"Peter Malone," the suit said. "My family owns this casino. Would you care to take a walk?"
"As long as we stay in the public areas, sure," I replied. No way was I going to go into any back hallways with this man. "What's this about?"
"Of course," Malone said, pointing toward the front desk area. When we were far enough from the mass of the casino, but still in public areas, he turned back toward me. "Just so there’s no miscommunication, are you connected to the Bertoli family?"
"If you mean do I know the Bertolis, yes," I said, knowing it was useless to lie. "If you're asking if I'm down here to start some shit, and if the Bertolis sent me, then the answer is no. I'm here on personal business."
"Which is?"
"I think Rat-boy is just here to dance, Mr. Malone," the associate said with a sneer. "Ain't that right?"
"You know a lot about a small-time guy from Seattle," I said. "Any particular reason?"
"In our line of work, it pays to know as much about your friends as it does your enemies," Malone said. He looked at his associate with stern eyes and motions with his head. "Mr. Degrassi and I have some talking to do."
The other man gave me a glare and nodded, turning and walking back toward the casino. "Forgive him. He's a good chunk of muscle, but a bit short on manners. Which, by the way, you seem to be too. You didn’t stop by to pay your respects.”
"My apologies, Mr. Malone," I said. "I didn’t realize that your family controlled this hotel. Like I said, I’m just here on personal business.”
"Oh, the Marriott corporation owns the hotel, but my family controls the management for this location," Malone replied. He paused and looked me in the eye. “So just personal?"
"My word," I said. "If you'd like, we can put a call in to Tomasso Bertoli right now. He’ll vouch for me."
Malone nodded. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You seem like a stand-up guy, nothing like your father."
My hands were trembling by my side. I wanted to punch him right in the fucking face. Instead, I forced a smile and shrugged. "Like I said, Mr. Malone, I'm just here for the competition.”
"Well, give my regards to Don Bertoli when you get back to Seattle. If you’re into golf, look me up before you leave. I can get you a good slot at the TPC next door."
I shook my head, not trusting anything else. "Sorry, not my game. Thank you."
I went back up to my room, closing my door behind me. Replays of Carmen's words and Malone's casual jabs about my father flashed through my head the whole time. About ten minutes later, there was a soft knock, which I ignored until it went away. I was still standing in the middle of the room, my hands clenched so tightly at my sides that when I was finally able to uncurl my fists, four bloody half-moons were in my palms.
We weren't just in the top twenty. We were in first place. And not by a small margin either, but by six points over the second-place couple, a pair from Pasadena. "You ready?"
"Yeah," I said, which had been my answer to almost everything Carmen had asked me all day. It wasn't the hour. This round was taking place in two flights of ten and would be over in fewer than thirty minutes, including scores, with the showcase starting an hour after that. I just couldn't get my fucking mind right. My dad was a touchy subject with me, and I was filled with anger.
The head judge, some poofty looking dude who had apparently been some big shot movie choreographer whose most famous movie was one of those cult favorites among dancers, dramatically reached into the huge copper drum that had not only the dance styles, but the music imprinted on the tickets inside the little plastic balls. "Ladies and gentlemen, the style for the wildcard round is . . . the Viennese Waltz."
There were groans from some of the couples, and I could understand. It’s a fast dance, and with ten couples competing at a time, the chances for screw ups and collisions was high. "I see you all love the idea. Well, this should raise your spirits. The music for this is the full version of Boyz II Men's classic, I'll Make Love to You."
It was my turn to stifle a groan. I would’ve preferred fucking Johann Strauss. It wasn't that I didn't like the song. Sure, it had been old when I was figuring out just what making love meant besides cutting out Valentine's cards, but it was a good jam for the romantic at heart. However, the way I was feeling that day, the last thing I wanted to do was hold Carmen close and dance a Viennese waltz to a fucking love song. All I felt like doing was punching someone’s lights out. “We can do it, we can do it," I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath and closing my eyes. "Just dance."
"Dante?" Carmen asked, turning to me. "Are you all right?”
I nodded. "Yeah. Come on, we drew flight two."
There was one advantage to flight two, as I got to listen to the music as first danced, but we had no warm up prior to that. I saw one middle-aged couple, their numbers identifying them as the couple currently in twentieth place and looking like they'd maybe produced a few children to the song, smiling to each other. I could understand them, at least. They were so far out of the top ten that even getting to this round may have been a celebration for them. They were going to dance because they were in love, they were having fun, and they were celebrating.
The four minutes that flight one was dancing, I kept shifting back and forth, unable to make eye contact with Carmen. Finally, I turned to her. "Carmen."
"Yes?"
I took a deep breath. “Sorry about yesterday. My father’s a touchy subject, and I’ve never felt comfortable talking about it."
Carmen blinked, perplexed, then nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry I brought it up. After this, let's talk?"
"Maybe," I said, just as the music wrapped up. We had two minutes to prepare while the judges in attendance scored each couple. The wildcard was based not on the same hundred points as before, but instead on a system like a track meet. The ten couples would be ranked from best to worst in their flight. The top team would get fifty points, on down to the worst team getting ten. So while Carmen and I had a big lead, it wasn't insurmountable, and scores were aggregate, not round by round. "After the dance."
We went out to our indicated spot, Carmen taking my hand. The music started, and I led her into the first step. What I should have been doing was working in tune with Carmen as a team. Instead of me strictly leading, I would use her hand signals as much as she would use mine to guide us around the floor.
That's what should have happened. Instead, I wasn't in time with her, the months of practice dropping away from us until I felt like I was lost. Sure, I was keeping in time to the waltz steps, but I didn't feel fluid, and I certainly didn't feel like the two of us were moving in the spirit of the music. Instead of a man and woman preparing to get it on, I felt like a frustrated junior high schooler who had a stiffy in his pants and didn't know how to deal with it. At the end of the four minutes, I was exhausted, twice having to stop our motion to avoid collisions with other couples. Both times, I should have seen them coming, or read Carmen's hand signals.
"Shit," I muttered to myself when we came off the floor. "I fucked that up."
"It won't be that bad," Carmen said, trying not to sound despondent. I'd fucked it up for her, and we both knew it. "Let's see what the scores are."
Third. Forty points, which when added to our compulsory scores, dropped us to third place. We were lucky the damage wasn't worse, but we were holding onto a podium slot by the skin of our teeth, just one point out of fourth.
"Okay, we survived," Carmen said, putting on a cheerful face. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. We made it so far, and we can nail our showcase. Let's get ready."
I nodded. "All right. I’ll do better.”
"I know you will," Carmen said, stopping. “We've got the whole drive back to Seattle to work out this communication issue between us. Let’s just get through this next hour. I know we can do it."
I nodded, sighing as I headed back to the changing area. The outfit for the showcase was the one I liked least. It was uncomfortable, tight as hell. We were supposed to be goi
ng for a Spanish motif, with me being some sort of matador and Carmen being in a dress that riffed off black and red Spanish colors. My jacket was modeled after a matador's short jacket, and while I didn't have the stupid little hat, I still felt strange pulling the nearly skin tight pants on.
"Wow, you're not hiding what you've got," one of the other competitors commented, admiring my pants. "You trying to seduce the judges or something honey?"
I looked at the other man, not enjoying the hunger I saw in his eyes, and shook my head. "Just a costume."
I walked away and found Carmen in the warmup area. "What's wrong now?"
"Just . . . I hate these pants. And I’m pretty sure some guy just hit on me," I said, not able to contain a half-smile despite the fact I still wasn’t in a good mood.
“With those pants, I can believe it.”
I grinned. “All right. Let's go sew up third place."
The announcer called us to the floor, and as I walked out with Carmen, I suddenly saw Peter Malone in the front row of seats, his face bemused as he clapped. My moment of confidence was shaken, and as we took our position, nervousness and anger returned. Carmen and I bowed, and we took our starting position.
The music started, and we started our routine. The mambo was a great choice in hindsight, because Carmen was able to display her beauty to its maximum effect, with the short frilled skirt swirling around her legs, making her seem taller than she was while still keeping enough modesty around her bust to support her and not coming off as slutty. For my part, I was supposed to be portraying the superstar matador, while she was the maiden that was smitten with me. It called for us to be apart for nearly a minute at the start of the song, a risky maneuver as we had to be in perfect synchronization while not touching at all, and even sometimes not facing each other.
At the end of the minute, I turned to face her, supposedly the point in the performance where the matador sees the maiden for the first time, and cursed myself as I'd missed my cue. Carmen was already facing me, and in our practices she was supposed to be facing away. I was slow, and I stepped up my steps, crossing the distance between us a half beat faster than normal, taking her hand and launching into the close in portion. As I danced, I felt part of our unity reforming itself, and I only prayed that it was enough in enough time to salvage my mistake.
The last of Tito Puente's horns faded away, Carmen and I held close together, and I let her go, feeling hopeful. The last three quarters of the dance had gone well, and maybe my mistake wouldn't be noticed. "It's in the judges' hands now," Carmen said, giving me a smile. "I think we did enough."
We sat down and waited with bated breath as the fourth place couple, a brother and sister team from Salt Lake City took the floor again. They were the last couple to dance, and the only drama left in the whole competition. The first and second place teams had nailed their routines, their scores sewing up spots to the nationals easily. Everything came down to the SLC twins. If they nailed a perfect routine, they'd jump up to second. If they did good, they could beat us. If they screwed up, Carmen and I were heading to New York.
I barely breathed for the entire four minutes and ten seconds of their performance, but I could tell by Carmen's body language she was worried. They were good, really good, and when they hit a dance lift that I'd never even thought possible, I knew what was going to happen. "That's it," I said, leaning back. "They got it."
Carmen nodded, tears in her eyes as we watched them finish, walking off the floor and sitting down, waiting for their scores. They hadn't been perfect, but their score was just enough, bumping Carmen and I down to fourth, and knocking us out of the national competition.
I looked at Carmen, who was crying openly. "There'll be others," she said, trying to put on a brave face. "Maybe we can try again next year."
"Yeah," I said, patting her knee. “Next year."
Chapter 16
Carmen
I slept most of the way back to Seattle, Dante agreeing that after the disappointment of the competition, there was no real reason to stick around the city. He drove us through the night, with me taking over at dawn to take us the last four hours. We'd actually done better time than going down, mainly because he cruised at a faster speed than before. He also didn't stop for anything but gas, powering through on coffee, so that when we did switch, he crashed hard, dropping off like a rock until we got back to my studio. I woke him up gently, rocking his shoulder. "Hey, we're back."
He awoke with a start, nearly hitting his head on the roof. "Wha . . .?"
"I said we're back," I repeated. I looked at his still bloodshot eyes and patted his knee. "I know it was disappointing, but maybe . . . well, you still need sleep. Can you drive safely?"
Dante thought, then shrugged. "I guess."
I shook my head. "Then you don't need to. Crash on my couch, I'm fine right now. I got eight and half hours last night. No arguments, okay?"
He shrugged again and walked like a zombie into the studio, where he collapsed in a heap on my sofa, snoring within minutes. I watched him, my emotions swirling. I was disappointed for sure with our placement. At the same time, I was angry, both with myself and with him. It was hard to put too much blame on Dante though . . . I distracted him, and I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut.
"I'll get the stuff out of the car,” I said as if he could hear me. He was already off in a dream world.
I went out and got our bags, setting them down on the practice floor and headed back outside, intent on starting the clean out of the car. While I was balling up the last of the candy wrappers and fishing the last soda bottle into the garbage bag I had, my cellphone rang in my pocket. It was Adriana. "Hey, Ade."
"Well, I can tell by the voice it's not what you wanted," Adriana said in my ear. "What happened?"
"Fourth," I replied, "one spot out of nationals. Totally my fault too. I'll tell you when I bring the car back. Listen, do you mind if wait until tonight?”
"Tonight?" Adriana asked, surprised. "I figured it would be tomorrow. Aren't you two in Vegas still?"
"Nope. After the competition, both of us were so bummed that we bugged out, headed back straight away. Dante drove all night, I just got us back maybe an hour ago. I'm cleaning out the car right now."
"Well, okay then," Adriana said. "If you want, bring the car by tonight. Pizza's on me. Luisa’s going to be here.”
"Actually, can we save that for another night? Just, it's part of what I need to talk to you about. Me and my big mouth got us in trouble, and I want to make sure everyone is aware of it before we try any parties or anything like that.”
"All right. Tomorrow night then. See ya then.”
I went back to cleaning out the trash, and after that was done I went inside. I heard rustling in the back and checked on Dante, to see that he was stirring. "How long was I out?"
"Only about an hour," I said, squatting down and sitting on the floor in front of the couch. "It's about one thirty right now. How do you feel?"
"Like I need some water," Dante said, smacking his lips. "The comedown from a caffeine high leaves me wondering how the hell people do other drugs."
I went and got him a bottle of water from my tap, and brought it to him. "Sorry, it's the only water I've got. By the way, I cleaned out the car, so you don't need to."
"Thanks," Dante said, sitting up and drinking some of the water. A sip turned into him draining half the bottle, and he wiped his lips when he was done with the back of his hand. "Thirstier than I thought."
"Yeah, I guess so," I said, smiling for a moment before sobering. "Dante, I think we need to talk."
"I know," he said, setting the bottle down.
"I'm sorry," we both said nearly simultaneously. Dante looked at me in surprise, then tried again. "Seriously. I screwed things up for you, throwing that little mini-tantrum I did before the second round. If I hadn't, we might have had enough points to cruise into the finals."
"I'm sorry too," I said. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I
was just excited, and it was like magic when we were out there that first round."
"It was, wasn't it?" He said with a little chuckle. He sighed, and shook his head. “Too bad we couldn’t do that the other two rounds.”
He looked at me intensely. “Do you want to know?" Dante asked quietly. I stopped, nodding my head. "About my father, of course. It's the root of all of my fucked-uppedness. So, do you want to hear about the great rat of the Bertoli family and the son who paid for his so-called sins?”
“I do,” I said. “But realize one thing. It’s not going to change what I think about you. I know the man that you are—I’ve seen it, and nothing you or anyone else says is going to change that."
Dante swallowed, then nodded. "Okay. But I still want to tell you. I think someone deserves to know, even if nobody will ever believe me about it."
I shifted around, getting ready to sit fully on the floor, when he shifted over himself, patting the sofa next to him. "This'll take a while. You should be comfortable for it."
I got up and sat down next to him, setting my hand on his knee, but he was already in another world, the world of his memory, where he'd been kept prisoner for far too long. I hoped that maybe, by telling me, he'd be able to leave that prison behind.
"Growing up," Dante began, "I practically worshiped my father. He was cool, he was capable . . . he was the guy that Johnny Bertoli would turn to when the shit hit the fan. The main reason was that Dad was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. Some of the other guys, they were worried about how they looked, if they came off as tough guys or as badasses. Not my Dad. He was badass because he got shit done."
"Sounds like someone I know."
Dante shook his head. "Not like him. I saw him once go forty-eight hours without sleep so he could impersonate a drug addict in order to infiltrate a crack house. He educated himself enough to insinuate himself into almost any position that Johnny Bertoli needed him to go into. He was the expert outside-inside man."
Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 14