Lacey Luzzi Box Set

by Gina LaManna

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “Yeah, I love this city,” I agreed.

  “Well...that too.” He winked. “Shall we?”

  I nodded and dipped my head in order to mask my pink cheeks. He gathered my plate without asking. We bid the Marinello’s staff goodbye, retrieved Michael’s car, and made the drive back in an easy, relaxed silence.

  Halfway home, he reached over with a quick grin, and slid his hand in mine. His thumb made soft circles on the back of my palm, and I resisted the urge to lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, basking in the afterglow of a successful first date.

  The deceleration of the car signaled our return to the front of my place, and I realized that I had laid my head back and rested my eyes.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said softly, “but we’re here.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful date.” I turned towards him, not letting go of his hand.

  He looked out the window.

  “What? Did you not have fun?” I pulled my hand back and twisted them in my lap.

  When he turned towards me, his face showed genuine confusion. “Quite the contrary. I was wondering if it was too forward to ask you to have dinner with me tonight.”

  I hesitated, and he took my hesitation as a negative.

  “It’s fine if not, I was just thinking of cooking a little something at home.” He shrugged and looked like a helpless puppy. “You know, new to town and all, just figured if you wanted to stop by I’d love the company.”

  How could I say no to those handsome brown eyes? Especially if he kissed anything like he did...well, the other stuff.

  “I’d like that,” I said. “I’m going to go take a nap now since I had a tough workout this morning, but I don’t have plans for later. I’ll give you a call on my way over, if you text me your address.”

  I did a mental head smack immediately. Shit. Earlier I pretended I had plans for the evening. Major fail. Now, I looked like a sucker.

  “Fantastic.” His eyes lit up. “I’m really looking forward to it. Thanks for giving me another shot.”

  I grabbed my flowers and chocolates (which had been sorely tempting me to eat them all afternoon) and retreated inside my apartment with a wave over my shoulder. I felt like I floated right over that nasty artwork.

  Lacey – 1, Michael – 1. I think we’d both taken a win for the lunch.

  AFTER A LONG NAP AND three quarters of a bag of Lindt truffles, I wriggled into a deep red v-neck which was nice and flowy around the waist, just in case he was a good cook.

  I was looking forward to a nice, home-cooked meal; one that was edible and didn’t involve pasta or gravy of any sort. I’d offered to bring something, but thankfully he’d declined and said just to bring an appetite. An appetite for what? I wondered lazily as I curled my hair. I could think of a few things I was craving.

  “Bye. I’ll be back...sometime.” I waved to Clay who had no less than nine wires wrapped around his body.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  I stopped. “Why are you telling me to be careful tonight? Why is everyone telling me to be careful?”

  “Only because you have a habit of ruining everything.” He gave me an unmistakable glare.

  “Sorry.” I tried for an innocent smile. “At least I try.”

  “Wait – who’s everyone?” Clay asked.

  “Bye!” I closed the door, pretending I hadn’t heard.

  I flipped the bird to Clay’s creep-mobile which had recouped the best parking spots and hobbled in my heels to the Kia. As I drove across the Twin Cities towards Uptown, butterflies knocked around in my stomach. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Anthony had gotten in my head, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t totally suppress the twinge of uneasiness that accompanied the butterflies. Because first of all, why did he care? And second of all, why was he so worried?

  I pulled up outside a small home in the midst of Russian territory, just blocks away from the bar where I’d met Michael. The glittering lights did little to soothe my nerves. I took a few deep breaths, put the Kia into park in a legal space, and approached the front door. I knocked and wondered if showing up was the worst decision I’d made today, out of a whole slew of bad ones.

  “Lacey.” The door clicked open. “Welcome.”

  Chapter 14

  I ENTERED THE SMALL, modest home – perfect for someone just out of college or recently moved to the area. It was just enough space for one person, and with a few personal touches could be considered quaint. Right now, however, it was more sterile than quaint. Boxes lined the walls of the foyer, a spindly little table identified the dining room, and I imagined his bathroom wouldn’t contain more than a bar of soap and roll of toilet paper.

  “This is great,” I said. “Still moving in, huh?”

  He smiled. “No, I thought the boxes gave it a bit of a feng shui vibe. You disagree?”

  “As long as you’ve got the necessities. Food, toilet paper, and a bed.”

  “In that order?” He winked at me.

  I blushed. “I didn’t mean – oh, you’re joking. Ha, ha.”

  I followed him into the kitchen where some juicy smells piqued my interest.

  “What are you making?” I sniffed.

  “Some homemade pasta. Is that alright with you? I figured – you’re Italian, I’m Italian...”

  I’d hoped for anything but pasta. “That sounds delicious.”

  “Great. Take a seat, dahling.” He pulled out my chair and uncorked a bottle of wine, pouring me a healthy glass of the stuff.

  I took a deep gulp, and the smooth red slid down my throat and warmed me all the way to my core. “Wow, this is good stuff.”

  Michael didn’t answer, as he was too busy pulling a pan of steaming lasagna from the oven.

  He set the sizzling mass on the tiny table and lit two tall candlesticks. The whole dinner had an air of naïve optimism about it, as if we were two college kids trying to make a romantic date out of takeout food and discount candles in our dorm room.

  “This is really sweet,” I said. “Thank you for going through all the effort.”

  He came round and kissed my cheek before taking a seat and scooting his chair to the same side of the table. “It was nothing. Shall we?”

  I nodded, and he heaped a delicious-looking pile of noodles and sauce onto my plate and topped off my glass of wine before helping himself.

  “Cheers.” He raised his glass.

  “To what?” I asked, trying to radiate sexy vibes in his direction.

  “To finding whatever it is you’re looking for,” he said, then clinked my glass before I could react.

  There was an awkward pause that followed and I took a larger gulp than I normally would have.

  “Uh, okay,” I lied. “Thanks?”

  I wondered where his curiosity stemmed from, especially as I hadn’t even mentioned that it was bothering me. He didn’t even know what they stole. And he definitely didn’t know the stakes riding on getting it back.

  But when I met his eyes, his gaze was so crestfallen that I softened like butter in a microwave.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached over and put a hand on mine. “I’m way overstepping my boundaries. Please, forget I said that. I’m here for you if you need it, but I promise to stop prying.”

  I nodded, but couldn’t quite think of what to say.

  “I just get, like, really nervous when I like somebody, and I can’t think of anything to say,” he confessed. “What I’d really like to toast is to kissing you again, but I feel like that’s also too forward.”

  I gave him a small smile. “Quite the opposite. That’s a welcome toast.”

  I winked, and he looked relieved. Standing, he strode to the stove, opening and shutting it for no apparent reason, grumbling up a storm. Twirling around, he rested both hands on the edge of the stove, a pained expression on his face. “The truth is, I just care about you already, admittedly more than I should. And I can’t stand t
o see people stealing from you, when you’re so nice and you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He came close and sat in his chair once more. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked me in the eye. “I tend to move too quickly, fall too fast in relationships. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it with you, and now I’ve gone and spoiled everything.”

  “You haven’t spoiled everything,” I said, a little taken aback. “I just don’t want to involve you in complicated problems that aren’t yours.”

  “I haven’t ruined it?” He looked so hopeful, I cracked a smile.

  “Of course not. Not even close. It’s sweet you care so much.”

  He sat next to me and began eating once more, urging me to do so as well with a nudge of his hand. “Glad to hear it.”

  I nodded, mouth full of fresh ricotta cheese. “This is delicious.”

  “Just promise me you’ll be safe. I’ve heard some stories about the Russians in this part of town.”

  “What sort of stories?” I asked.

  “You’re sure you wanna talk about this now?”

  “Oh, I’m just curious. You know, it might help me to be safe.” I tried for nonchalance.

  “Well, the Russians have set up a nice little business here. Using bars as covers for money laundering ops, running drugs and weapons, some sports betting, the works. Well, recently it was rumored that there’s a mole in the operation. Someone really close to the boss...”

  I frowned, thinking how perfectly his information was lining up with the information Clay’d overheard in his van. “But how do you know all this?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m new to town, as you know.” He gestured to the boxes. “I’m trying to meet people, so I go watch the sports games at bars around town. Kind of how I met you.”

  I smiled, but it was a fake one. “Right. And?”

  “And they’re big on betting on sports. I took this one guy up on a bet, just a few bucks you know, not realizing who he was. Lost, of course; the Vikes couldn’t catch a football if I set it in their hands.”

  He hurried on, seeing my glazed eyes. “There was a table of them behind me. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but we were the only people in the bar, and I heard about half of their conversation. Seemed they weren’t trying to be real quiet. Knew the bartenders and whatnot. They were talking about a mole in their organization.”

  “Did you hear their names?”

  “Hmmm.” He took a bite and chewed, staring thoughtfully at the empty wall. “Andy something. That doesn’t sound right, not Russian enough. Andrea, or Andrew or...”

  “Andrey, maybe?” I asked.

  “Andrey. Yeah. He was there with an older guy – Andrey called him Uncle something – and a few others, I couldn’t catch their names. Didn’t seem to me they had any idea who the mole was.”

  I nodded. This date was more productive than I’d ever imagined – and we hadn’t even hit the bedroom yet.

  “I WONDER IF THE MOLE is working with the cops or something. Wonder how they even found out about him...” I mused.

  “He was stealing,” Michael said. “I mean, that’s what the uncle was saying. To be exact, the ‘dirty little traitor’ stole a shipment.”

  My spine went rigid.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yep. I’m betting that shipment refers to drugs, right?” I dug back into the lasagna if for no other reason than to give me a chance to chew and think. Plus, this was my chance to get confirmation. If the mole stole the same thing missing from Carlos – maybe it wasn’t the Russians who’d stolen it to begin with. Maybe it was the traitor who stole it, trying to pin it on the Russians.

  “Probably,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What if the mole stole our stuff?” I voiced aloud.

  “What stuff? Sorry.” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t ask.”

  I heaved a deep breath. Could I confide in Michael? I exhaled. If he was mixed up in this mess in any way, especially for the wrong team, he wouldn’t be giving me this info – would he?

  “I trust you,” I said. “Are you sure you want to hear about everything? It’s a little...unconventional.”

  He gave a nod. “I’m serious about you.”

  “Okay, then.” I filled him in on the general, broad story, including the spying with Clay. He chuckled at a few parts, held his breath at the suspenseful moments. Though I did leave out the part about accepting a date with Andrey. And the fact that Blake was an ex-boyfriend. And the small detail that I was involved with the Mafia. That was a conversation for a different day.

  “So, what I’m thinking now is: what if The Bratva didn’t actually steal anything from us? What if it was the mole?” I shook my head. “The only thing I’m stuck on is the motive. Why would he do something like that?”

  Michael swallowed a bite of garlic bread. “I know why.”

  I looked up and set my wine glass down. “Why?”

  “I’ll bet you the rat stole from you. Your family would obviously pin it on the Russians, causing a distraction while he slipped away and gave the goods to the cops. The snitch obviously wants out, and the Russians wouldn’t let him go peacefully. He’s hoping to get into the Program.”

  I nodded. “Witness Protection. I’m following.”

  “For good reason,” he muttered. “I just mean, if he’s acting like that.”

  If one of my Family members wanted to get out of the business, I’d tell them to shut their mouths, try out a new city for a while, and vanish like a magician’s rabbit. I’m fairly certain Carlos wouldn’t agree with this method, but I wouldn’t be the one to ask. I’d choose ignorance over violence any day.

  I found my head nodding yes. Everything was making sense. But that still didn’t solve my problem of how to get the drugs back for Carlos.

  “That doesn’t really help,” I said. “I mean it does, to understand it. But Carlos still expects a bag of the stuff on his desk, regardless of who took it.”

  “That’s not as hard as it looks. In fact, you should be happy.”

  I gave him a confused look.

  He leaned forward. “You’ve limited your options. You’re no longer fighting the Russian mob, you’re looking for one, lowly little person.”

  “You have a point.”

  “The only thing is...” he tapped his chin. “I have a feeling the timeline will shrink up. The Russians and you want the same thing, right? To find this guy. So it’s no longer a war against them – it’s a race. Find him first, and you win.”

  Iciness crept down my spine. The news wasn’t exactly reassuring. In fact, I had a distinct feeling I didn’t want it to come down to a footrace between me and a group of the Russians, wrestling over a bag of crack.

  A phone beeped. I reflexively looked down, but it wasn’t my screen. Michael’s phone was on the table, closer to me than him.

  “Here you are, it’s a Nikolai,” I said, sliding the phone over. I cracked a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to look.”

  He grinned. “No prob, friend from Chicago. Sorry, could be work related.”

  “Go ahead.” I gestured grandly and went back to sipping wine, my head beginning to feel like it was floating.

  After a second of staring at the screen, his face turned white. His knuckles crunched the phone. The chair crashed to the floor as he stood, knocking it over without a backwards glance.

  “I’m so sorry, you won’t believe this. I really, really need to go. Nic needs help.”

  “Okay,” I said, pushing my chair back and standing up. “I’ll come with you, what do you need?”

  “No, no,” he said distractedly. “Stay here, make yourself comfortable. Feel free to watch TV or something. It won’t take long. I’m so, so sorry. I promised I wouldn’t do this to you again, and I know I’m an idiot. You’re totally free to leave and never speak to me again.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said.

  “I just can’t believe this. If it were anything else I’d say no – or not even have pick
ed up the phone. I am so sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I gave him a little push towards the door. “Stuff happens. I understand the craziness of life.”

  “I promise I’ll be back soon. Please make yourself comfortable. Thank you so much for understanding.” He slung his jacket on and gave me a small kiss on the cheek. With a sad smile, he stepped outside into the crisp night air and shut the door behind him.

  “Alright.” I picked up the wine bottle. “It’s me and you.”

  I FINISHED THE LAST of the red wine alarmingly fast while sitting at the dinner table alone, my head feeling like it was growing larger and emptier by the second.

  I searched for a TV as soon as he’d left, but hadn’t seen anything. Not even when I’d poked my head into the rooms with closed doors. I was a bit surprised to find that none of the rooms contained an ounce of furniture except the bedroom.

  Even the bedroom was sparse: a full bed with plain sheets, a reading lamp and a few clothes tucked away in the closet. Feeling a bit bubblier and morally looser than usual, I peeked through the clothes, noting the blandness of his closet.

  Apparently it’s his body that makes the clothes look good, I thought, pushing aside the third gray sweater I’d seen in a row. I neatly spread his hangers out in the same format they’d been in when I’d started my snooping.

  There wasn’t a single picture in the place. I thought about peeking (innocently) through a few boxes, just to see if I could catch a glimpse of his elusive family. Where did they live? It dawned on me that I didn’t even know where Michael was from. But if he were Italian, why didn’t he have any photos of his family? Even Carlos – an ice king in his own right, allowed photos of the Family in the main wing of the estate, and for crying out loud Nora had an entire hallway of knick knacks and old pictures. Even Marinello’s had a wall of pictures with Luzzis and Marinellos as you entered the restaurant. It was just unfortunate they’d chosen all of the ones in which I’d been shoving food at my face.

  There was a makeshift couch (college-style futon) in an open space which qualified as a living room. I kicked my shoes off and lay down, hoping the room would be less fuzzy if I rested my eyes for a few minutes. The futon was surprisingly comfortable, but my eyelids refused to cooperate.