Mine Tonight

by Lisa Marie Perry

  The door opened and boots hit the flour-sprinkled floor. Alessandro did his chores, but not always cheerfully or neatly.

  Wiping the sweat again, he looked up at the dark-clothed man. Not an Italian or one of the Colombians Tonio had brought through a few days before. An Arab or an Indian? Either way, he was an intruder.

  Springing back, Alessandro snatched up a knife.

  The man smiled patiently. “Alessandro Franco, I’m wearing a Glock but didn’t pull it. Would you set the knife down so we can talk?”

  “Tonio’s not here.”

  “I know.” He offered a rough, brown hand to shake, but Alessandro kept the knife steady and tight. “I’m Zaf. I’m your only chance of getting out of this. This hiding place and your troubles in Nevada. Now put the knife down.”

  Gloria’s encouragement tickled his ears, and he set the knife on the counter, the handle pointed toward him.

  “Now I need you to do your part, Franco.”

  “What part?”

  “You and Gian DiGorgio caused a lot of problems. You boys are keeping me busy untangling it all.”

  “Fanculo.”

  “That hurts, Alessandro.” Zaf edged closer to the counter. “Save your vulgarities for this.”

  He stayed behind the counter but looked at an image on a smartphone as large as his palm. “Is that…Bindi?”

  “She dyed her hair dark brown. Back to dark brown. Did you know her real hair color?”

  Alessandro shook his head.

  “Franco, Franco. You were going to marry her and you didn’t know her real hair color?” Zaf wagged a finger at him, and Alessandro felt his face reddening with insult.

  “I wasn’t,” he said to Gloria. He felt her behind him.

  Zaf responded, “But you trusted her to hold down something for you on Cora Island, didn’t you? Tickets for a flight out or—”

  “Money. My money.”

  “There’s no money. Bindi Paxton closed her account on Mahé on February 15. Where did you tell her to put the money?”

  Alessandro frowned. His eardrums hurt. His mouth was dry. Over two million euros… “The money. I didn’t tell her anything, but she was supposed to stay on the island for two weeks. She—she was supposed to love the island. The water is cerulean. She swims like a fish and she likes jungles and—”

  “Who’s this man?” Zaf swiped the screen to show him a photo of his son. “Santino. What was he doing there? I’m thinking Bindi.” Another swipe, and the photo battered Alessandro in the gut. Santino kissing Bindi.

  Alessandro closed his eyes against the photo. “Enough, damn it.”

  “The same person your son recruited to keep an eye out for you made sure I could keep an eye on your son. In these situations, I’m usually the top bidder for loyalty.” Zaf fiddled with the phone. “Your money’s gone. The woman you proposed to is in Las Vegas with your son. Alessandro, come on. If you can’t trust your son, who can you trust?”

  He was faintly aware of the phone dinging. Recording. But he didn’t care. He was numb. His mouth worked, but his voice had failed him.

  “Can you trust your family?” Zaf coaxed. “Just tell me the truth, and then you can rest. I know you’re tired. Let go of the burdens and you can rest, Alessandro. Now…can you trust your family?”

  “No.”

  “Can you trust Tonio or Gian?”

  “No.”

  “Look right here at the lens—” Zaf’s face was cool, empty “—and tell me about Gian DiGorgio.”

  Chapter 9

  Santino had championship victories, versatility on the field that had contributed to stellar career reception records and an impressive profile from his rookie season through his final game, which had ironically taken place in his hometown. Fourteen years of superb on-field performance, colored by a penalty record that was indicative of his intensity and temper, had brought Santino far in life. But he had unfinished business in the NFL. The retirement dinner held in his honor hadn’t felt like finality—more like an interruption or a pause.

  Staring down the barrel of March, his agent had reviewed a promising prognosis from Santino’s physiotherapy team and had begun circulating: phone calls, casual lunches, a few parties. He’d reported back that Arizona had a stable offense to start next season, so the likelihood of Santino returning to their roster had low probability. He had accepted that, wished the team well, and then his agent had cracked open a bottle of Absolut and said that if he wanted to get back onto the field, he had to be willing to leave the West Coast to do it.

  It wasn’t something Santino had right off considered—not with his father still missing and ongoing investigations rattling the foundations of every sector of his life. His brother could maintain emotional distance, and Santino envied him that. Duty held him hostage, and he wouldn’t know closure until he confronted his father and saw him take accountability for his greed and betrayal.

  And then there was guilt. Santino had witnessed the fall of his father’s relationship with Bindi, had known from the start that it wasn’t one built on love, but he needed to face his father, man to man, and tell him that he was with Bindi.

  He and Bindi were drifting together, not aiming toward the clear milestone relationship he’d had with Tabitha and not assigning definitions to what they were coming to mean to each other. But he was seeing her often, talking to her more, thinking about her with a constancy that made him feel centered.

  Going into a late meeting at his physical therapy clinic, Santino had sent her a text message.

  My place tonight?

  Bindi had right away replied, Only if I can bring s’mores.

  Grinning, he’d pictured her saying those words with that matter-of-fact expression and spark of sarcasm in her voice that got him too friggin’ hot, and had answered with Got the ingredients from last week.

  She’d brought them, but they hadn’t gotten past opening the box of graham crackers before they’d tumbled onto the floor and made out as though that night would be their last.

  Striding into the clinic, he went to the evaluation room where he was scheduled to meet with a physiotherapist, his primary-care physician and DeAngelo Bryant, his sports agent. He was expecting concrete finalized clearance that he was ready to return to the field. Once he had possession of that, word would filter throughout the league and the media, and his inspirational comeback would save him.

  DeAngelo greeted him with a handshake and the others nodded solemnly.

  No one was smiling.

  “We’re going to get right to it,” his physician, Doctor Somner announced, assembling reports and bringing up images on a computer. “The existing nerve damage, while slight, is too vulnerable to re-injury in a contact sport, Santino. Your previous surgeries were unquestionably successful, and the consequences of your damaged intervertebral spinal disk are minimal, considering the impact of the hit and your age.”

  The words echoed around Santino’s head. His body felt like ice. After everything he’d done, everything they’d said…they couldn’t possibly…

  The physiotherapist chimed in, “Your physical condition overall is incredible, especially for a man who’s endured fourteen seasons in such a demanding offensive position. You’re thirty-eight years old…”

  “I have another season left,” he protested.

  “It’s too risky, not only for your quality of life, but for an NFL team,” Doctor Somner said. “The flexibility of your spinal disks have already begun to deteriorate with the aging process. That’s a basic fact. Despite how well you maintain your body, the aging process continues. No debate—you look better than you ever have. You look like textbook physical fitness. Anyone seeing you without knowledge of your prior injury would jump at the chance to sign you up. But your spine’s been compromised to a point where paralysis is your number one threat.”

  He’d practically tasted this victory, and now it was gone. Just like that. “What the hell happens next?”

  “You’re young—”

>   “But too old to receive a football,” he grunted.

  “Listen to them,” DeAngelo said. “We knew it was a possibility that the comeback wouldn’t happen. We wanted this for you, but…I’m sorry.”

  “You need to establish control of what can be changed,” his physician continued. “The quality of your life is up to you. You’ve put this off before, but I’m recommending a urologist and a sexual therapist. Coming to terms with erectile dysfunction is going to help you regain your confidence.”

  “A man doesn’t need sexual confidence to play football.”

  “He needs it to maintain sexual health.”

  “I’m capable of having sex. Hard-ons. Ejaculation. It happens.”

  “Inconsistently, right?” Doctor Somner challenged. “Is your decision to not pursue treatment options something you’ve discussed with your partners?”

  “There’s just one,” he said, thinking of her and wanting to do more for her even though she insisted that she could handle his scuffs. “She said she’s okay with it. She’s resilient like that.”

  “Resilient doesn’t sound like Tabitha,” his agent commented.

  “It’s not Tabitha. I never had with her what I’ve got going with—” He stopped himself, right on the brink of screwing up. “With the woman I’m seeing now. She keeps me guessing, gives me peace of mind. She knows she’s sexy, but she can’t see how completely beautiful she is. She’s okay with my problems.”

  “Damn,” DeAngelo said, looking around at the other men. “You have a woman like that and you’re keeping her name in the vault? I wouldn’t.”

  Would you, if she was a woman who was engaged to your father?

  Santino redirected the conversation to his dead career. He’d revive it or reincarnate it. He couldn’t let himself take a walk with despair and give up. He wasn’t that similar to his father. “I want to open the discussion for alternatives,” he said to DeAngelo.

  “I’m glad you said that. You’re not getting back into a jersey and helmet, and you don’t want the suit-and-tie desk job. You want a place in the NFL, on the turf.”

  “It’s where I’m supposed to be.”

  “So hear me out—this is million-dollar advice. You were a leader in offense and you pushed your men for fourteen seasons. You’re smart and Jimar Fray’s hit didn’t scramble your eggs. I’m confident that your chances of returning to the game have just reversed, if you’re open to coaching.”

  A coach—him, now?

  A half hour later, Santino drove to his place, split between defeat and optimism. His career as a player truly was over. The reality sank in slowly as he entered his condo, turned on the electric fireplace and sat on the sofa. Was he capable of channeling his passion for the game into an ability to direct his men on the field? Or would he live vicariously through them and always feel deprived of a dignified retirement?

  Would he move forward or remain a prisoner to the past?

  When he heard keys rattling outside the door, he quickly straightened up and tucked away his despair. A moment later, Bindi breezed into the room carrying a gift bag. “Last week I was looking around and decided your place isn’t green enough.” He’d bought the condo furnished, hadn’t been interested in pretending it would be a real home. There was a total of one plant. “So I brought you something low maintenance to get you started.”

  He had to force himself to look away from her beauty, her infectious optimism, and opened the bag to find a Chia Pet inside. “A pig,” he said, his mood lifting even higher despite himself.

  “The pig is my favorite, so by default…” She shrugged, smiled, straddled him. “Do you hate it?”

  “No, I don’t hate it. Or detest it. Or dislike it.” He kissed her cheek, lips, the side of her neck, and he got nice and comfortable there. He’d come to rely on her cottony-clean scent and how she moaned when he stroked a hand down her neck and held her still for his kiss.

  “C’mon,” she said, shoving aside the gift bag and dragging him to his bedroom. Quickly, she stripped down to her panties and fell playfully onto the bed. Her skin contrasted alluringly with the dark blankets. “Now come here beside me.”

  Santino lay next to her, lifted her arms above her head and ran a hand from her hip to her armpit, then back down again to turn her onto her side, facing him.

  “Hey,” she said, the word barely a breath, “you seem kind of stormy. You okay?”

  “It’s football. I’m not going to play again.”

  “Yeah, you’re retired. I don’t understand.”

  “I was in training this past year. I wanted a comeback.”

  Bindi’s chin dropped, and she looked up at him through her lashes. “That explains the body. Training for a comeback? To Arizona?”

  “Anywhere—at least that’s what I was thinking. But it’s been confirmed that the injury and my age aren’t going to make it a safe bet. No team’s going to want the risk.”

  “What about the risk to you? ESPN played the footage from that game against the Slayers nonstop. It was awful. I wouldn’t want to see you on the ground like that again, ever. Am I right when I say you don’t need the salary?”

  “It’s not the money, Bindi. It’s about getting back what was stolen.”

  “Sometimes when we lose something, it really is gone. You take too long to accept change, and I’m the same way. You’re not a football player anymore. Get over it.” She smiled encouragingly. “I’m not in my twenties anymore. I’m getting over it.”

  She was frank and sweet and she was right. “My agent suggested I open up to other possibilities. Coaching.”

  “I think your agent is a very smart dude.” Then, serious again, she kissed him. “I’m figuring out that people should try to open up to things that might be a better fit as they change. You couldn’t play forever.”

  “I wanted to change the way I left the NFL.”

  “Nothing’s going to erase the fact that you were injured and can’t suit up again. So maybe your comeback will be different—I don’t know, coming back in a different role. You have the technical skills. You were in line to inherit a franchise.”

  She was making too much sense, and making him see his stubbornness for the self-defeating roadblock that it was. “What about you and me, Bindi? We weren’t right for each other when we met.”

  She made a noise of agreement. “We were chasing the wrong things. Now I’m different and you are, too. So we’re…hmm…a better fit. A good fit. A matching set.”

  “Lock and key.”

  Laughing, she said, “Precisely. So are we going to keep doing this? Seeing each other?”

  “We can keep doing what feels right.”

  “I like that idea.” Bindi started to wiggle down, and then she was curled at the foot of the bed, snuggled against him and perfectly positioned to undo his fly. Stroking his shaft, she put her mouth on him.

  Looking down, he smoothed her hair back and watched her suck him in as far down as she could. He felt his balls tightening, knew he was hardening as she touched him.

  “Wait for me,” she told him, using her hand to pump as she straddled his thighs and scooted into position. Her other hand clumsily tried to pull the crotch of her panties aside and she attempted to rock onto him—

  But he felt the tension in his flesh ease, and, swearing, he said, “It’s not going to happen. I wanted this to happen for us.”

  “It’s all right,” Bindi said after a moment, moving her hands up his chest and lying on top of him. “It can’t always be the way we had it on the island.”

  “My doctor recommended a urologist and sex therapist. I haven’t wanted to go that route because I know where it’ll lead—to a point where I have to swallow down a pill every time I want to get close to you.”

  “A PDE inhibitor could work. Wouldn’t you want to know if there are infertility problems?”

  “Sounds as though you’ve been doing some personal research.”

  “I have,” she said firmly. “I’ll cop to that.
Because I’m worried about how it’s affecting you to not being able to perform the way you want to. I don’t need PIV sex every time, all the time. I need to know that something can take off the pressure and let you concentrate on what you feel and who’s making you feel it.”

  Bindi Paxton would fight this fight with him? How could he have loved someone who didn’t have her guts and persistence?

  “There are workarounds. Sex isn’t the only way to make love.”

  “Which are we doing, Bindi?” he asked, even though he was as ill prepared to answer the question as she.

  The doorbell rang, and had his body not turned against him, he would’ve ignored it. But since he’d backed them into a corner with that question, he was only too relieved that Bindi slid off him so he could get up.

  Zipping up, he went to the door. His brother was on the other side, and instead of waiting to be allowed inside, Nate swaggered in.

  “Charlotte’s in the car. We’re taking you clubbing tonight. VIP access—”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to hang back tonight,” he said.

  “That’s sad as hell.” Nate was about to say more, but he looked past Santino and narrowed his eyes at the purse on the leather sofa. “You have somebody here?”

  “Yeah, I do.” As Santino pushed the purse farther back on the sofa, he bumped one of the key chains and it released a mechanical meow.

  “A cat key chain? The thing’s eyes just shot out beams.”

  “I, um, think it’s a flashlight key chain. You know, that meows.” Shrugging, turned around and met the angriest look he’d even seen on his brother’s face.

  “Whose purse is that? How many women do you kick it with who have cat flashlights hanging off their bags? I know only one woman who’s into novelty stuff like this. One.”

  It appeared that the laser-eyed cat was out of the bag, and Santino saw no other route other than to own up the truth. “It’s Bindi Paxton’s purse.”

  “Are you doing Bindi? What the…?” Nate grabbed his head, let go, swore. “What the hell is happening to our family? Dad’s been missing for a month and now you’re having sex with his ex-fiancée? That’s not right.”