The Texas mob. Right here, in Mission Creek.
She’d learned lots of things from Agent Campbell. Ricky had been implicated in a gun-smuggling operation, but he was innocent. And he no longer had ties to the mob.
No longer had ties. How could that be? How could a man walk away from the mob without looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life?
Nina ventured to the edge of the bed. Her little nose was still red from crying, her eyes swollen. “That nice lady said no more bad men would come. Is that true?” she asked Ricky.
“Yes.” He came toward her, then reached out to touch her cheek. “It’s over, sweetheart.”
She stood on the bed to hug him, and he held her, his expression laced with emotion.
“We thought that bad man killed you,” she said. “And the other bad man was gonna shoot us.”
He kept her close, nestled against his chest. “That won’t happen again. You’re safe now.”
“Does your ow-ee hurt?”
His smile was fleeting. “A little. Not too much.”
Paige came forward next. The quieter child reached out for her hug, and he looped his other arm, the one with the ow-ee, around her.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Both of you. And I always will.”
Lourdes knew they loved him, too. But love was simpler for children, easier to grasp.
Ricky was still Juan to them.
The twins remained in his arms, and he looked up at Lourdes. Their eyes met, and she felt the pain wrenching his soul. The same pain wrenching hers.
They were strangers again. She and Ricky Mercado didn’t really know each other.
The children pulled back, and Nina started to chatter. “Know what? When the bad man grabbed us on the porch, Cáco hit him with the broom. But the other bad man grabbed her, too.”
Ricky turned to the old woman, and she sighed. “I was sweeping, and the girls were playing. Amy was inside watching TV. They caught us off guard.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry. I never meant to bring harm to your family.”
“I know.” She left the rocking chair. “May I see your shoulder?”
He nodded, and Lourdes could see how much it meant to him that Cáco was concerned about his injury.
She peered under the bandage. “Your friend did a good job of treating you. But I’d like to make a poultice. Something to help it heal sooner.”
“Thank you.”
Cáco left the room to boil herbs, to pretend, Lourdes assumed, that everything was going to be all right. That they could resume their lives, go back to the way things had been.
But they couldn’t, Lourdes thought.
Juan Guapo was gone. And in his place stood Ricky Mercado—a tall, dark, dangerous man.
The man she loved but was afraid to keep.
The evening came quietly. Murdoch, Westin and the government agents had left hours ago, but Ricky stayed to talk to Lourdes, to speak with her alone.
He waited for her on the porch. He’d already kissed the twins good-night and accepted the poultice from Cáco. He’d also said a few words to Amy, who couldn’t wait to tell her friends about her harrowing experience.
Lourdes came outside. She wore jeans and a lightweight blouse, her long hair loose. She looked so pretty, soft and vulnerable.
“Are the girls asleep?” he asked.
She nodded. “But they refused to sleep by themselves, so Cáco brought them into her room.”
“I’m sorry,” he said for about the hundredth time that day. The guilt was eating him alive, the truth of what he’d done to Lourdes and her family.
She crossed her arms around her body, comforting herself with a lonesome hug. He wished he could hold her, draw her into his arms. But he could see that she was afraid of him now. Afraid of what he represented.
Finally, she sat next to him, and they stared out at the night. The moon drifted behind the ghost-tree in her yard, sending soft beams of light through gnarled branches.
“What exactly is an underboss?” she asked. “How far up the ranks is that?”
Shame coiled in his belly. “It’s the second-in-command.”
“That’s what I thought.” She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him. “You had a lot of power. One of the hit men said something about your uncle being a…respected boss.”
She’d hesitated at the word respected, he noticed. “Uncle Carmine was head of the family for years. I was strongly influenced by him. At times he was more like a father to me than my own dad.”
“How did Carmine die?”
“He had a heart condition.”
“What about your dad?”
“He’s still alive.” Ricky thought about Johnny Mercado, his weak-willed father. “I love my dad, but he lets people push him around. He’s a good man, but he doesn’t have a lot of backbone.”
“But your uncle did?”
“Yes. Carmine took charge. There was nothing he couldn’t handle.” Ricky paused, conjuring a mental picture of his uncle. “He was old-school Mafia. His dealings were dirty, cunning and corrupt, but he had that Godfather way about him. The mobster mystique. Part fact, part fiction, I guess.”
She turned to look at him. “And you were his underboss?”
He nodded. He understood that she needed to know these things, to try to comprehend them. “I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the mob. When I was a boy, I longed to be part of it, yet I knew it was wrong. My dad sent me to military school in Virginia to keep me away from the family business.”
She continued to look at him. “But it didn’t work, did it? You still became a ‘made’ man. A wiseguy or whatever they call it.”
“Uncle Carmine chose me as his underboss. But there’s more to it than that. When I believed that my sister drowned, that she was dead, I went crazy with grief. It drew me closer to the family, closer to a life of crime. The men I thought were responsible for her death were my friends, my marine buddies. And I couldn’t stand to be around them anymore.” He let out a raspy breath. “But my sister wasn’t really dead. She’d faked her death in a boating accident to get away from Frank Del Brio, her fiancé at the time. He was part of the mob, too. One of the biggest bastards who ever walked the face of this earth.”
A beat of silence passed. “Your sister is alive?”
“Yes, Haley is alive. But I didn’t know that until this past year. That’s why I kept mixing up my memories about her.”
But now he recalled every detail about Haley, including the body he’d grieved over, the body that wasn’t hers. Which was something he intended to explain to his sister the next time he saw her. It was time to come clean, to admit what kind of man he’d been. The things he’d done that shamed him, that made him ill inside. “I’m not making excuses for myself, Lourdes. No one forced me into the family. I made the choice on my own. I was young and arrogant, living fast and playing hard, cheating death and the law.”
She clasped her hands on her lap, twisted her fingers. “Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“But you’ve committed crimes?”
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “When I was first inducted, I was a capo, a position right below the underboss. I had a crew who worked under me. That crew is still involved in the family.”
“An organization that condones all levels of crime?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?” she asked, putting him on the spot.
He answered, knowing she deserved the truth. “Gambling, extortion, racketeering, drugs, guns, smuggling cigarettes to avoid the tax, smuggling artifacts, fencing stolen goods, hijacking trucks, loan sharking.”
“And you’ve done all of those things?”
“No.” He shook his head. This was worse than being grilled by the feds, worse than a police interrogation. This was the woman he loved, the woman he still wanted to marry. “I stayed away from drug-trafficking, gun-running, extortion and racketeering.”
“That leaves gambling,
smuggling, hijacking trucks, fencing stolen goods…” Her words trailed, lending him a demoralizing image of himself.
“I’ve run all sorts of rackets,” he admitted, cringing at the thought. “But for the most part, I got a cut from the family’s earnings, whether I was directly involved in a racket or not. That’s how it is at the top.”
A strand of hair blew across her face. She tucked it behind her ear, stilling the gentle motion.
And because she was silent, he continued, “I’d probably be in jail if it weren’t for Haley. She went undercover to help the feds take down Frank Del Brio. In exchange, they offered immunity for our dad and me since we were working with Del Brio at the time. Carmine was ill, so the FBI focused on Frank, who they considered the defacto boss. When my uncle died, Del Brio was officially voted to the top. He became the head of the Mercado family. I didn’t want to be the boss, but I didn’t want Del Brio to take over, either.”
He paused to explain further. “I didn’t trust Frank. I stayed in the family to watch him, to see what he was up to. I think he kept me on as his underboss for the same reason. He was starting to suspect Haley was alive, and he wasn’t about to demote her brother.”
“How long have you been away from the mob?”
He took a moment to consider her question. “In my heart, I’ve been gone for years. Technically, it’s only been four or five months.”
“What about murder?”
Ricky’s pulse nearly stopped. She was asking him if he’d ever killed anyone? The ache was almost too much to bear. “I’m not a murderer.”
“Sometimes the mob kills people.”
“Yes, but what happened here today isn’t how it usually is. There are rules to follow. Codes of honor, if you will. Every mobster is fair game, but you’re not supposed to touch his family or take hostages.” He breathed a deep and troubled sigh. “Frank Del Brio didn’t follow those rules, and apparently neither did Valente. But I guarantee, Valente won’t get away with hiring hit men who were willing to kill children. If he’s ever paroled, someone from the family will get him. Hell, they might even go after him in prison. And if my old crew has their way, the hit men are already as good as dead.”
“So we’re talking murder again.”
“They broke an ironclad rule. That’s the way it is, Lourdes.”
She frowned at him. “If the hit men knew these rules, why would they take a chance and break them?”
“Because Valente probably told them to do whatever was necessary to get me.”
“But now someone will probably get Valente because of it.”
“Yes, but he didn’t expect to be found out. He didn’t tell anyone in the family that he’d put a hit on me. So if innocents were deliberately harmed along the way, he wouldn’t have been blamed. And the hit men certainly didn’t plan on getting caught.”
“It’s horrible,” she said. “Every last bit of it.”
Yes, he thought. He’d chosen a horrible life.
She turned away, and they both fell silent.
Suddenly the night haunted him. The ghost-tree loomed, its branches clawing the sky.
Would she ever see him as something other than a criminal? Than a man who used to condone the mob?
“I remember where I got your cross,” he said, needing to bare his heart. “And why I chose to wear it.”
She turned back, and their eyes met. He longed to touch her, to lean into her, to hold on and never let go. But it was too late for that.
“Tell me,” she said.
He shifted in his chair. “I had some dealings with the pawnshop. Shady dealings. The owner used to fence stolen goods for my old crew.”
She didn’t say a word, she just watched him. And listened.
“I spotted the cross in one of the cases. It was a legitimate piece. Or so I thought. I didn’t know that the man who’d pawned it had taken it from his wife.” From her, Ricky thought. From Lourdes. “This desperate feeling came over me that day. The need to latch onto something safe, something that would bring me closer to God. I told the owner I wanted to see the cross. And when I examined it, I noticed the inscription on the back.”
“To keep you safe,” she said.
“Yes.” He recalled the comfort those words had given him. “It was as if that message had been engraved just for me.”
“Did the pawnshop owner give you the necklace?”
“No.” Ricky shook his head. “He tried to, but I insisted on paying for it. I didn’t want to associate the cross with the Mercado family business. I wanted to keep it separate from that part of my life. From the criminal in me. From the guy who ran with the mob.”
Her voice quavered. “And that’s what Juan Guapo did.”
“Yes, that’s what he did.” Ricky waited, hoping she would forgive him for his sins, absolve him, but she didn’t.
When he stood, she remained silent.
“I’ll be gone in the morning.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, wishing he didn’t have to leave. “I’ll call Westin and ask him to send one of his ranch hands over to help you out. He’ll probably send Juan.”
She rose. “Juan?”
“Westin has a ranch hand named Juan. He doesn’t speak much English, though. But you speak fluent Spanish, so it’ll be okay.”
“Thank you,” she said much too softly. Her voice was so low, he could barely hear.
He gazed at her, a piece of his heart chipping. “I can save your ranch, Lourdes. I have a lot of money. I’ve been investing in property. I’m one of those real estate moguls you talked about. Only I don’t swindle people.”
Which, he supposed, sounded unlikely given his past.
“Are you offering me a loan?”
“No. I’m offering to pay off your debts. To give you what you need to get you back on your feet.”
Her hair blew around her face again. Loose and free and beautiful. “I can’t take your money.”
Another piece of his heart broke off. “It’s not from the mob. My inheritance from Uncle Carmine went to charity. I earned this legitimately. I’ve been investing for years, with funds that were clean.” In spite of his induction into the mob, he’d found his own brand of work after Desert Storm, enforcing skills he’d learned and utilized in the marines. No, he wasn’t a secret agent like Luke Callaghan nor had he gone underground, joining some quasi-military organization like Tyler Murdoch, but he’d done his share of top-paying, honor-bound mercenary missions.
Her voice was still quiet, still too soft. “It wouldn’t be right to take your money.”
Ricky kept his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward and alone. It hurt that she wouldn’t accept his help, that she wouldn’t let him make a difference in her life. He’d risked his neck to earn his legitimate fortune, to make something of himself. To prove he could do more than lie, cheat and steal. “Tell your family that I love them. That I’ll miss them.”
She stared at him, her eyes turning watery. “So this is goodbye?”
“Yes.” Unless she stopped him, he thought. Unless she called him back.
But she didn’t. When he walked out into the night, nothing greeted him but a moonlit sky.
And the devastation of being Ricky Mercado.
Three days had passed, but Lourdes couldn’t stop thinking about him. Missing him. Wondering what he was doing.
She stood in the kitchen, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, staring blindly at the coffeemaker as the dark brew dripped into the carafe.
He was a former Mafia underboss, she kept telling herself. Not the kind of man she should continue to love.
She glanced at the floor, at the spot where she and her family had huddled in terror. The image of clutching her babies, of clinging to them while they’d cried out in fear, still haunted her at night.
Lourdes reached for a cup. She’d spoken to Elise Campbell since that horrifying day, and the FBI agent had assured her that she and her family were safe.
Elise confirmed what Ricky had said. According to t
he Mafia, every mobster was fair game, but terrorizing his family or taking innocent hostages was unacceptable.
The Texas mob would probably punish Valente and the rule-breaking hit men, far beyond what the law had in store for them.
Lourdes wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But either way, she was relieved that no one else would be coming back to harm her family, that their ordeal was truly over.
As she poured her coffee, her eyes watered.
What about Ricky? Was he safe? Or would he always be fair game?
She added a powdered creamer to her coffee, then blinked furiously, trying to bank her tears.
The effort proved in vain.
Lourdes stood in the kitchen and cried.
She still loved him, and she always would.
Footsteps caught her attention. She wiped her eyes and turned to see Amy. Dressed in baggy pajamas, with her shiny black hair tousled, the teenager still looked half-asleep.
“You’re crying,” Amy said.
Lourdes wiped her eyes again. “My nerves are shot. An aftermath from the crisis, I guess.”
“More like you miss Juan. I mean Ricky.” The young girl frowned. “I miss him, too.”
And so did everyone else in the house. The twins asked about him every day, wondering when they were going to see him again, and Cáco fretted over whether he was using the poultice she’d made.
No one in her family could get him off their mind.
“I’m worried about him,” Lourdes admitted.
“You could call him.”
Yes, Lourdes thought, she could. But she feared what hearing his voice would do to her.
She studied Amy for a moment, and the teenager smoothed her hair. Sometimes she plaited the strands that framed her face into tiny braids and wrapped them with colored ribbon, but this morning she wore no ornaments.
Lourdes breathed a heavy sigh. “You’re not disturbed by his past, are you?”
The young girl shook her head. “No.”
“The things he did weren’t cool, Amy. He was a criminal.”
“I know.”
Did she? Or was she still caught up in the Mafia myth portrayed on TV? “Don’t idolize him for being a mobster.”
The Heart of a Stranger Page 13