Dangerous Ladies (16 page)

“Very good. Very clever.” Mossimo was shrewd, so Roberto played the innocent. “But what has this to do with me?”

“You’re an inside man.”

“I haven’t been convicted yet.”

“A technicality.” Mossimo laughed and coughed, then stubbed out his cigarette in his plate. “Your grandfather was the best in the business.”

“Until you took him out of the business,” Roberto said without heat. He had no reason to be angry. Not when revenge was within his grip.

“It was time for a change. Believe me, I hated to push him out. But he was old. He was getting soft. It had to be done. Yet I think”—Mossimo shook his finger at Roberto—“he must have taught you all he knew.”

Roberto sliced a glance at Brandi, talking low and fast, giving Glenn Silverstein the facts and taking no shit. “My lawyer won’t be busy forever. Get to the point.”

“For this job, I want you to be my inside man.”

Roberto laughed loudly enough to make Brandi pull the phone away from her ear and stare.

Mossimo was unfazed. “It wouldn’t be so bad, would it, to get a slice of that diamond?”

“I don’t need the money.” Roberto kept an eye on Brandi.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hot, and she was snapping into the phone.

“You’re a count. A really important man in Italy.”

“In a few other places, too.” Roberto realized he was enjoying himself.

“Yeah. In a few other places, too.” Mossimo bared his yellow-stained teeth in what passed for a smile. “You never need the money, but you’re stealing stones all over Europe and Asia. For a man like you, it’s the challenge. The thrill. And think about it—taking down an important museum. You’ll be famous among our kind.”

Roberto toyed with the idea of denying he was one of their kind. But he didn’t want to make Mossimo so mad he lost his temper. Roberto had seen the results of that. So he said, “I’ll be dead. The security for that diamond is state-of-the-art. I’ll be fried before I go two inches.”

“You’ve looked it over.”

Roberto shrugged noncommittally.

“So . . . it’s a job that’s going to get done with or without you.” Mossimo talked faster as Brandi finished her conversation.

“Without me. I’m already going up on trial. Only a fool would do another job now.”

“A fool with a grandfather.”

“Ah. So that’s it.” Did Mossimo really think Roberto would fail to protect his own grandfather?

But Mossimo knew how Roberto’s mind worked. “He’s old. He’s not leaving his house or his neighborhood, and he’s not going to let you put a guard on him. If you don’t cooperate, sooner or later we’ll get him.”

The waitress headed toward the table with their food.

“Sooner or later, Mossimo, someone’s going to get pissed and take you out.” Roberto’s voice was so reflective it took a few minutes before the other Fosseras realized what he’d said.

Ricky and Danny stood up so violently their chairs hit the wall.

The waitress veered off and caught Brandi by the arm as she started toward them.

“Calmly. Calmly.” Mossimo waved his men back into their seats. “There’s no reason for threats. We’re all friends here. We can work this out.”

The stick and then kindness. Mossimo’s grip on Chicago’s lucrative jewel-robbery franchise was slipping, and he was desperate enough to try anything, no matter how risky, to keep control. Just as Roberto had hoped.

“We go way back, our families do. In Bernina for centuries the Fosseras and the Continis robbed together.” Mossimo intertwined his fingers and showed Roberto. “A joining now is tradition.”

“Not quite.” Roberto put his hand palm down on the table. “The Fosseras don’t know shit about being in charge.”

Ricky and Danny stood up again.

So did Roberto. He placed his other palm on the table and leaned toward Mossimo. “Like having two of your guys follow me. That’s stupid, and I want it to stop.”

“I don’t have my men following you.” Mossimo managed to fake astonishment.

Before anyone saw him move, Roberto grabbed Mossimo’s wrist and twisted it sideways. “Get them off my tail.”

A collective growl rose from the Fosseras.

Cold metal touched Roberto’s neck.

He let his gaze linger on the ring that decorated Mossimo’s little finger. It was old, so old the design in the gold setting had worn off. The stone set into it, a flawed emerald with perfect deep green color, was not cut, but rounded and polished. That ring . . .

He hadn’t wanted to seem eager to accept the job, but he hadn’t expected the violent upsurge of emotion he experienced at the sight of his grandfather’s ring. He wanted to wring Mossimo’s neck. Instead he’d gone for his wrist. Without looking around, Roberto said, “Tell that son of a bitch to take that pistol off me or the doctors will have to cut the ring off your broken finger. It would be justice, yes?”

Mossimo’s round face grew damp with pain and sweat. “Put the gun away.
Diavolo,
Danny, put it away before the cops see you. We don’t need this kind of exposure!”

From the corner of his eye, Roberto saw Danny slide the gun under his shirt.
Yes.
“Now, Mossimo—get those men off my tail.”

“I don’t have men on your tail. You want me to take out whoever it is? I can do that.” Mossimo was in real pain, so maybe he was telling the truth.

And maybe he was a lying sack of shit.

Roberto looked into Mossimo’s mean little eyes, challenging him, letting him know that he had threatened an adversary to be respected.
“I am so sorry for the unfair accusation. I should have known you, an old friend of the family, would not stoop to so dishonorable a practice.” He released him. “So I’ll take care of those two men.”

“I can help you,” Mossimo said.

“No help needed.” Roberto smiled with all his teeth, and turned to Brandi.

She had hung up her phone, and now stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.

Well, of course. She’d thought he was a dilettante, an Italian count with light fingers, not a man capable of serving a generous helping of violence.

He tossed her her coat. “Put that on,” he ordered.

She did, and her fingers were trembling as she belted it around her waist.

He gave the hovering waitress a tip, told her, “Put those kielbasas in bags,” and said to Mossimo, “Thanks for the lunch.”

“What about the job?” Mossimo sat nursing his wrist, and he’d lost that fake geniality. He looked like what he was—a mean, petty thief without skill or finesse.

“I’ll be in touch.”

R
oberto caught Brandi’s arm gently but firmly and shoved her toward the door.

She was torn. She wanted to unequivocally state that she didn’t appreciate being pushed around. At the same time she wanted out of that restaurant before someone got hurt. Like her. Or Roberto. “What was that all about?” she whispered.

“A disagreement about who would pay for the meal.” Roberto grabbed the lunch sacks from the waitress.

“Do guns always come out when you guys disagree?” She glanced behind her. Everyone at the Fossera table was on their feet, watching with narrowed eyes as she and Roberto strode for the door.

She faced forward again, the skin between her shoulder blades itching. Or maybe the sensation was cold sweat trickling down her spine.

“How did the conversation go with McGrath and Lindoberth?” Roberto asked conversationally.

“The conversation with . . . Oh! With Glenn Silverstein.” How could Roberto sound so normal when bullets could right now be winging their way toward them? “He wants me to check in every two hours.”

Roberto shouldered his way outside. “Does he? What does he think that’s going to accomplish?”

“That it’s going to be a pain in my rear, which I believe is his goal.” The cold air felt good after the stifling atmosphere—or maybe that was just relief. She took a long breath.

The car was nowhere in sight.

“Now where are we going to walk?” she asked sarcastically.

Roberto flipped open his phone and said, “Newby, we’re ready.”

She sidled away from the restaurant windows. Guns. Those people had had guns. Her father had a hunting rifle. Other than that, her whole experience with guns was watching Steven Seagal movies with Alan, and that only under protest. She knew she was naive, but she’d never seen a pistol used to threaten someone. Someone she knew. Someone like Roberto.

She glanced sideways at him.

Yet he looked unfazed, and she realized that during that whole scene, he’d exuded authority. Those men could have beaten him up, could have killed him, yet he’d been the one who had been in control of the situation.

Who
was
he? A jewel thief? A gangster? Or just a count?

He walked her to the entrance of the next building. Pushing her against the wall out of the wind, he handed her the bags. “Stay here.” And he took off running—running like a man competing in a track meet instead of an Italian count/jewel thief in business clothes.

More to the point, those two guys who’d followed them from the courthouse were loitering at the corner, and when they saw Roberto flying toward them, they ran, too. Ran like they were guilty of something.

Roberto skidded around the corner.

He was out of sight.

Shit.
She’d lost him already!

Brandi ran, too. The wind took her breath away. Her heart pounded with the cold, the activity, the fear he’d escaped her custody.

She rounded the corner. Roberto and the two men were nowhere
in sight. She stared, feeling helpless and foolish . . . and alarmed for Roberto’s safety.

Why? Why should she be worried about him? She should be worried about herself having to go back to Judge Knight and admit she’d lost Roberto Bartolini. McGrath and Lindoberth wouldn’t be any too happy, either.

But she was worried that Roberto had gotten himself into trouble. Into
more
trouble. That he’d be hurt.

She was such a fool. She’d been clueless about Alan. She didn’t know what was wrong between Roberto and the Fosseras. And Roberto . . . every time she thought she got a handle on his personality, he changed it.

Worse than any of that . . . mixed into her distress was the knowledge that the kielbasas smelled incredibly good.

How could she be thinking of food at a time like this?

Obviously the only thing she was good at was eating.

And, um, sex.
She knew she was good at that. At one point over the weekend she’d reduced Roberto to begging.

She walked farther down the street, trying to keep warm, searching for him, hoping . . .

He came back around the corner at a run. “What are you doing here?” Again he grabbed her by the arm. He hustled her back to the corner. As Newby pulled up in the limo, Roberto shoved her toward the car.

“Would you stop pushing me?” She tried to shove back.

“I’m guiding you.” He didn’t wait for Newby to come around and open the door. He did it himself and “guided” her inside. He dropped into the seat beside her, shut the door, and Newby took off, all in one smooth motion. “Damn it, Brandi, I told you to stay put.”

“I’m lousy at following directions.” And sick and tired of being told what to do, shoved around, and generally made a scapegoat.

There must have been something about the set of her mouth that warned him he was in danger, for he said only, “Hm. Yes. I’ll remember
that.” He took the sack out of her hand. “Good girl. You’ve still got the dogs.”

“I’m glad I can do something right. I can’t walk by myself, I get reamed out by Glenn for not keeping you ‘under control’”—she made quotation marks with her fingers—“those men don’t believe I’m a lawyer, I sl—” She shut her mouth. She must be tired. She’d almost referred to their weekend together, a topic of conversation she preferred not to pursue.

“You get peevish when you’re hungry,” he observed.

“I do not.” Although the odor of the sausage, the onions, the sauerkraut was almost unbearably seductive, and that, coupled with her relief at being safe, at having Roberto safe, resulted in a huge belly growl.

Pulling a tray out of a hidden compartment in the side of the limo, he placed it on her lap. He ripped open the bag and handed her one of the warm, wrapped dogs. “Here, eat.”

“Look. You have to tell me what’s going on.” She unwrapped the kielbasa with fingers that shook. “Who were those men?”

“The ones in the restaurant or the ones I was chasing?”

“The ones you were chasing.”

“I don’t know. I want to talk to them so I can find out why they keep showing up where we are.”

She had to admire his skills in answering an interrogation. He didn’t give away any more than he had to. “Do they have guns, too?” Then she bit into the kielbasa. She lost her train of thought. “That is so
good,
” she said through a mouthful.