Mr. Fiancé

by Lauren Landish

  The next day, we'd talked about my family. "Unfortunately, my father is a notorious womanizer," I admitted. "It's why I'm so tall, while my sisters are short, and none of my brothers look alike. It's more accepted in Brazil, I think, but growing up, at least three women I called my aunt were actually mothers to my siblings. My mother met my father when she was a member of the Junior Olympic basketball team back in the nineties. He was in his twenties and she was still in her teens. It was a whirlwind romance, but it's from her that I get my height. And the blonde hair, which is totally natural."

  "I never suspected differently," Tomasso said. "Not that I can check if the carpet matches the curtains, with that wax job and all."

  I blushed, remembering the heat of our romp. "Well, maybe another time. But Mother may have put up with my father's ways, but she didn't like it. The fourth time it happened, she left, and I stayed with my father in Porto Alegre. My mother got an apartment in Rio, and I would sometimes visit her during breaks from school. She got some boyfriends, not that my father cared. They never officially divorced. They are both Catholics, although the fact that they are both adulterous as hell is something I'm not so sure the archbishop would approve of either."

  "So how does that make you feel? I mean, a lot of people would say that it would leave you with some psychological issues," Tomasso joked, but with concern in his voice. "Not that we don't both have enough issues already.”

  "I've noticed. But yes, I'd say it has hurt my trust issues with men. That man I told you about, Travis, was the first time I said I was in love."

  We fell silent, and Tomasso chewed his cookie. "We're pretty fucked up, you know that?"

  "We are."

  Now, the evening after Tomasso's surgery, I was waiting for him in the driveway, watching as his friend, Jake, got out of the driver's side. His father had left the city for a meeting in Portland after checking in on his son, leaving Pietro Marconi in charge of Seattle while he was gone. Margaret Bertoli would come back the next day, and by the end of the week, his cousin and her fiancée would be back as well. I was actually looking forward to meeting Adriana Bertoli after spending so much time with her mother. I'd heard so much.

  "Do you need any help, Jake?"

  The blond surfer-boy shook his head. I'd only talked with him or his father a few times in the time I'd been in Seattle, but they did seem like totally different personality types. "Nah, just gotta help the prince here with his bag. He's on crutches, and doing pretty good about it. They didn't even put him all the way under, so other than a case of numb toes, he's one hundred percent."

  The passenger door opened, and Tomasso got out, his foot in a new black and foam boot. "Do you need help?"

  He shook his head. "No, but it's good to see you. Actually, can you get the door? Steps and these crutches I can handle. The door too? Nah, I'll pass."

  I held the door for him while he carefully made his way inside, Jake following behind us. Jake took his bags upstairs while we went toward the downstairs study in the family wing. Tomasso was rock-solid as he made his way to a leather club chair and pivoted around, sitting down and propping his leg up. "So what do you think?"

  I looked at the brace and nodded. "It is much more high-tech than the air splint, that's for sure. Still immobilized though?"

  He nodded. "They put in two pins and reattached some tendons that got ripped up pretty good. They claim that the surgery is going to reduce the amount of time until I can put weight on it. The docs said I can start crutch walking in two weeks, and then in the brace alone in about a month. That's when the rehab starts, which is going to be the real bitch of the whole thing. As much as this thing hurts, I'm going to be driving automatic and foregoing the stick shift for a while."

  "Does your family even own a car with automatic transmission?" I joked in reply. I went over to the small wet bar and poured him a scotch and soda, stirring it before putting it on the rocks. "Here. Better than the Tylenol I’m sure they sent you home with."

  "Actually, they gave me a scrip for Oxycontin," Tomasso said, "but I'm not planning on taking any. I've seen too many Mafia men get a monkey on their back and not be able to get that fucker off. A drink every now and then, sure. But I'm not going to get drunk, and I'm not going to take pain pills like that. If I have to, I'll go study some new age biofeedback shit or something."

  I chuckled and poured myself a glass of club soda before sitting down. "You know, I actually missed our little chat today. You may be a terrible driver, but you're a helpful amateur therapist. I've never felt better about my background and family than after the past few days. Thank you."

  "It's easy to feel better about things when you meet someone even crazier than you are," Tomasso said with a laugh before growing serious. "Which is why I need your help."

  "What for?" I asked, thinking perhaps he needed a snack or a pillow or something like that. "Hungry?"

  Tomasso shook his head and pointed to the door. "Can you close that, please?" I did and came back, taking my seat. "Thanks. Luisa, I need your help finding out who tried to sell you out to Frakes."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, slightly confused.

  “He never got your name, and I'm not a famous face in town. Famous name, sure, in the right circles, but even then, my father is more famous than I am. So how in the hell did Frakes know that you were out on the road, in a Bertoli-owned vehicle, at the time he did? I've been thinking about it."

  I nodded, his words sparking my interest. If the leak had been the police, then knowing I was staying with the Bertolis was one thing. But the driveway is far from the street, and the view is blocked. Only someone who saw me get in the vehicle would have known it was me. "You suspect someone on the inside."

  He nodded. "I do. Someone who was here at the time you left that morning contacted Frakes and told him to follow that car. Hell, it's not even yours—it was Angelo's! By the way, don't worry about that. I spoke with Angelo over the phone, and he said he wanted a new one anyway when he gets back for winter break."

  "Gee, thanks," I joked, then sobered. "Why not approach your father about this? Or Pietro?"

  Tomasso sighed and looked down. "Because Pietro was one of the men here that morning. And while my father wasn't, that doesn't mean that he couldn’t have ordered Pietro to sell you out. I wouldn't know why. It doesn't make business sense, but I can't rule either of them out either. I can trust two people with this idea. You . . . and me."

  I wasn't as shocked as you may think. After all, crime families are just that, criminal. We betray the law on a regular basis, and while honor is a major point and a part of the very glue that holds us together, that doesn't mean that you turn your back on anyone without knowing what they had in their hands at the time. “So you want to find this person. Why?"

  Tomasso thought before answering. "Because my only thought once that van side-swiped you and until I saw you standing in the doorway of my room at the hospital . . . the only thought I really had was if you were okay. Someone tried to hurt you, and they tried to make me look like an incompetent idiot. That doesn't sit well with me."

  It wasn't Shakespeare, but there was a sense of romance to what he said. I stood up and went over to his chair, leaning down and kissing him gently on the lips. “I’ll be happy to help," I whispered, stroking his face. "But you promise me something."

  "What?" he whispered back, his face open and honest.

  “That you don’t risk your life over it.”

  Chapter 11

  Tomasso

  I woke up the next morning in pain. I wish I could say it was the fiery pain like I'd felt in my neck where Luisa had unknowingly scratched me the night we had sex, or even the dull, thudding pain of a hangover. Both of those I was familiar with, and I knew how to do something about them. I could make the pain go away.

  Groaning, I rolled to my side, only to hiss when my right leg, which had been banging against the metal hinge of my brace all night, also decided to tell me what a dumbass I'd been not to take any
pain pills. Lying on my back, I stared at the ceiling above my bed, wondering if I'd been wrong not to take any pills at all.

  I heard a soft knock on my door, and I struggled to a sitting position, making sure I was at least somewhat composed. "Come in."

  Luisa opened the door and stepped inside, wearing a t-shirt and shorts that looked better on her than the model in the catalog I was sure the company had used to sell it. "I just wanted to come by and see if . . . what's wrong?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked, trying not to show my surprise.

  Luisa crossed her arms and tapped her foot, giving me a nonplussed look. "I've been spending enough time with you over the past few weeks that I can tell when something is wrong. What is it?"

  I laid back down, giving in. "My ankle hurts. Seriously, this shit is painful."

  Luisa came over and sat down on the edge of my bed, looking in my eyes. "Okay. Do you trust me?"

  "That's a strange question," I replied, looking back into her beautiful face with those ebony orbs of mysterious darkness. I swallowed and nodded. “Sure. Of course I do,” I said, wondering what the hell she was up to.

  "Good," she said with a small smile. "Then close your eyes."

  For the next few minutes, I felt her fingers tapping, touching and pushing on various points in my leg, but also on other areas in my body. While she did, she talked in a low, soft voice. "Listen to me. Let my voice guide you. I want you to feel as I touch the areas of your body, and as I do, let your body feel the sensation. Accept it as it is, with no other meaning than that it is sensation your body feels. I want you to open your mind to the pain that is in your ankle. Accept the pain, and taste it. Let it wash over you and through you, accepting it for what it is, the signals from your body that say that you are not at a hundred percent. Recognize that you’re in control of that signal, and that you can control the intensity, just like you can control the volume of a radio or the speed of a car."

  She kept up her touches and taps, and as she did, I felt myself drifting, and the pain not so much stopping as becoming manageable, something I could accept and deal with. When she stopped and I opened my eyes, I was amazed. "What was that?"

  "A little bit of acupressure, point therapy, and what was it you called it? Oh yes, biofeedback bullshit," she said with a little smile. "My jiu-jitsu instructor learned under Rickson Gracie, who is into that sort of thing. I learned a little bit of it myself. Now, how do you feel?"

  "Better," I admitted, taking her help in sitting up. "Like you said, the pain is still there, but the volume's turned way down. Right now, the biggest thing I feel is hunger.

  She smiled. "Let me get your crutches."

  "So what's the plan for this morning?" Luisa asked as we ate. "I assume you don’t intend to drag everyone into the pool area and have me hold a gun to their heads until someone fesses up.”

  "Effective, but far too crude," I replied, contemplating. "We need to check the security video. Even if it doesn't show the actual phone call being made, we can see who was on the grounds at the time of your leaving that morning."

  "And then?"

  "We start narrowing it down."

  Luisa finished her omelet and set her fork on her plate. "You know what the most difficult part of all of this is going to be, I assume."

  "Making sure we don’t tip off whoever sold us out," I replied in appreciation of her foresight. I smiled before growing sober. "This is going to be difficult. I'm not as skilled as some of the men who work for my father. I don't pick locks, I can't hack computers, and while I can shoot, it'd look mighty strange if I started carrying a Beretta to the toilet. I've spent most of the past four years learning more about marketing, human resources, and sales plans than some of the nastier parts of our family's business."

  "And we have to come up with a reasonable explanation why I'm spending so much time with you," Luisa said with a slight blush. "I mean, I’m supposed to be a bitch to you, remember?"

  "You still can be," I replied lightly. "We just know that things have changed between us, haven't they?"

  She and I hadn't really talked much about that portion of our lives, perhaps out of the knowledge that regardless of what we felt, the obstacles that we might have to overcome were depressing. So, if we wanted to be friends—friends with occasional benefits, or maybe something more—it didn't really matter. We'd just have to let that go for now.

  "I'm sure we can figure something out,” Luisa said after a moment. There wasn't much else to say, and she poured herself another glass of orange juice.

  We finished breakfast, and I wiped my hand across my stubbly chin. "I know what I want to do first," I said as I struggled to my feet. "I need to take a bath and shave. I'm going to miss showers for the next few weeks, at least until I can keep my balance standing on one foot."

  Chapter 12

  Luisa

  "It's the only place on the property where Dad would be willing to keep it," Tomasso explained as he stumped along on his crutches to his father’s study. "There are more than a few layers of security, both physical and electronic. When your house is on the police's top ten list of places they want to raid, you have to have precautions."

  I nodded and pointedly turned my back while Tomasso pulled up the the system. "Only a member of the Bertoli family knows exactly how to get in here," Tomasso explained. Okay, I'm in. You can turn around, and thanks."

  I smiled and came around the desk, where a flat panel monitor showed the security camera footage interface. "We're lucky. This stuff is supposed to be blanked and recorded over on a weekly basis. There's keeping tabs, and then there is just idiocy.”

  I nodded and pointed with my chin to the monitor. "So how do you use this thing?"

  "Well, we start with a date and time search," Tomasso said, typing in the date of the accident. "Since I'm not sure what time we had our fight, I'll start it from when I got up. I remember glancing at the clock around then, and I went to get some food and to try and talk to you soon after that."

  I watched as the screen split into four parts, which would then rotate among different cameras. "How many security cameras are there on the property anyway?"

  "Twelve," Tomasso said offhand. "And no, there are none in the bedrooms or the showers. Ah, here I am!"

  I saw as Tomasso on screen came out of his room, walking casually but with still noticeable exhaustion out of his room. "Man, look how easy that was just a few days ago," he noted, sighing. "Think I'll ever walk that easily again?"

  "Yes. If you don't, I'm going to come back from Brazil and kick your ass so hard you’ll have to run away," I teased, ruffling his hair. "Don't think I won't. Especially as our fathers seem to be moving closer to a business relationship."

  "That’s a good thing," Tomasso said. "Now, as for this . . .”

  I looked as the video, which was playing in double time, continued. Tomasso on screen came into the dining room, where I'd been stewing over my cup of coffee. While there was no sound, it was clear that I was in a foul mood, and I got out of my chair, storming off and leaving him scrambling after me. "Yes, that is not my finest hour. I will admit that."

  "Okay, here's what we're looking for," Tomasso continued. He paused the video as on screen, I was getting into the Fiat that I had borrowed, and he pulled up four of the cameras. "Now, these four are the ones that are of areas that had a view of the driveway, inside and out. Hold on—let's see what we can find."

  He slowed the video down to normal speed, his eyes scanning the four screens. "Okay, in camera one, that's just the gardener. He always wears those things over his ears while he’s mowing. We could’ve been doing a Bollywood dance number and he wouldn't have noticed."

  "What's camera three?" I said, pointing. "Who's that?"

  "Hmm . . . that's Jessie," Tomasso said. "You met her, the maid? That would be the main library. She's not really looking out the window though."

  The other two videos were empty, and we sat back after five minutes, sighing. “Well, that's a bust."<
br />
  "Those two certainly didn't do anything, and the other cameras were blank. Now comes the hard part," Tomasso said. "We've got to watch the other eight."

  I looked around and saw a note pad and pen, scribbling down Jesus and Jessie, though they seemed to clearly be innocent. "I hope your reading is good, because my handwriting isn't."

  “I’ve seen worse," Tomasso replied after checking it out. "Like mine. Anyway, let's start with four more."

  The next four cameras had nothing, although we added another name to the list in Pietro Marconi. Finally, in the last four, I saw something, a blond head that looked familiar. "Is that your friend, Jake?"

  He rewound the video, pulling up just the one camera. In it, a man in a suit came around a corner, taking a phone out of his pocket before placing a call. He talked for about thirty seconds, then put the phone back in his pocket.

  "Maybe," Tomasso said, rewinding the footage one more time. "The hair is the right color, but there are two other guys who have blondish hair . . . and half the guys on the payroll wear suits like that."

  Tomasso pointed at the screen. “That's not a smartphone. That's an old-school flip phone."

  "A burner phone?" I asked. When he gave me a look, I returned it with an ironic expression. "Come on, don’t act surprised. My family is no different than yours. I know what a burner phone is."

  He nodded and turned back to the screen. "You're right, my fault. It might not be a burner phone, though. Look, he’s obviously using speed dial—he definitely didn’t put a number in that fast. Who takes the time to program a burner phone?"

  I watched, nodding. “You’re right. He only pressed a few buttons.”

  "I just wish we could verify who it was. It could have been Jake, or Brad Walker, or Petey Franks."

  "I don't know those last two," I said, thinking. I'd seen a lot of men around the past few weeks, and I hadn't exchanged words with most of the Bertoli men. It hadn't been something I was all that interested in.