Oxblood (11 page)

“Because no guy really believes that,” I said plainly.
Except my dad
, I thought to myself. But I'd come to understand that the way my dad treated my mom was an anomaly. I'd never seen another man treat a woman that way.

“I'm sorry to hear you say that. Perhaps I'll be able to change your mind.” Ian rested his arm along the back of the couch and took a lock of my hair between his fingers. His eyes darted between mine as if he were searching for something, and he wet his lips.

I was certain he could hear my heart beating like a drum inside my chest. Just as Ian rested his other hand on my leg just above my knee, there was a knock at the door.

Ian stood abruptly. “That must be the food.”

I leaned back and took a few deep breaths while he answered the door. Thank God for room service. No matter how badly I'd wanted to kiss Ian, I couldn't lose focus on finding Gil. Besides, as soon as we found him, I'd be returning to Miami.

I pushed the coffee table forward and sat on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked as he pushed a cart into the room.

At first, I didn't know what he was talking about, but then I remembered that not everyone sat on the floor to eat. “Oh, just habit. My mom had this rule about not eating on the couch. The only way we were allowed to eat in the living room is if we sat on the floor. Gil and I still do it at home.”

“The floor it is, then.” Ian smiled.

I looked at the plate Ian set in front of me. Before I could ask, he answered my puzzled expression.

“They had fries, but the closest thing I could get to a burger was Millefoglie di angus. It's beef in a puff pastry,” he explained.

“At this point, food is food.”

We ate in silence until there wasn't a morsel of food left on either of our plates.

“You should get some sleep,” Ian finally said. “I'm going to need you alert when we go through the journal.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty tired. Actually,
tired
doesn't even begin to describe it.” I stood up and my whole body screamed at me. “Owww!”

“Are you all right?” he said, jumping to his feet.

I rubbed my neck in a vain effort to bring some relief. “I'll be fine. Nothing a hot shower and a cozy bed won't fix.”

Ian moved my hand and replaced it with his, massaging my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes and let him work out the knots.

“You know,” I said, not opening my eyes, not quite trusting myself, “you could use some shut-eye, too.”

“I'll grab the extra blanket and lie on the couch,” he said.

“You're at least six feet tall, Ian. There's no way you'll get any sleep on this tiny couch. Why don't you just sleep in the bed . . . with me?” My own suggestion made me blush.

“Victoria . . .”

“We're two grown people who can handle crashing in the same bed.” I looked him square in the eyes, trying to convince both of us that what had almost happened would never happen again.

Ian sighed. “I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable earlier,” he said apologetically.

“You didn't make me uncomfortable,” I said. “Really.”

“Well, in that case. I am six foot one, so yes, this couch would be tricky. I'm sure we'll both get a great rest and be ready to dive into the journal with clear eyes.”

I showered and changed in the bathroom, and then tucked myself into bed while Ian showered and put on fresh clothes, too. It was eight o'clock. I don't think I had gone to bed at eight o'clock since I was ten years old.

Ian came out of the bathroom and stirred around for a minute before climbing into bed. He left the sheet down and covered his body with just the blanket, forming a barrier. Then he turned on his side, facing away from me.

I opened my eyes and stared at the back of his head, his neck, his shoulders. I didn't want to be distracted by Ian, but I was. My head swirled with thoughts of how it would feel to kiss him, his arms wrapped around my waist, his hands in my hair. My body trembled remembering the grip of his hand on my side. I wanted to know how that grip felt everywhere else, too. Would he be gentle or would he take command of my body, the way he did with everything else? I closed my eyes, relishing the fantasy. I lifted my hand and inched it closer to him, daring myself to touch the smooth skin of his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Victoria,” Ian said without turning.

I pulled my hand back and turned over. My face burned with embarrassment. Had he read my mind? Was he thinking the same thing I was? It didn't matter. Like the knock at the door, his voice had come at the perfect time, reminding me where I needed to be. I moved closer to my side of the bed and closed my eyes.

“Thank you, Ian.”

Chapter 10

I woke up to the aromas of a hot breakfast. It smelled like my last morning with Tiffany, and I smiled. Light was forcing its way through the gap in the curtains, casting a single beaming line down the bedroom.

I stretched and turned toward Ian's side and noticed that he and his pillow were missing. I peeked over the edge and saw a crumpled pile of pillows and blankets on the floor.

“What time is it?” I asked as I entered the living room.

“It's seven. I was just about to come get you,” Ian answered. He was sitting on the couch in the sweatpants he wore to bed last night and an undershirt.

“You didn't sleep in the bed,” I said.

“No.”

“The whole point was for you to have a comfortable, good night's sleep.”

“We met three days ago,” he said gently. “I'm not in the habit of sharing a bed with a woman I just met. I was fine. How did you sleep?”

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It was kind of nice, actually.

“I slept like a rock,” I answered. “You got food!”

“I hope it's okay. Pretty basic American breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, coffee.”

“Wow. This is great, Ian. Thank you.” I smiled sleepily and poured myself a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Speaking of—”

“Breakfast?” he interrupted, smiling then taking a sip of his coffee.

“Not quite. You're British, but you don't act like a Brit. What's up with that?” I folded over a piece of bacon and put the whole thing in my mouth.

“What, exactly, is your point of reference for how I'm
supposed
to act?” he asked.

“Movies and TV, what else?” I snickered and gave a crooked smile.

“Oh, well that's reliable,” he laughed. “You want me to talk about tea and crumpets, and say things like ‘cheerio' and ‘Bob's your uncle'?” he laughed.

I laughed with him. “I guess I just got thinking that you speak much more like an American than you do an Englishman. I mean, you've got the accent and all, but—”

“I've spent a lot of time all around the world. I learned how to adapt. When I'm in London, I fall back into using English—true English—terms pretty easily. If it'll make me look more authentic, I'll throw a
bollocks
in here and there. How's that?”

“Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks!” We chuckled and finished eating. Ian put our dirty dishes back on the cart and wheeled it outside to the hall to be picked up later.

“So,” Ian started. “
Oxblood
. Care to elaborate?”

“Yeah,” I began. “It's a color. Our mom was an artist. She believed wholeheartedly in colors being the best way to describe feelings and emotions. When Gil and I were kids and fighting, she would intervene and make us say things like, ‘When you took my toy, you made me feel gray.' We thought it was dumb and refused to do it after a while, like when we were teenagers. After they died and I went into foster care, we started it back up as a way to let me speak honestly to Gil. My foster parents weren't too keen on me dogging about my living conditions or talking about my feelings. So when Gil and I would talk on the phone, I could tell him exactly how I felt without getting in trouble.”

“That's really beautiful,” Ian commented softly. “And so
oxblood
must mean something serious.”

“Yes. My mother always said the color felt dark and menacing to her. She only used it when she was painting someone who was troubled. It was the word we used to communicate that something was seriously wrong.”

“Well, it's clear you and your brother have a special relationship.” Ian gave a small, tight-lipped smile and a determined nod. “Have you read the journal yet?” He opened the journal and flipped through the pages.

“Not entirely. I got about three quarters of the way through on the plane when I gave up. Now I can only assume that Gil was mapping something out. His moves with the crime family, maybe?” I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table.

“There has to be more to it than that,” Ian mused. “He had been meeting with me and filling me in on his findings. He must have put something in the journal that he couldn't tell me in person.”

“Explain to me the theory here. Gil made a connection to a larger mob family? Did he do this before or after he got here?” I asked.

“I don't know what he knew before he got here. We'd already identified some mob families that are becoming involved in more dangerous, violent activity.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “I thought the mob was synonymous with danger.”

“Where your traditional mob families are about give and take—with a focus on the take—they usually don't go much farther than the customary beat the living daylights out of you and toss you in a trunk so you come to your senses and find a way to pay up. If you don't come up with a way to repay your debt, it's neat, clean. They might cut off a finger or two. But you're alive. The more aggressive families tie you to a chair and torture you for a few days, and then you get two in the back of your head before they dump you off a boat in the closest sea. These new families though . . . They're even worse.” Ian shook his head.

“What's worse than being tortured and getting two in the back of your head?”

“Having it all done in front of your wife and child. And knowing that if they don't kill your family, they'll spend the rest of their lives being trafficked.”

“Oh my God!” My stomach churned at the thought. The parents trying to tell their kids to look away, that everything would be okay, then boom.

“I'm sorry. I was too blunt there. I should have—”

“It's fine, Ian,” I said, lifting my head. “So why do you think those families are becoming more violent?”

“That's our current problem. We're working on infiltrating one of those organizations, but it's taking longer than I'd like. There's no way for us to know what's changed in their business without having eyes on the inside.”

“And that's what Gil was: your eyes,” I said.

“Yes and no. We started out watching the Cappola family's import-export activity. But the last time I met with him, Gil said they had asked if he was able to work out some immigration papers for a friend. That was the same day he heard them mention Paolo,” Ian said. He sat forward and took a long sip of what I was sure was lukewarm coffee at best.

“You think Gil's journal will connect the dots to Paolo, and then to this mystery person?” I asked. “Which will also lead us to Gil?”

“I don't know,” Ian admitted. “In the journal, does Gil mention going anywhere out of Florida?”

I shook my head. “Not that I saw, but I didn't read the whole thing.”

“Well, that means, if we have the code right, everything that happened, happened in Italy. But Paolo's activity spans the globe.” Ian handed me the journal and I took it from him, moving from the floor to the couch.

“I guess we should just start at the beginning. None of it makes sense to me anyway. The only way we're going to decipher Gil's message here is by working together,” I said.

Ian straightened on the couch, steeling himself. “Right. Let's get to work then.”

First, we sized up the maps again so we could figure out
where
Gil was talking about. Gil had been all over the place: Genoa, Rome, Venice. Then we had to break down Gil's stories to decode all the people he had been in contact with.

“Shouldn't we flip to the back? I mean, it seems like Paolo would have been one of the last people Gil came in contact with, right?”

“A month ago he overheard the Cappola family mention Paolo, but we have no idea of the time frame in the journal. We need to figure out who each and every person is because any one of them could be Paolo—or the person Paolo is working for. Once we can confirm the identity of the first person, we can go through the rest of the figures and places, widening the circle.”

I was already getting antsy. I had been in Italy for almost five days and it felt like I was still no closer to finding Gil. I realized now it had been naive of me to think that I'd have any answers so quickly.

“We'll find him, Victoria. It's going to take some time, but our chances greatly improved the moment you revealed his journal.” Ian covered my hand with his. “Be glad. The journal keeps my team on task and gets us closer to finding Gil at the same time.”

“Okay,” I said, readying myself. “Along with physical descriptions, I need to think of other traits. Jobs, hobbies, quirks even. Right?”

“Excellent! And since it looks like Gil hasn't been outside of Italy, we can narrow it down to organizations based here,” Ian added.

“That still sounds pretty overwhelming, Ian.” I dropped my head and Ian lifted it with his palm.

“It's not as overwhelming as it sounds. Across the country, there are ten major crime families. He was most likely brought here by a lower-level family, but I don't believe that the mob families from the smaller villages have the manpower, money, or interest into the higher-level stuff we're looking into, so we can rule them out.”

With that, Ian pulled up his file of pictures and nodded at me. With my mouth set in a thin line, I picked the journal back up and turned to the next page.

I stood and walked around the small living room and read the passage about our great-uncle Ricky, the dinner party, and the cut of meat he couldn't get from the butcher, who then ended up dead. I described Ricky in all his glory as a linebacker of a man with a weakness for my mother's profiteroles and a well-glazed honey-baked ham. I read about the fight over the shelter at the beach on the Fourth of July and about my cousin Mickey jumping in. I described Mickey as a short and stocky guy with movie-star good looks but a glandular problem that made him sweat like a horse.

Ian typed away at his laptop, and I watched the right side of the screen flip through headshots with milliseconds between each one.

“Does your great-uncle Ricky look like this?” Ian asked. I bent down and put my face closer to the screen. The match was uncanny.

“It's kind of scary how much they look alike,” I said.

Ian typed something else and another picture popped up. “What about him? Does he resemble your cousin Mickey?”

“No,” I said immediately. “Mickey is a good-looking guy. This guy would make me cross the street.”

“Doesn't matter. These are our two guys. Based on your physical description, we can safely say that Ricky is Antonio CancioBello. And thanks to your added comment about Mickey's sweating issue, we can rule out Antonio's other two sons and point the finger at Giorgio as our next match.”

“Really?” I smiled a little at having accomplished one small step in this process. We were just a few pages in, but I was feeling hopeful.

“Really,” Ian smiled back.

“So who are these guys? Are they lower level like you thought?” I asked.

“Not as low as I had initially thought. Gil clearly skipped them and went straight for the meat. The CancioBellos are your typical mob family. They staked their claim on a small area of Genoa and shake down the business owners there for ‘protection.' They use their businesses for money laundering and as fronts for whatever they're bringing in or sending out.”

“So they're not dangerous?” I held my breath while I waited for Ian to answer.

“Not any more than your run-of-the-mill mobster,” he smiled.

I moved on to the next entry. More strange family members and gruesome endings. As we continued, it got more complicated. Not everyone had a physical doppelgänger, and I had to think harder about small traits like how people walked or talked. I finally remembered that my mom's friend Mary Jane had a weird twitch in her left eye every time she drank too much wine—a trait shared by her Italian counterpart, the wife of Rinaldo Fidorro.

Gil even used Sam from the diner. Fortunately, his counterpart is a nice old man who owns a bakery. Unfortunately, the bakery is constantly being shaken down by a mob from Rome. But it was brilliant of Gil to focus on him so that Ian could identify his location and, subsequently, the family who had staked claim in a part of Rome.

We had been at it for a while and weren't as far along as I had hoped. We hadn't identified anyone as the Cappolas yet but did find seven of the ten major crime families. The bad news was of those seven, three of their leaders were recently found dead.

“This is better than you think,” Ian said reassuringly. I raised my eyebrows, asking him how. “Knowing who
isn't
in play is just as important as knowing who is. And based on the information that I already have, none of the families left have strong enough ties with Paolo that Gil would go back.”

“If you say so.”

I pressed on.

“Oh, this is about Leo, my dad's best friend.” I was reading a passage about a guy who played poker in a bar with unsavory characters. “My dad had a regular poker night and Leo was there for every game. Gil and I used to refer to him as ‘Uncle Creepy.' He didn't have any respect for anyone's personal space, if you know what I mean. And, eww!” I winced and made a face as I recalled a specific physical trait of Leo's. “He had this gross mole with hair growing out of it, right on the side of his face.”

“Did he look a little something like this?” Ian entered something into the laptop and turned it to show me a picture of a tall, beefy man with greased-back hair and an unsightly hairy mole on the side of his neck. I wrinkled my nose and nodded.

“Lenny Scarpone.” Ian's face twisted in worry.

“What's wrong with Lenny Scarpone? Is he a higher-level guy we should be concerned about?” I asked.

“His father, Leo, is not a high-level anything. The Scarpones have been running into some trouble getting certain products into the States. Someone like Gil, who knows about US customs laws, would be a good asset.”