Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  And I always had amazing, vividly real dreams.

  In my dreams, it was as if I were flipping through the pages of my vintage art and design books collection. Watching as those fabulous images and pieces came alive in my mind.

  I shook my head and blinked a couple times, noticing my eyelids felt like huge weights.

  Of course. I’d been drugged again.

  But damn. Every time I woke-up now from these royalty-induced hazes, I had been whisked away to yet another royal playground.

  If this is what it was like to inject your life with a little opulence, sign me up for that trip!

  Seeing a gorgeous, white, fabric-covered, and ultra-luxuriously set wrought iron bistro table on the private terrace on which I’d been plopped, I honed-in on the glass pitcher of some sort of wonderful juice. It had been fresh-squeezed, I was sure.

  Along with the juice, sat a silver pedestal topped off with loads of fresh fruit, the leaves from the fruit trees serving as a terrific garnishment. A plate full of small tomatoes and a sun-kissed orange sat at one place-setting while the second plate was empty and perhaps waiting on me.

  Well, it was getting me.

  I don’t know if it was the drugs, or the time of day, and who knows what time it was in my current state of mind…’cause I didn’t know that yet either. Or how long I’d been out and without nourishment, but I was damned thirsty and beyond ravished.

  I carefully got-up, remembering how Granny V’s last potion had given me the major whoozies when I came to.

  Thinking her grandson probably used the same family hostage-taking recipe, I shuffled my way to the empty place-setting, using the white-washed walls to steady my unsure gate.

  I was rather impressed my captors had thought enough of me to shield my eyes from the sunlight with a pair of my dark Jackie O sunglasses.

  This girl never went anywhere without her Jackie O’s.

  “Good Mornin’, Sunshine,” I heard my prince before I saw him.

  Didn’t really matter which came first, but he was probably gonna be glad it was the former, because I sooo wanted to and was ready to kick his ass.

  Well…after I had some of this juice and a few of these luscious, fresh-off-their trees and vines pieces of fruit.

  “Welcome to Positano and the Amalfi Coast,” Roman said, reclaiming what must have been his spot where the giant orange and plate of tomatoes were waiting on one of us to scarf ‘em down.

  “So that’s where I am?”

  I watched my Secret Bond as I poured my juice, refilling his glass before setting down the pitcher.

  Judging by the twitch of the corner of his mouth which he always displayed when he was feeling bad about whatever he’d last done to me, he had a bunch of big ‘ole guilt to overcome.

  And if he squeezed that orange any tighter, we’d have more fresh juice…giving hand-squeezed an entirely different definition.

  Good thing he was working out his frustration on the orange, though, ‘cause, Man, those gorgeous tomatoes would have been Bloody Mary worthy by now.

  “Welcome again to Positano and to Le SirenMuse. I told you where you were when we arrived late last night, but you were a bit out of it,” he said, daring to lift his eyes to peer through his unruly dark lock apparently trying to gage the extent of my frustration.

  “Well…you know…tranquilizers will do that to ya, Asshole,” I countered.

  I don’t know why I bothered to whisper. Hell, we looked to be at least seventy meters above the sea, and I didn’t see a soul anywhere near us. Maybe I’d been running so long now, playing the mafia roulette wheel, I was afraid to speak-up…afraid of my own voice.

  “I can see it’s time for your Naked Juice, Princess. Drink up,” he said, raising his juice glass to mine. “You’ll need the strength.”

  He had a point. And it was fresh-squeezed.

  I took a sip, smacking my lips with pleasure as the smooth, soothing blend of mango, banana, peaches and orange coated my throat then stomach, nerves and psyche too.

  “Why would you think that being forced to marry into the mob and be a pretend princess would require me to have extra strength?”

  “That’s my girl. Now you’re back.”

  He tipped his glass to me again, his cocky grin making a mockery of my tirade.

  “It’s the same strength I’ll need to be your pretend mate, Plum Puddin’.”

  “Speaking of being a pretend princess, these little gems should get you started,” Granny V said while waltzing onto our private terrace as if she’d been waiting the entire time for her cue from behind the massive silk drapes on either side of the French doors opening up from our suite.

  She plopped a stack of glossy magazines on the table between me and Roman.

  The top issue’s cover story was splashed across the page with a gorgeous picture of Princess Kate and copy having to do with something about Kate’s Newlywed Life in Princess Diary fashion, and how she was dazzling the world with her real-girl glamour.

  I choked on my last swig of juice, too afraid to pick through the pile of magazines underneath the first one. However, I had a pretty good idea as to the rest of the issues’ topic matters.

  I wasn’t concerned about the real-girl glamour aspect. I had that nailed.

  A new role as a duchess and wife…Hmm. Not so much nailed. I was a wee bit queasy over that aspect. And I don’t think it was the fact I was still recovering from my latest tranquilizer.

  “So do I get to pick a palace too?” I asked, tapping the blurb on the cover indicating Waitie Katie indeed had.

  “You don’t have to joke about it, Zoey. I know this is all rather frightful for you,” Roman said.

  The worry etching his strong, Tuscan sun-bronzed forehead made me pity his situation, as well as mine.

  “Frightful? You betchya, My Prince. But if I don’t joke about it, I’ll go bat-shit crazy, and that, won’t help any of us.”

  “Understood,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning down into a deep frown.

  “Being a member of our family does have its perks too though, My Dear,” Granny V said. “You’ll see.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said to Roman as Granny disappeared back into the suite.

  “Speaking of waiting. There’s someone I’d like you to meet today. He’s been wanting to meet you for awhile now, but it just hasn’t been safe to do so.”

  As if once again questioning our safety, Roman narrowed his eyes and looked over and past my right shoulder.

  I followed his gaze, which was directed at the two men who were cleaning the hotel’s pool. I’m sure he was now wondering, as I was, if they were really pool cleaners or the type of cleaners who professionally wipe-clean crime scenes. Crime scenes that, more than likely, they themselves or their co-workers have created.

  “How soon will you be ready?” Roman asked, holding up his fitness magazine-perfect, gym-sculpted arm, and glancing at his watch.

  “How should I dress for this meeting?”

  “Casual. Touristy. We want to blend-in this time. Just another couple enjoying their holiday.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  Speaking into the dial of his luxury diver’s watch Roman said, “I’ll need the place cleared in about fifty minutes, R. Thank you.”

  “Is it that bad? Are we in that much danger?” I asked the question, knowing it must be or Roman wouldn’t be having R see to every move we made. However, I hoped Roman would toss me a bone in regards to the details of our current situation.

  “We’re in Camorra country. Bernard McCall may be tucked away for a 150-year sentence but the people he stole from are busy trying to round-up all the cash they lost,” Roman said, as his eyes returned to the pool guys.

  “You mean your family is busy picking up the pieces of their fortune?”

  I was beginning to connect the Camorra dots. I may not have read the book yet, but I was a Hollywood Stylist and totally immersed in the fashion industry. I knew the rumors about where the clothes
on the hottest runways came from. And I had a growing feeling many of those rumors might very well be true.

  “Something like that,” Roman said, moving his head at a strange angle until his neck cracked. “Today, I’ll be giving you a debriefing on and a glimpse into my family’s world. It’s time you knew what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Roman. I’m already way, waaay over my head into your world. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be about to turn those pool boys into shark bait.”

  “I never said…”

  “You didn’t have to. I know your eyes and your body language. Did you know you always crack your neck like that right before you authorize or carry-out a hit?”

  I stood-up from the chair Roman was now helping me out of, placing his body between me and the pool boys. I had a full stomach and didn’t want to watch this go down.

  “Interesting observation, My Princess.”

  “Isn’t it though?”

  I managed to keep my voice and demeanor calm and strong, although inside I was a quivering wreck.

  We may be preparing for a touristy trip around the quaint little village of Positano, but I made a mental note to wear my Depends.

  This lifestyle was wreaking havoc on both my sanity and my bladder.

  Chapter Six

  An hour later, I was ushered out the front door of Le SirenMuse, my Secret Bond shielding my body with his.

  You would have thought we’d go out a back or side door. That’s how we did things in Hollywood.

  But I overheard Roman and R discussing how front doors might be our best bet for a bit. Apparently, trouble was now expected everywhere except the most obvious exit. Because it was so patently transparent, the front door was once a security nightmare, but given our current state of mafiaso affairs, it now seemed to be the safest way to go.

  What a departure from my Hollywood world. It’s second nature for my clients to kick, claw and bitch their way to being “seen” at any cost.

  And forget the dark, bulletproof stretch limos from my Red Carpet World. So that we wouldn’t elicit any unwanted attention or suspicion, we were going to be using a more common means of transportation.

  One look at the Vespa Scooter parked outside the red and white exterior of our exclusive hotel made it clear that, when it came to making it look like we were just a couple of tourists, the Royal House of Savoy wasn’t cutting any corners. They nailed the agreed-upon approach.

  I wanted to stop and smell the lemon trees, frangipani and roses that make the entrance to Le SirenMuse a magical paradise of earthy-meets-luxury, but Roman kept me moving toward our Vespa.

  I put-on the helmet R had waiting for me and climbed on the scooter. While thrilled, I was simultaneously scared beyond belief. Thus, the Depends.

  I’d always wanted to ride one of these sleek Italian scooters, but never in a million decades had I thought I’d be riding one in an effort to escape — or hell, in my case…get to know — the Italian mob.

  Our scooter was a sexy little copper-colored ride with glistening chrome luggage racks.

  God, I hoped we weren’t travelling far on this tiny thing. Was it even possible to be more exposed while on the road?

  Even though I was sure we had the deluxe edition, the absolute best money can buy and then some, my figure wasn’t really cut out for scootering.

  And besides, what was it with all these mini-mobiles in Italy anyway?

  I’d yet to see a full-sized car or SUV.

  Taking-in the cobbled streets and steep cliffs, I knew this was likely to be one wild, but very memorable ride.

  And really, once I got a good look at the ultra-quaint, but ridiculously–narrow streets we were about to traverse, I realized there was no real room for a full-sized anything.

  “Are you ready for this, Princess?” Roman asked, turning back to me.

  He was so close, the front of his helmet clunked against my own.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t even know where we’re going or what we’re doing. I couldn’t possibly be better prepared, right?”

  “Good point.”

  And probably just as well, I thought. I’m not sure how much I want to know ahead of time about meeting the mob family of my Secret Bond.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Roman said, reaching into his pocket.

  That statement got me even more worried.

  Everything Roman did was planned, calculated, risk-assessed and in order. The fact he could forget anything meant his nerves were short-circuiting despite years of training and real-world practice. And that little tidbit was not comforting.

  He pulled out The Brooch, my former Thug Guard lifeline.

  Roman had given Granny V’s heirloom brooch to me in Vienna when we were first beginning to track Bernie McCall’s cozy cash feeder fund and his Ponzi-scheming empire. I’d thought the fleur-de-lis shape, created out of brilliantly cut vintage diamonds and platinum was breathtaking. Little did I know it would soon be the sole reason I was still alive and able to breathe.

  I held the brooch in the palm of my hand, caressing its sculpted edges, feeling an immediate sense of safety deep within my being.

  This little beauty could do all sorts of James Bond-esque cool things. It had acted as a video camera then it morphed into some sort of intercom-like communication system, allowing me to follow Roman’s orders on how to bail on the Russian mob, time and time again. I couldn’t wait to see what R had programmed the stylized lily to do next.

  At the time, I thought we were just bailing on the Russian mob, but perhaps, we’d been running from Roman’s Italian mob family too.

  Sooo many mobsters, so little time.

  Now that I had my brooch back, I was feeling much more confident.

  I pinned the gem to the silk scarf I’d tied around my neck and felt more than ready for our foray into the heart of Positano.

  Roman shifted our scooter into first gear, and we zipped off to God only knew where.

  We weaved in and around the tiniest streets nestled along the foundations of four and five-story Old European buildings. The facades were either the colors of terra cotta and the warm Tuscan sun or white-washed then brightly painted.

  We passed so close to many a quaint bistro’s al fresco dining tables, I swore the diners must be able to feel the heat of our scooter’s engine. This had to be the case, because I could smell their homemade Italian bread and the espresso in their tiny cups.

  All the miniature cars, which seemed to come only in red or silver, careened bumper-to-bumper behind groups of pedestrians made up of both locals and tourists, who endlessly made their way through the village.

  No wonder we’d taken a scooter.

  Neither Roman nor I would have had the patience to wait in all of these traffic jams.

  Just when I was beginning to relax and enjoy the ride, Roman pulled the scooter to a stop at the base of a set of stone steps that led up from the tiny little side street we’d turned onto.

  The street we’d just been on had been packed with people, cars, bistro tables and diners. This side-street alley was desolate.

  A light breeze brushed over the bare skin of my shoulders. At first, I thought it was the breeze off the bay. But perhaps it was my nerves again wreaking havoc.

  A jumble of empty tables sat outside a canary yellow storefront that appeared to be a pizza restaurant. Ristorante Pizzeria S. Zabino. That’s what the hand-painted sign said over the doorway.

  Oh boy. Now I knew we were in mob country.

  All mobsters owned pizzerias, right?

  I’d watched plenty of television and movies that vouched for their culinary-centric, cover-up worlds…and pizza was one of their well-known faves.

  As I took off my helmet, two men appeared out of nowhere, dressed to the nines. After speaking deferentially to Roman in Italian, they disappeared with our helmets and the Vespa, leaving us to stand at the bottom of stone steps leading up to an umbrella-covered terrace of what looked to be another
culinary storefront.

  The terrace was guarded by a third, extremely well-dressed Italian man. He appeared to be using an earpiece and a microphone, judging by the way he spoke into his shoulder and then tapped the side of his head probably listening to his orders.

  As we ascended the stairs, Roman took my hand and squeezed it for what was, I’m sure, supposed to be for comfort and strength.

  Yes, I know, I coached my shaking guts. Roman is my Secret Bond. He knows how to hold his own and take care of me as well.

  R is also somewhere close-by, watching our every move.

  Plus, it appears these Italian Mobster Men respect Roman.

  So why are my knees so damn shaky I’m about ready to tumble down these stairs?

  I couldn’t even blame a fall on my rump on the heels of the ridiculous Louboutin’s I wore. From here on out, it’s gonna be Sketchers. That’s it. No more heels, I swore, as both miniscule heel tips continued making perfect contact with the pits and holes in the ancient masonry we were climbing.

  If I took a tumble, it was because of the very frightening unknown waiting inside the massive, Da Vinci Code-esque, Vatican-worthy structure shielded by the Tuscan yellow canopy ahead of us.

  Without a word, just another polite, and somewhat apprehensive bow, Stylishly Dressed Soldier Three ushered us into the building.

  And OMG!

  I had always thought mobsters favored pizza.

  Not Roman’s family.

  Evidently, their world headquarters and base of operations was the Italian ice cream biz…as in gelato.

  We were surrounded by cases containing every kind of gelato you could imagine.

  And damn, I love gelato!

  Maybe marrying into My Prince’s Mob wouldn’t be so bad after all!

  I’d have access to all the gelato I could dream of.

  Chapter Seven

  I quickly learned, however, that life in the mob wasn’t going to be all limoncello, lime, and coconut-flavored gelato.

  Directly past the counter top area, where the used gelato scoops were soaking in a large sink, waiting to be washed by who knew who, because no one seemed to be tending to customers, trouble looked as if it were brewing.