my father's organization, and now I'm being tasked with something much more important, making sure you stay safe. I'd prefer if we could at least be polite with each other like we were at the cafe this afternoon, but if you want to hold your father's stupid chauvinism against me, there's not a thing I can do to stop you. Your choice, chica."
I wanted to slap him. Nobody except my father had spoken to me in such a frank, yet still disrespectful tone since I was a child. Even my brothers had learned to avoid my wrath. However, Tomasso was right. I wasn't pissed at him as much as I was pissed at my father. "Come on then," I said instead, pointing down the hall. "I'm sure you know which room I'm supposed to use."
"Actually, no," he replied with a chuckle. "But we can ask Jessie. She's one of the maids, and she'll know."
We found Jessie in the kitchen, busily cleaning the silverware. A pretty girl wearing what looked like a new wedding ring, she still blushed when Tomasso called her name, and I wondered if the two had any sort of history together. "Jessie? This is Luisa Mendosa. She's going to be staying at the house for a little while. Dad said there might be some empty rooms in the guest wing."
Jessie thought, then nodded. “Only one, sir. It was the room your cousin used when she was staying away from that psycho stalker.”
Tomasso smirked and chuckled. "Oh, the irony. All right, show us the room, if you could."
Jessie, complete in a little maid's outfit that while not totally sexist, certainly accentuated her petite but sexy figure, led us both across to the other wing of the house, opening a door to an internal room. "I'm sorry, Miss Mendosa, but all the other rooms are currently in use. Well, except for Miss Bertoli's private room. If you'd like, and Don Bertoli approves, I can—”
"No. This will be fine," I said, giving her the kindest smile I could muster at the moment. I already towered over the girl, who looked to be barely over five feet tall. She was clearly intimidated, and I didn't want to scare her. "Thank you. Tomasso, you said something earlier about my bags?"
He nodded. “I’ll give Pietro a call and see what’s taking them. In the meantime, relax, and you can have the run of the house—I have to go make my rounds."
I shrugged, not knowing what to say. "Thank you. For now, I think I'm going to sit and think."
“Okay, but please, if you want to leave the house, find me. I'll come check up on you later, maybe at seven or eight. That's when we’ll have dinner. And if you don’t have your clothes by then, don’t worry about it.”
I looked down at my paint stained t-shirt and sighed. I could hear the joke in Tomasso's voice, and he wasn't trying to needle me. He was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. "Okay. Thank you."
The next day, I was wearing my second-best suit when I met Dominic Petruzelli, the family attorney. Tomasso drove
me down to the police headquarters in his Alfa-Romeo, remarking that he was glad the seats cleaned so quickly. When I asked him what he meant, he told me that he'd spent a half-hour scrubbing the headrest of my seat after I'd bled on it the day before, which did cause me to feel a little bit guilty, even though I obviously couldn’t have controlled it. Dropping me off, he said he'd go wait a little distance away, where the police weren’t so interested in people with the last name of Bertoli.
I didn't have to wait long to meet Dominic. He was waiting in the middle of the plaza outside the police headquarters, and he recognized me immediately, probably from my height and my blonde hair. Even in America, there are not too many six foot blondes running around. "Miss Mendosa? I'm Dom Petruzelli, the Bertoli family attorney."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Petruzelli. And how are you?"
"First, actually, can you give me a quarter?" he asked. I thought it a strange question, but I found a coin in my purse and handed it over, which he quickly pocketed. "Okay, now you've officially hired me. American legalities—the attorney-client privilege didn't apply until you actually hired me. Anything the Don said is clear under his umbrella, but you were uncovered until just now. As to your question, I'm doing fine. Shall I brief you on how to approach things?"
I smiled at the interesting sharpness of his mind and put my purse back under my arm. "I've dealt with the police before, but please. In general, I was going to give my statement, and if they asked about anything outside what this man looked like, have a sudden bout of not understanding any English."
Dominic chuckled and gave me an admiring look. "Miss Mendosa, you have as good a plan as any Bertoli man I've helped with the police before. Yes, if they stray at all from a description of the man or him running into you, then you clam up, and I'll take over. There's going to be at least one cop whose whole job is to try and get some leverage on the Bertoli family. I know it’s a conflict of interest, but I think it’s in both of our best interests to protect the Don as well as your family."
"Agreed. Now, let's not keep the good public servants waiting," I said, smiling. "After all, we wouldn't want them to get upset with us too quickly, now, would we?"
Inside, I was introduced to a Detective Turner, as well as a Detective Fritz. Fritz seemed to know Dominic and cursed under his breath as Dominic followed me into the questioning room. "For fuck's sake, Petruzelli, she's not even a Bertoli!"
"She's my client, and has paid me a mutually agreed upon retainer," Dominic said evenly, repressing his smile even as he was taking out a digital recorder. "Now, shall we?"
The questioning lasted only about an hour, with most of it being a videotaped statement as to who I saw. In the twelve hours since I'd told the Don, no one matching that description had popped up on the Bertoli network, but perhaps the police had access to things they didn’t. "You say his left eye was blue, and the right one brown?"
"No, Detective. The other way around," I said for what felt like the third or fourth time. "His left eye was brown, his right eye blue. And the scar started above the left eye, in a sort of arc that curved down almost to his mouth. He had a beard, not too well kept, but short, maybe a few weeks at most."
Detective Fritz nodded and tapped his finger on the table. "And why you were walking into the convention center with Tomasso Bertoli?"
"I don’t think that’s relevant to this interview," I said. "What do you think, Mr. Petruzelli?"
Dominic smiled and shook his head. "Me too. In fact, Detective, I would say unless you're going to name Miss Mendosa a person of interest in this case and read her her rights, this interview is over."
The other detective, Turner, glared at Fritz while I gathered my things. "Miss Mendosa, there might be a need for you to give a video deposition," Detective Turner tried at a last gasp as I was leaving the room. "Would you at least agree to stay in town?"
"For now," I said, "until the man is caught, I hope. I wish you luck with your search, Detective."
Outside, I found Tomasso leaning against a planter, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet cocked in front of him. "So how'd it go?"
"I thought you were saying you wanted to stay away from the police," I remarked with a surprising smile. "Or are you turning over a new leaf?"
"I already did that—found out the new leaf wasn't as good as the old leaf, so I went back," Tomasso replied. "How was Detective Taguchi?"
"It was Fritz today," Dominic replied, holding out his hand. "Good to see you, Tomasso. When I heard you were back in town, I was hoping to come say hello. Sorry it had to happen like this."
Tomasso shook the offered hand while shrugging. "It always happens like this, Dominic. That's why your son gets to go to prep school and you only have one client. You earn every penny though."
Dominic chuckled, then looked at his watch. "Actually, I have more than one client, and I’m due for a meeting with another in about an hour. I'd normally let my secretary handle it—it's nothing but a probate technical issue involving a will—but I figure that you've got no problem with helping Miss Mendosa back home.”
"That's my job," Tomasso replied, waving at Dominic as he walked away. Turning to me, he flashed his cocky grin again. "So you survived the American police. Good to know. Now, where to?”
“Anywhere but back to your father’s house," I said. “I’m going to be stuck there enough as it is."
“I guess we don’t have to go back right away. Tell you what, let's go see the Space Needle."
"Really? Isn't it a little touristy?" I asked, still smiling. There was a certain rakish charm to Tomasso when he wasn't trying to come off as totally cocky.
“Maybe, but I bet you haven't been there yet, and it does give you one hell of a view from up there," he commented with a laugh. "Come on, it's not going to be that bad. And it'll keep you out of the house for a while."
I thought about it, then nodded. "Fine. Go on, American man. Show me around your city."
Tomasso grinned his little twisted, cocky grin that sent a thrill down my neck while at the same time irked me, and led me to his car. I climbed in, buckling my seat belt. "By the way, what is it with your family and Italian cars?"
“That’s all we drive,” Tomasso said. “Only the best. What do you have back home?"
I chuckled and looked out at the weather. "A TAC, actually."
"A what? Seriously? I would have taken you for a Porsche or Lambo girl," Tomasso said. "Lots of power, lots of curves."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks at his compliment and glanced over at him to see if he was making fun of me. His eyes were on the road, and his face seemed honest and open, which made the heat in my cheeks go up even more. “Nice try. But like you, my family likes to stick to cars in our heritage. TAC is a Brazilian company, not a subsidiary of someone else. They only make a single model, and it looks a lot like a Jeep. There are lots of roads outside Porto Alegre that make four-wheel drive and high clearance a necessity, so I drive that. I've gotten out of ruts and mud holes that would have gotten a Ferrari or BMW stuck to the rims."
Tomasso smirked and looked over. "You know, you continue to surprise me. I'd never have pegged you as a person who goes for practicality."
“Says the man who wears a thousand-dollar suit to do pickups," I noted, then shook my head. “I’m sorry. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just saying that there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
"That goes both ways," Tomasso said softly, as if I'd touched a nerve. He found a parking spot and shut off the engine. "Shall we?"
Walking through the park that surrounded the Space Needle, I was taken with the prettiness of the day. As opposed to the previous day's gloom, the sky was clear, and the warmth of the sun felt like a taste of home. "This is nice," I said, stopping and facing the sun. "There are days, back home, when I use to do this over and over."
"When I first got to Alabama, I spent so much time outside that I turned a dark tan," Tomasso said. He sighed and looked up at the Needle. "There were a few years
there when I could have stayed that nut brown and bummed my way around the South. I'm sure Dad would have cut me an allowance until I made something of myself."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, curious. "You just . . . you still seem to not be fully committed . . ."
He shook his head. "I am. I was looking for something when I went down South, and to be honest, I'm still kind of looking. But I learned that I didn't have to leave Seattle to find it and that my family is an important part of my life. To not have my family . . . that would be nearly as hard as not finding what I'm looking for."
I tilted my head, curious. "And what are you looking for?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. “The same thing we're all looking for, I guess. Dozens of grandchildren, full control of any business I set my sights on, and for all my enemies to die in highly unlikely accidents that can’t be connected to me. What about you?"
"About the same," I said with a laugh. I stepped closer for some reason, and he turned to me. Reaching out, he took my hand.
"Come on. Let's check out the view." During the wait in line for the elevator, we kept our conversation going, like two new acquaintances learning about each other. There was a pleasant tension building between us, unlike the hostility that we started with. "So why did you go to Brown? I mean, I know your father wanted some of his family to be internationally educated, but Brown's Ivy League, and you don't strike me as too pleased with being up here."
"Actually, Brown is what caused a lot of it," I admitted. "Before that, I thought that I'd love it in America all the time. Instead, I found Rhode Island dreary and cold far too often, and the students were too whiny and spoiled for my liking. I'm sorry, but listening to trust fund girls complain about the unfairness of life when I came from a city that only has sewer systems in about eighty percent of the houses and air quality that is worse than everywhere in Brazil except Sao Paulo . . . they have nothing to complain about."
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