"Doc can check that out later. Come on, let’s see what he says about Luisa."
He shook his head and pointed to his office. "Right now, we’re going to try to find out who’s responsible with for this. Miss Mendosa is being looked after—there’s nothing we can do but get in the way.”
I swallowed my reply, knowing he was right. "Okay."
The first thing I did when we got to Dad's office was start telling him the story of walking back to the convention center from the coffee shop, stopping and repeating myself carefully when I started to ramble around the time of the explosion itself. "So this man—you didn’t get a good look at him?" He asked.
"I didn't, but Luisa probably did," I replied. "They were practically nose to nose there for a few moments. I tumbled when he hit me, so by the time I was back up, he was already running away. I didn't chase him because she was still down. Then the bomb went off, and things got a little crazy.”
He nodded knowingly, then went over to his liquor cabinet and poured me a finger of scotch whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Here. Sip slowly. I know the doctor won’t approve, but sometimes, men of science and men of reality have different points of view."
I took it thankfully, sipping slowly. As the scotch burned its way down my throat, I focused on not coughing, letting my nerves settle down. "When I could think again, I checked on Luisa and decided I had to get us both out of there. Bertolis and explosions aren’t the sort of thing that we need to have in the same sentence."
Dad nodded and poured his own, taking a seat behind his desk. "I agree. You did well. It was the smart thing to do."
"I should have done more," I said disapprovingly. "I'm not just one of your men. I'm also your son."
"You’re not Superman, despite trying to look the part by spending so much time in the gym,” Dad said with a chuckle.
He turned on the small television he kept in his office, turning it to the local CBS affiliate. A special news report was already showing, with fire trucks and police gathered outside the convention center. We watched as the reporter, a guy who'd been with the station since I was in high school, described the scene. "The reports are preliminary, but from what I can gather, the bomb was placed in a trash can near the north entrance of the building, where attendees were coming back after a lunch break. Interior security cameras show this man placing a package in the garbage can closest to the entry hallway before running out. Unfortunately, the only camera footage released so far shows no details about his identity, although a group has come forward to claim responsibility for the attack."
The camera shot cut back to a prepackaged video, supposedly uploaded to the station soon after the attack. The screen showed a hooded figure wearing a black mask, with a giant Earth emblazoned on a backdrop behind him. "The Gaea Defense Force takes full responsibility for this defense of our planet and mother. Those who were injured today were nothing more than viruses, bacteria who are polluting and raping our mother. Like any good child, we defend our mother. Stop the slaughter of cattle, stop the pollution of our Earth. This is the GDF. We will not back down. We will not let up."
The video continued, but the reporter's voice took over. Dad and I watched it for a few more minutes, but there was nothing more that came out. He reached up and shut off the television. “I’ve had dealings with those types before at the restaurant," Dad said, sighing as he leaned back. "They're relatively new in town—an offshoot of the environmental movement."
I sighed, finishing my scotch. “Why are they so violent?"
"They've gotten some new people involved, it seems," Dad said. “They’re probably just trying to get noticed. I think they know enough to not screw with our family, though. As for Miss Mendosa, I can’t say for certain."
"We were still lucky," I said, looking out the window. I laughed bitterly and set my tumbler down. "A few seconds later, and I would for sure not need that damn Creatine I bought today."
He finished his glass and nodded. “I’m glad that you’re mostly unhurt. Come, let’s see how Miss Mendosa is doing and then call the lawyer just in case you two were spotted on any cameras."
As always, my father had a point. "All right. Thanks for the drink."
We left his office to go down to the gym, where we found the doctor still with Luisa, who'd woken up in the time she was on the table. He was checking her eyes with his penlight and looking carefully. "Well, I don't think you have a concussion, Miss Mendosa, but I'd still be careful for a while. That laceration on the back of your scalp was pretty nasty. I had to put in thirty stitches."
She nodded slowly, laying still. "How long will they be in?"
"I'd say you can have them taken out in a week. If you're still in town, I'd be happy to do it," he said, putting his light away. He turned to see Dad and me walk into the room, and he smiled. “Other than a ruined suit and a nasty little scalp laceration, I'd say she’s okay.” He turned to me. “How's the ear, Tomasso?"
"I can hear now," I said, turning to the side while the man got his little device out of his bag and checked me out. "Guess that one just took more of a blast than the other."
"That, and you need to clean your ears out better," the doctor grumped, and Luisa chuckled on the massage table. The doctor smirked and gave me a wink. "No, seriously, you're okay. I'm sure you're a busy man, so I’m going to get out of your way.”
He left, leaving Dad, Luisa and myself in the room. I looked down at Luisa, whose suit was pretty trashed. “Thanks for having me seen to, Don Bertoli."
He shook his head and came over, putting his hand on Luisa's shoulder when she struggled to get up. "It was nothing, Miss Mendosa. After you recover some, we should contact your father. The man who ran you over is a member of a radical eco-terrorist organization, and while I doubt you were specifically targeted, we should get you protected just in case. What do you remember about him?"
"His eyes and the scar on his face," Luisa said, before describing what she’d seen. "I'm sure that makes him stand out quite a bit."
"For sure, but first, we should talk to our lawyer. No offense, but for families in our line of work, a talk with the police isn’t always the smartest thing. Or at least, an unchaperoned talk."
Luisa smiled and slowly sat up, revealing the large mass of stained hair from where the blood had soaked in. "I understand. This isn’t Brazil, where the Porto Alegre chief of police is a cousin of mine, bought and paid for. Your Seattle police are probably a bit more honest than mine."
"They aren't family," Dad acknowledged. “That’s all that matters. But come. First, let’s get you a shower—you look like hell. My niece still has some clothes here. Maybe you can wear some of her things while I send someone to your hotel to get your things."
"Don Bertoli, I don't think that would be necessary," Luisa protested, stopping when Dad held up his hand.
“You could be in danger. Until we know for sure you weren’t the target, I insist that you stay under my protection for the rest of your stay in Seattle. My son will be responsible for your immediate safety."
Dad turned and walked out of the gym, leaving behind an obviously pissed off Luisa, who stared at the door before looking at me. "Well?"
"He's a stubborn man," I explained simply, refusing to be baited into an argument to let off her anger. "Come on. The gym has a shower, and you've got a lot of blood in your hair. Doc didn't say anything about you washing up some, but speaking from experience, be careful with the scrubbing. Angelo's got a scar on the back of his head from a bike accident when we were kids, and he ripped the sutures open by accident washing his hair afterward."
"And clothes?" Luisa asked, looking at her suit. "Should I just wear this nasty mess?"
"You didn't listen very well, did you?" I said with a smirk. "He said Adriana left some things here for when she visits. She's shorter than you, but she always did like longer t-shirts for when she was painting. I'll get you some shorts too, if that's okay."
Luisa growled, but nodded. "Can you show me to the
shower, at least?"
"Sure," I replied with a chuckle. I showed her the small locker room, which was normally used by the staff members who didn't live in the mansion but still wanted to use the room. "From what I remember, the water pressure's not too strong, but be careful still."
"Can you leave me alone long enough to risk showering alone, or will these terrorists come charging in while you’re fetching a t-shirt?"
I couldn't help it. Luisa was both cute and funny when she was pissed off. I laughed. "I think you can shower perfectly fine by yourself. Unless, of course, you want some company. I can help with that too. Like Dad said at dinner before, I’m a man of many talents.”
"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?"
Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance Page 24