by Gina LaManna
As if reading my mind, he grinned. “No one’s rescuing you this time. Where’s your fatso troop of bodyguards? The gym trainer?”
I clenched my fist, but didn’t move. “You don’t want to kill me.”
“Not particularly. But it’s not a matter of want. It’s a matter of professionalism.” He winked. “And I am the consummate professional – no loose ends. No stone unturned. Sorry, babe. Shouldn’t have gotten in the way.”
“What about the idea you had before?” I squirmed, grasping at straws to save time. I took a step closer to the stove and rested my hand on the edge, bending over slightly to steady myself.
“Feeling woozy?” Michael nodded at the stove. “Could be the fumes. I had no idea the effect making cookie dough with this stuff had. Could be a new product on the market.”
“What could?” I asked.
“Answer me this honestly. How big of an idiot are you?”
I straightened a bit and lost my cool. “NOBODY EVER TOLD ME WHAT ‘THE GOOD STUFF’ WAS!”
Michael watched me.
“Well?” I asked. “If you’re going to shoot me, could you at least please tell me what you’re killing me over?”
He shook his head back and forth slowly, a slow grin creeping over his face. “You really are that naïve. Honey, this isn’t the business for you.”
“I found that one out the hard way.” I rolled my eyes.
“You have been searching for fifteen million dollars’ worth of powder.”
My jaw nearly bumped the stove in my shock. “Excuse me?”
“You see that there batch of ‘cookies’ you made?” I stared weakly at the suddenly menacing-looking pail.
He picked up a cookie. “This burnt, shitty block of rock is the most expensive biscotti in the world – to the tune of twenty thousand dollars.” I tried to suck in air, but nothing was coming in or going out.
“This ‘batch’ you cooked up for me – that was about a million bucks worth of baking you did.” Michael shook his head again. “I thought you’d figured me out, but I just couldn’t figure out how. I thought I’d been beaten.”
Michael walked close to me and bent over. “But then I remembered that never happens. Because I’m the best.” I gagged, bent in half.
He frowned at me. “Oh, babe, don’t give me that. The way you were coming onto me the other night, I know you agree.”
Michael winked, and I wished I had something to throw up, but unfortunately I’d never gotten around to eating that meatball earlier, and the popcorn must’ve already digested. That’s one of those things that goes straight through me – kind of, well, kind of like corn.
“How about this – do you want to try one of your fucking cookies before I kill you? I know you like to eat.” He eyed me up and down. “You won’t even have to worry about going to the gym this time.”
“I’m good.” I croaked, slowly trying to pull my body back into the semblance of a standing human being. “But you look hungry.”
Before he could wrap his fingers around his gun, I took advantage of his surprise, picking up the monstrous, million dollar batch of cookie dough. I dumped the bowl straight over his head.
Crack-steeped dough slid down his face, and he brought his hands to his eyes, growling in pain and frustration. But as he tried to paw at his face, the large bowl was in his way, and he wouldn’t let go of the gun to pull it off his skull. I grabbed the nearest metal spoon and clanked him right on top of the noggin with it, a large THUNK reverberating from the clash of metal on metal. A shot rang out as Michael pressed the trigger wildly, and a bullet pierced the stove a few feet from my hip – aka too close for comfort.
I tried to slowly back out of the room, but Michael managed to thrust his head backwards and the bucket sailed across the room and clanged into the knife rack. He stared at me, looking like a contorted, sludgier version of the Sandman. I ducked as he shot again. I slithered out of the room, finding the floor slick with goop that’d been flung room-wide in Michael’s dance of rage.
A foot landed next to my head, and I knew it was over. I rolled over and looked up, ready to face my cookie covered fate.
“Doll.” Anthony stared down at me, then fired his gun once and Michael sank to the floor.
I stood up to thank Anthony, but he’d only shot Michael in the knee – my bodyguard moved forward and I shut my eyes, assuming he’d finish the job. However when I opened my eyes again, both of them were gone. They’d simply disappeared. I looked out the window, but saw nothing.
I shrugged. Fine by me. I wouldn’t want to be alone with an angry Anthony carrying a gun. Instead I skated across the floor, slick with sugar and miscellaneous substances, trying to avoid the rivers of red that flowed between the mounds of dough. I looked under the cupboard and sure enough, the stash was untouched (except for the four cups I’d removed to bake with). I hauled it out into a hefty moving box I nicked from the living room and toted it to the car.
The noise must’ve drawn the neighbors’ attention because I could feel more than a few pairs of eyes watching me as I made the three-block trek in my boxers, sweatshirt, and fuggs, carrying a box spattered with hardened cookie dough.
I scrunched my face a few times, feeling like I’d been given a mud bath at a spa and the masque had hardened. I dumped the box in the van, retrieved a piece of garbage bag to sit on, and opened the driver’s side door.
A shadow covered the handle just as I yanked it open and I whipped around, ending up nose to chest with Anthony.
“Do you always break into houses in boxers?” The right corner of Anthony’s mouth turned up.
“I needed to be able to make a fast getaway.” I did a few lunges and squats around him to demonstrate my mobility.
He groaned loudly.
“What?” I crossed my arms.
“Babe – you’re not wearing underwear.”
I felt my cheeks blush crimson. I’d removed them with my jeans. Who wanted to run in a pink thong? “Like I said, I needed to be flexible.” But I kept my legs together as I explained, glancing instead at my toes.
“You thought I wouldn’t come.” Anthony’s words were a statement.
I looked in his eyes, searching for some semblance of emotion. “Not exactly.”
“Babe – Carlos only hired me to watch out for you because he’ll never say he cares about you. And I only did it because I’d have more holes in me than a strainer if I let something happen to you.”
I glanced around. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good. Because I’m not one.” And then Anthony put his arms around me, slid his hands down to my ass and pulled me towards him. He kissed me until my toes curled and my nipples tingled and my underwear-less parts got extremely warm.
When he let go some indeterminate amount of time later, he let his thumb trail around the ridge of my boxers, on the inside, lightly snapping them at the front. I couldn’t control the gasp that slipped from my lips, but he didn’t seem to mind.
He kissed my forehead and turned. “Don’t tell Carlos.”
“Uh, about what?” I asked, slightly breathless.
Anthony crooked an eyebrow over his shoulder as he walked back towards an uber-shiny black car I guessed was his.
“Er, right. Of course. My lips are zipped. But hey—” I took a few steps towards him. “What’d you do with Michael?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Anthony took a few more steps towards the car. “He won’t be bothering you again.”
I may or may not have heard a thump and mumbled moaning coming from the direction of Anthony’s trunk, but I happily chose to ignore it.
By the time I hopped in the car and waved to Anthony as he pulled out, I was smiling bigger than I had in days. And then I saw the beat-up Bentley pull up behind me, a teensy tire replacing the one that’d been shot out yesterday. My smile faded slightly.
I waited to see who got out of the car, kind of wishing I had a gun.
But two benign figures emerged fr
om the Bentley, Butch and Layla.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“Well, we followed you because we wanted to see the action. I called up your bodyguard and told him where you were, on account of we wanted to be part of the action, too.” Butch high-fived his girlfriend. “We rock. Next up, I’m working on keeping secrets. I’m about fifty percent today, ‘cause I dropped the ball on the bodyguard thing.”
I finally smiled. “Well, good job, Butch. Well done.”
By the time I got back in my car and waved at the odd pair departing in the lopsided Bentley, my smile had been restored. I headed home, happily pointing Clay’s car in the direction of our crummy apartment.
At the last minute, I took a detour and whipped the car into Carlos’s drive a few minutes later. The driveway was still a bit scorched from the recent explosion, but I had no doubt cleaning crews would be there shortly, patching the pavement and making all signs of foul play disappear. That was Carlos’s specialty, after all.
I huffed into the grand entryway, lugging the box of the good stuff, the guards staring curiously but hesitant to say anything – probably due to my crazy person attire and wild-eyed look. Carlos was still at the dining room table eating meatballs as if nothing had happened. A bottle of wine, now empty, sat to Nora’s right, her face glowing like Rudolph’s nose.
I pushed my plate aside – the meatball still untouched – and thunked the box down on the table. The silverware clattered dangerously, but nobody made a comment. Carlos didn’t even stop eating, continuously chewing his mouthful.
I stood there until I had all their attention, all eyes reflecting mixed levels of confusion at my attire.
“Don’t ask,” I said. I turned on my heel and stomped away. I wasn’t in the mood for any more cookies today. “I’ve got your cocaine.”
“What?” Carlos’ voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “That sure as hell better not be cocaine.”
“What are you talking about?” I tried to run a hand through my crusty hair, but it got stuck halfway through.
“This better not fuckin’ be drugs.” Carlos eyed me.
“Language,” hissed Nora. “She’s your granddaughter, Carlos.”
“Everybody I talked to thought this was cocaine,” I said. “Everyone. Even the people stealing from you. If it’s not cocaine, then what is it?”
“It is very, very expensive flour,” Carlos said. “It better be fuc— fudging flour in there.”
Nora cleared her throat.
“You deal in flour?” I asked. “Why on earth didn’t you clarify?”
“Did you not read the paperwork I gave you?” Carlos asked.
I shrugged, my stomach seeming to take an elevator down a few floors. “I looked at the pictures.”
Carlos held his head in his hand. “It’s flour – twenty million dollars’ worth. Very refined. It’s used for...special purposes. We didn’t steal it from anyone – in fact we deal it to buyers very legally.”
“Who are the buyers?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t be going through the Luzzi Family if they wanted their names known, now would they?”
“I’m confused,” I said.
“Need to know basis. If the Russians assumed it was cocaine, that’s their issue. Do you really think I’d send you out on a drug mission for your first assignment? Drugs are a dangerous business.”
I shrugged.
“So, when I open that bag, it better be flour.”
I thought it best not to tell Carlos right then that I’d baked a million dollar cookie with that flour.
“Oh, it’s flour,” I said. “I guarantee it.”
Carlos took a hesitant peek under the lid. “You’re lucky.”
I gave a nod. I turned and stomped down the hallway full of Family photos, out past the grand entrance hall, and waved at Harold on the way out. I grudgingly had to agree with Carlos. I had been pretty darn lucky these last few days.
I FINALLY CRAWLED INTO bed feeling like my head was empty except for a colony of bees buzzing around in a chaotic mass. My thoughts wouldn’t stop whirring, garish images popping up every now and then of a collapsed Vadim, a blank-eyed Andrey, and a million-dollar-cookie-dough covered Michael waving his gun at me.
I rolled over and begged my mind to consider the large paycheck I’d be receiving shortly from Carlos. I’d be able to buy myself a disastrous amount of s’mores materials, popcorn, a new yellow sweatshirt, and possibly a new car. I sighed. This one-time payment wouldn’t be enough to sustain me forever. Maybe I should try to get back into stripping.
The phone rang and startled me out of my not unpleasant thoughts of exotic dancing and never having to work for the Family again.
I glanced at the machine and saw one of the top five names I wanted nothing to do with right now.
Carlos Luzzi.
My mind fought a brief war over whether I should answer the phone. And then I did what any sane person would do, and I picked up the phone.
Because nobody says no to Carlos.
THE END
Lacey Luzzi: Sparkled
LACEY, CLAY AND MEG are back—this time headed to...a wedding?
Assignment Numero Dos for Lacey comes straight from the Godfather himself. When one of the Luzzi Family’s low-ranking associates turns up dead, Carlos believes it may be the doing of the rival Russian mob, and he orders Lacey to find the killer. But every detail about the assignment is a little too neat, a little too tidy, and a little too good to be true. Could this really be an open and shut case, complete with a confession from the murderer?
When Lacey's pumpkin-colored, body-building cousin Joey starts making trouble at his ex-fiance's wedding—the case starts unraveling from the inside out.
Lacey's not sure what is worse: going face to face with a vicious murderer, ditching Auntie Nora's attempts to fill in the “plus one” on her invite, or finding herself locked in the same hotel as the hot, unavailable, but increasingly drool-worthy Anthony.
Though most family gatherings are challenging, Lacey is afraid that this glittery Family wedding might just kill her.
Chapter 1
“NO!” MY HEAD FELL INTO my hands with a heavy flop. “No-no-no-no-nooooo! This is...no. Just—no.”
Lacey: 0. Life: 1.
I slumped against the front seat of my car. This wasn’t happening. I closed my eyes and briefly wished for the world to end.
Then again, maybe this torture would include a free chicken dinner.
I peeked through my eyelids at the passenger seat of my Chevy Lumina. The toxic-pink invitation spewed glitter all over the upholstery. I thumbed through the letter in disgust, wrinkling my nose at the words “Plus one” scrawled across the front.
With slightly higher spirits, I considered a much happier question:
Please mark one:
__Chicken
__ Pasta
I exhaled. All right, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. I could always use a nice meal. Maybe if I checked yes to a plus one, I could simply bring myself and eat two meals.
“The Love Shack?” I asked the empty car. “Honestly?”
Vivian had to pick a venue for her wedding that featured a glittery pink sign.
Oh—of course—it was in Vegas. Maybe I could get out of going by saying I didn’t have enough money. It wasn’t exactly a lie...
I lifted the card for a closer look. A second batch of pink dust fluttered about, making it extremely difficult to read the writing below the chapel’s address. After a second, it dawned on me that I wasn’t staring at writing, I was looking at scribbles. Vivian had added a note under “The Love Shack.”
“Wedding moved to Lutsen.”
Lutsen, Minnesota.
I groaned, knowing that I wouldn’t get out of a plus one easily—not if the wedding was in my home state. My Family—of the Mafia variety—would see to it that I was fixed up with a nice Italian boy.
Good luck, Grandma, I thought.
I’d been loo
king for a guy that would stick around the morning after, someone who’d maybe even enjoy a nice breakfast burrito and a Nescafe with me, for going on twenty-eight years now. Needless to say I hadn’t had much luck in dating, as evidenced by the fact that the only jewelry on my finger was the occasional ring pop. I doubted my grandma would have any luck finding a handsome, successful man who’d agree to go to a wedding with me—a week from today.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t an altogether terrible catch. I brushed my teeth an average of 1.4 times a day, usually wore mascara when I had a date, and kept to my one donut per diem rate (when I wasn’t PMS-ing). I rarely wore jeans—but when I did, they usually fit over my hips—and as a general rule, my face didn’t break mirrors.
My hair was brown-ish on a bad day, gold-ish on a good day—and though it hung limp in humid weather, once in a blue moon I managed to wrestle it all straight or all curly at the same time. It was a rarity, but not impossible. My eyes were in between brown and green, so I generally went with hazel. Thanks to my heritage, my skin color could pass for tanned. Combined with my completely average height of, say, 5’7’’ if I slouched, 5’9.9’’ if I wore platform sandals, I passed for “decent-looking.”
However, the cons list for dating me was also longer than I’d like to admit.
One con might be that my grandfather was the Don of the St. Paul Italian Mafia. Another might be the fact that I worked for him—and sometimes got into deep doo doo on his assignments. Even this wedding was a con: the invitations were knockoffs and last minute, mostly because my cousin Vivian had broken off an engagement to her on-and-off-again (scuzzy, low-life associate) fiancé and suddenly discovered an interest for old, boring bankers. In fact, she’d probably used the old invitations. Vivian and Joey would’ve ended up getting married at a place called The Love Shack.
However, Vivian and her new fiancé would be getting married at a place called the Lutsen Resort. They’d probably even have expensive napkins and fancy chair covers. Barf.
I mostly thought weddings were fun. Free food, lots of booze, and a dance floor. Except for this wedding.