Dangerous Ladies (18 page)

As he helped her out of the car, Brandi looked around. They were in a working-class neighborhood with two-story brick houses set close to the street. Tall stairs ascended from the sidewalk to the doors. From behind her lace curtains an old woman peered at the limo and at Roberto and Brandi.

“That’s Mrs. Charlton.” Roberto waved cheerfully. Taking Brandi’s arm, he steadied her as she climbed the stairs. “Don’t slip on that patch of ice.”

The elderly man who let them in looked like a caricature of every Italian grandfather ever photographed. Deep wrinkles cut his cheeks and forehead. His thin white hair stood on end and waved in the breeze. His brown eyes twinkled. He was perhaps five-nine and, unlike Roberto, of a slender build.

“Hurry. Come in. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there!” He shut the door behind them, closing them into a dim, narrow foyer with
doors that opened into other rooms and a stairway leading up to the second level. He tossed their coats on a chair. With a broad smile that bared strong white teeth, he turned to his grandson, wrapped him in his arms, and gave him a bear hug.

Heartily, Roberto hugged him back. They kissed cheeks with such affection tears sprang to Brandi’s eyes.

Man, she did need to call her mother. She was lonely for family.

“Who’s this gorgeous creature?” Roberto’s grandfather beamed at her.

Another
gorgeous creature
in a rich Italian accent. She could get used to this.

“This is Miss Brandi Michaels, my attorney.” Roberto sounded proud.

She could get used to that, too.

“Brandi, this is my
nonno
, Sergio Contini.”

“Eh, Brandi. What an intoxicating name!” Mr. Contini threw his arms around her and kissed both her cheeks, too. “What a beautiful woman you are. And so tall! Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Contini.” He smelled of soap and wine, he felt strong and wiry, and his accent was exactly like Roberto’s. She’d bet he had the ladies lining up.

“Call me Nonno.” The phone started ringing, an insistent summons. He ignored it, took her arm, and led her into a parlor decorated with brown brocade drapes, black-and-white photos, and tan lace doilies. “So how did you meet my Roberto?”

“We met at a party”—an understatement—“but we’re working together on his case.” She glanced at the cordless phone beside the gold recliner. It still rang.

Nonno still ignored it. “That’s right; he said you were his attorney.”

“One of his attorneys,” she assured him. “He has a competent team at McGrath and Lindoberth.”

The phone still rang.

“He’s in trouble, my boy.” Nonno glared sternly at Roberto, then broke into a grin. “But he’ll get himself out.”

“Nonno.” Roberto’s voice held a warning.

“No, no. I’m discreet. I say nothing.”

The phone continued its pealing.

Finally Roberto asked, “Nonno, are you going to get that?”

“It’s Mrs. Charlton, the old snoop. She’ll give it another five rings and quit. Thank God it’s cold or she’d be over here to meet our gorgeous little attorney.” Nonno smiled at her. “Sit.” With his hand on her shoulder, he pushed her onto a brown sofa so old the cushions slumped.

Apparently all the men in this family were into “guiding.”

As he predicted, the phone finally stopped its incessant ringing.

“Wine?” He was already pouring three glasses from a cut-glass decanter.

All around her she noted touches of wealth interspersed with a general shabbiness. Cut glass and a slumping couch. A plethora of leather-bound books and an old-fashioned heat register that rattled in an unsteady rhythm. An oil painting by Marc Chagall that could be an original and a matted green shag carpet. The room was comfortable, yet neglected in the way of a place well lived-in and well loved.

Roberto sank down on the other side of the sofa and stretched back as if, for the first time since she’d met him, he could relax.

Nonno handed her the wine, and she noticed his hand. The skin was scarred and the fingers stiff, as if he couldn’t bend them. An accident? Was that why he’d retired?

Nonno waited while she took a sip. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful.” Red, rich, smooth, warming her belly and leaving the taste of blackberries on her tongue. She’d better not drink too much or she’d succumb to her exhaustion right here on the saggy old couch. Like Roberto, the warmth and the comfort of Nonno’s home had already relaxed her.

“Have a cookie.” Nonno passed a plate.

She nibbled on one. The scent of vanilla and the buttery taste of almonds filled her head, intoxicating her with the richness of flavor,
the crumbly texture, the perfection that made her want to take the plate and shove every cookie in her mouth. “That is the most divine thing I’ve ever tasted. Who made them?”

“I did. I’m retired, my wife has passed on, so I keep myself busy.” Obviously pleased, Nonno passed Roberto a glass, took his own wine, and sat in the recliner before the television. He reclined the chair, hooked the heels of his worn boots under the leg rest, and beamed at them. “My boy. He’d be okay in the business. He moves well and has the good hands.” He wiggled the fingers on his good hand, then smiled slyly at her. “You know this?”

She blushed.

“Nonno.” Roberto bent a reproving glare on the old man.

Unfazed, Nonno beamed at the two of them. “Roberto’s too tall, too broad to be one of the really great jewel thieves. We professionals need to be able to hide in small spaces, to slip in and out of bedrooms unseen. But his mother didn’t listen to me when she fell in love, huh?”

“Is the count tall, too?” Amused, she turned to look at Roberto.

He sat absolutely still, his eyes cold, fixed on his grandfather with an intensity that sucked the air from the small room.

Nonno threw up his hand as if warding off a blow. “Roberto, I tell you, I don’t know!”

Still Roberto stared.

And still Nonno spoke. “I don’t. You are my beloved grandson. I would tell you if I did.”

Roberto gave an abrupt nod. “All right. I believe you.”

What had happened? What had she said? Or rather . . . what had Nonno said?

Before her eyes, Roberto returned to his comfortable self. “We ran into the Fosseras today. Mossimo sends his regards.”

“May he burn in hell.” Nonno lifted his glass to Roberto, who returned the salute. Leaning forward with an intensity that caught Brandi by surprise, he asked, “Did you see the ring?”

“He wears it on his little finger.”

“He dares.” Nonno’s mouth tightened.

Brandi remembered the ring Mossimo wore—it had been small, the gold rich and old, but the color of the emerald had been exquisite. Apparently it was the object of some rivalry, and she experienced the sensation of being caught between the proverbial rock and a hard spot. With her parents she had experience standing there, and it was never the best place to be.

“He flaunted the ring at me.” Roberto smiled unpleasantly. “I taught him to be more cautious in the future.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked. “That move with the wrist, I mean.”

“The count is a very wealthy man. My grandfather’s business is stealing jewels.” Roberto sipped his wine. “When I was a boy it was deemed a good idea that I have an elementary knowledge of self-defense.”

She had come to know a little about Roberto’s character, so she said, “How elementary?”

“Smart girl.” Nonno nodded at her. “He has his fourth-degree black belt in jujitsu and a second-degree in karate.”

“Wow.”

“But you, Roberto. You challenged Mossimo?” Nonno leaned his head back against the cushion and looked at his grandson, his dark eyes glittering from beneath drooping lids. “I thought you were going to play the cowering pussy.”

“I found the role was not to my taste.”

Nonno gave a bark of laughter. “You’ve made your task all the more difficult.”

“What is life but one difficulty after another to be overcome?” Roberto extended his hand in a gesture so essentially Italian, Brandi felt as if she’d been transported to the boot itself.

“So true.” Nonno smiled fondly at his grandson. “Sitting on the couch beside you, Brandi, you see my only grandchild, the only child of my only child. We Continis, we steal, but only from the rich.”

Her mouth quirked into an irrepressible smile.

“Yes, yes, it is true! We are the Italian Robin Hoods. We help the poor, we stand for justice, and for generations we are known for our passion for life, our impetuous decisions, our dancing, our drinking, our daring . . . our loving.” He lifted his glass in a salute to his ancestors. “But Roberto was such a solemn little boy, and he grew up to be a somber, responsible man, and I was proud—of course I was proud! But I thought the Contini blood had at last succumbed to civilization. But no. It was only simmering in my boy’s veins, waiting for the right circumstances to transform him into a man as mad and impetuous as the founder of our family, as old Cirocco!”

Brandi’s frustration with Roberto made her sharp and bitter, and exhaustion stripped her tact away. “So he’s a somber, responsible jewel thief? I don’t think so!” Then she bit her tongue. No matter how disappointed Roberto had made her, she had no right to take it out on a pleasant old man who loved his grandson and served her wine and cookies.

“You’ll break my
nonno
’s heart talking that way about our family vocation.” Roberto chuckled indulgently and touched the lobe of her ear with his finger.

She jerked her head away. “Apparently you aren’t very good at your family vocation or you wouldn’t be facing trial.”

Nonno cackled and slapped his knee. “She’s got you there!”

Obviously he was not at all offended, so Brandi warmed to her theme. “You should leave the illegal activity to professionals like Mossimo.”

Nonno stopped laughing. In a reproachful tone he asked, “But Roberto, did you not warn the charming and beautiful Brandi about him?”

“Yes. She says she’ll do what she thinks is right.”

Both men turned to look at her as if she weren’t very bright.

Nonno clicked his tongue in reproval.

“Nonno, I was hoping you would show Brandi your party tricks.”

Nonno considered his grandson, then nodded slowly. “Yes, of
course.” To her he said, “Of course, I’m feeble and not as quick as I used to be. You’ll excuse an old man for his clumsiness, yes?”

Brandi recognized that she was being set up, but what could she do? She had to play along. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stand up.” Nonno got to his feet and, with his hands on her shoulders, guided her to a place by the window. “So. Here you have the best light so you can observe me. You should wear your watch.” He handed her a serviceable, leather-banded Timex.

She stared at it. It looked just like hers.

It
was
hers.

“Put it on,” Nonno said.

“But it was on.” And he’d picked it off her wrist while moving her into place.

Roberto grinned.

“Wow, Nonno.” She buckled the watch on her wrist. “You
are
good.”

“I’m flattered, but you have no one to compare me with, do you? No.” He handed her the ring her mother had given her for graduation.

“How did you do that?” He’d taken it right off her finger!

“Watch the watch,” Roberto advised.

She glanced at her wrist. Her watch was gone.

Nonno handed it to her again. “They’re slippery devils,” he said cheerfully. “Here. You lost your keys.”

They’d been in her jacket pocket.

“And your cell phone.”

In her other pocket.

“Watch the watch,” Roberto said again.

It was gone. Again. Her head was whirling. “How do you do this?” she asked again. She put her cell phone and her keys back into her pockets. She strapped on her watch without much hope that it would stay there.

“It’s nothing,” Nonno said modestly. “You should have seen me before.”

“Before what?”

“Before this.” Nonno lifted his ruined hand and showed it to her, front and back. “It’s my right hand. I’m right-handed. I’m not nearly as good with my left hand.”

“What happened?” she asked.

Nonno’s genial smile disappeared and he looked grim. Outraged. “Mossimo happened.”

“What do you mean, Mossimo happened?” She leaned toward him, frightened and ill, remembering how Roberto had twisted Mossimo’s wrist, not understanding how such a move could create such damage. “How could he . . . ?”

Roberto told her what she didn’t want to know. “He used a ball-peen hammer to break every bone in Nonno’s hand.”

B
randi backed away, away from the image. A hammer, rusted hard steel, smashing again and again on the fragile bones of a man’s hand . . .

“He wanted my business,” Nonno continued. “I didn’t intend to give it to him. But a man in the hospital can no longer lead his team, and a master thief with a hand like this can never work again.”