Summer Kisses (177 page)

“Now Angelo’s talking,” Frankie went on to explain. “He says, ‘You want him dead or alive?’ And Carlo answers, ‘Alive for now. There is much I want to tell him first.’”

Dave set his coffee cup down and peeked over Frankie’s shoulder. “Do they ever say who they’re talking about?” Dave asked, though he knew the chances were slim. Carlo’s guys were always careful, even when they thought they were safe. “Damn, I’d love to catch him in a slip.”

“Afraid not this time. There’s no mention who they’re talking about, but I have a feeling they’re onto Sandro.”

Frankie’s softly-spoken words rang ominously in the suddenly quiet office.

A burning lump which had nothing to do with the coffee he’d ingested settled in Dave’s stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, Carlo goes on to say nobody ever sets him up and lives to–”

“Shit!” Dave sorted through the information, couldn’t deny the facts. “You’re right. He
has
to be talking about Sandro.” From all they knew, it couldn’t be anyone else. How could Carlo have found out? They had been so careful when Sandro offered them his help after Carlo had found Sandro’s family-owned restaurant in Little Italy an irresistible place to launder money.

“Damn, that bastard’s slick. Gregg, call Sandro’s house,” Dave ordered.

Greggorio obligingly picked up the phone. “He’s probably already left for practice.” He punched in the numbers, waited a few moments. “No answer.”

A new panic hit Dave. Sandro’s wife. “Where’s Nia? Why isn’t she picking up the phone?” Dave had known Nia longer than he’d known Sandro. Since she was in diapers, to be exact. They’d grown up next door to each other in Dallas. Now, in a strange twist of fate, they both lived in New York with Nia married to someone else instead of him.

Life was indeed ironic.

“Doesn’t she take the kid to the park most mornings?” Gregg asked.

The park. The knot in Dave’s stomach eased enough so he could breathe again. “You’re right, she does. Maybe she’s there.” Even though it was unlikely since a cold front was fast moving in. But he didn’t want to think something had happened to Nia, there was some innocuous reason she wasn’t answering the phone.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” Gregg added. “Frankie said Carlo didn’t want Sandro picked up at home anyway. Wasn’t any mention of bothering Nia, was there?”

“Yeah, right. It only sounded like he’s after Sandro. At least for now.”

Dave scanned the room. Somebody had betrayed them. No other explanation. He stiffened with the realization, clenched his teeth so hard he could feel his neck muscles tighten, ready to snap.

Who? One of his men? It had happened before to other teams. Dave looked again at each man, judging, questioning, until at last he mentally gave himself a shake, drew in a breath. No, it couldn’t be. He trusted these men with his life. And they each knew the life and death importance of keeping information tightly guarded.

But someone had talked. Who? Marisa? Why would she talk? Had someone known she liked to show up at midnight for meetings and figured out her code name?

For Marisa to betray them would make no sense. They might joke about her, but Dave knew the woman was not only highly intelligent, she had street smarts. And she had seemed sincere in wanting to rat on her father, wanting out of a life of crime. Though she had never admitted to her main motivation, Dave suspected she had her own score to settle.

Had he been wrong about her?

Had it really been a set-up from the beginning?

He wouldn’t get any answers here. “I’m going to the soccer field to look for Sandro. Steve, you and Tony follow as back-up. Frankie, you learn anything else from that tape, you call me yesterday.”

Dave hoped to God he wasn’t too late.

One moment. Your whole life could change in one moment.

At the defining moment, Sandro Crocetti thought he’d made the right decision. But it had been wrong. It had forced this latest, more drastic decision.

“Did she believe you?” Marisa asked as she steered the BMW sedan away from the house.

“
Si
.” He leaned against the cool glass window, sick inside at what he’d done.
Forgive me, Nia, amore mio
. “
Si
, she believed me.” He shook his head. “
Porca miseria
.”

“You did what you had to do. It is for the best.”

“This does not make it easier.” He turned to Marisa, a picture of confidence in her black designer suit, not a long dark hair out of place, the scent of designer perfume softly surrounding her. She was a beautiful woman, but she seemed so much harder now than when he’d known her in Italy. “I hope this isn’t another mistake.”

“There was no other choice.”

Sandro knew Marisa never second-guessed her decisions, and normally he wouldn’t either. But the stakes had never been this high.

Marisa glanced at him. “Will she leave?”

“I don’t know. I believe so. I hope so.” Fear and doubt sucked at his soul, made him feel as if he were directionless in a deep, dark fog.

“If she doesn’t leave, I don’t think she will be in danger.” Her words offered no more than a hollow hope.

“I hope you are right.”

Marisa’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “My father doesn’t make a habit of harming women or children.”

She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “But he has,” Sandro argued. “I know this. You know this. Carlo could easily decide they need to die.”

The ring tones
Lost Without Your Love
played out loudly. Marisa checked the caller ID. “It’s Agent Armstrong. Do you want me to answer?”

“Dave.” Sandro spat out the name and followed with a long string of obscenities in Italian.

“I’ll take that as a no.” She shut off the phone and laid it down. “I think we can trust this Agent Armstrong. You sent me to him in the first place.”

“Bah! A mistake! It is because of him and his stupid FBI that I have a contract now on my head. If not for you, I could be dead. What I’d like to do to his man who sold me out–”

She took a hand away from the steering wheel and patted his arm. Her display of kindness stopped his outburst.

“You are sure you want to continue?” she asked.

“As you said, there is no other choice.” No other choice if he wanted to live. No other choice if he wanted to keep his family safe. For too many years Carlo had controlled Sandro’s life. Giving in hadn’t helped. Running hadn’t helped. It was time to stand and fight.

If only he could have kissed Nia once more. If only he could have held his son.

His heart stung with a mixture of anger and emptiness.

He turned to stare out the window at the houses they passed as Marisa, a skillful driver, pressed the stolen black BMW as fast as she could, expertly navigating the crowded, early-morning streets. He knew the New York suburban commuter traffic was no challenge compared to her native
Napoli
where the roads were as wide as a sidewalk, and all Italian drivers imagined they were a Formula One race car driver.

She’d almost gotten them to the city.

After minutes of sullen silence, he drew a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and turned back to Marisa. “I will kill your father, you know.”

“
Si.
” Her lips pinched together, her eyes narrowed. “It is for the best.”

Hugging herself against the chill in the air, feeling an even deeper chill seeping through her veins, Nia Crocetti watched the black BMW drive away. When she could no longer see it, she still stared, the image of her husband with another woman seared into her brain.

He’d left her. Sandro, the love of her life. With another woman. The picture replayed itself in her mind. A woman sitting behind the steering wheel, with dark hair and sunglasses, showing no more than her profile. But then Sandro had gotten into the car and the woman had leaned over to kiss him. . . .

Nia’s stomach spun, threatening to make her sick; her chest squeezed and contracted so hard it hurt to breathe. She hadn’t seen it coming. There had been no hint, no warning. She reached into her memory for signs she might have missed. Barely noticing the cold wind stinging her face, she staggered back inside, shut the door, and collapsed.

Her marriage was over. Just like that. Nia fought to retain control over her emotions, part of her refusing to believe what she’d seen. Her throat clogged with choked back tears, her eyes ached. She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes, wiped an escaping tear. She wouldn’t cry. She was a trained athlete. She knew how to control pain. But it was damned hard.

What about their son, what would she tell him? And the pregnancy test she’d taken earlier this morning . . . Sandro hadn’t known. She hadn’t been able to tell him before he left.

Her gaze darted about the room. Her home. Their home. She loved every inch.

Drawn as if by a magnet, she moved to their wedding picture. She and Sandro looked so happy, so in love. Her white dress contrasted with her tanned skin and dark hair. Having done many commercials and photo shoots for the national team’s various soccer sponsors, she knew she was an attractive woman. But on her wedding day, she had felt truly beautiful, like a princess. And her husband was the gorgeous prince with his formal black tuxedo, olive skin dark from the sun, curly brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes. Nia lovingly traced the frame, the metal cool under her fingers.

She smashed it to the marble floor. The shattering glass echoed in the room, the scattered pieces resembling her broken heart.

Shaking, she sank to her knees. Hiding her face in her hands, needing to escape reality, if just for a moment, she remembered. How crazy in love she had been, what a wonderful life she and Sandro had planned together, what a wonderful life they
had
. But he’d found someone else, and had no more use for her. How had it happened?

“Momma?” The little voice came from the top of the stairs.

Wiping stray tears and unanswered questions aside, she squared her shoulders and forced herself to her feet. She had decisions to make. But they would have to wait.

“Momma?”

“Coming,
amore mio
. Momma’s coming.”

She walked up the staircase. Daniele, a little miniature of his father with soft curly hair, stood behind the gate. At two years old, he was still too small to manage all the steps. She opened the gate, picked him up, snuggled against his fuzzy pajamas. He was still warm from sleep.

“My sweet
bambino
.”

The doorbell stopped her soft, mothering sounds.
Sandro!
was her first thought.

Stupid. He wouldn’t ring the doorbell. But who would this early in the morning?

She went down the stairs, carrying Daniele. At the bottom, she stopped before a mirror, briefly fingering her hair straight and wiping away the last traces of tears, though her eyes were still red. No help for it.

A chilly blast of air hit her when she opened the door. A huge man in an expensive black suit stood on her porch.

“
Buon giorno, signora.
I am looking for Sandro.” He had a heavy accent, but he seemed pleasant enough in spite of his intimidating size.

Still, he was a stranger. Her alert system kicked in. She hugged her son protectively against her chest. “He isn’t here.”

“He is not at the soccer field either.”

“Who are you?” Whoever he was, he knew where Sandro was supposed to be.

“I am only an old
family
friend.”

She couldn’t miss the emphasis he placed on the word family, and for some reason her heart skipped a beat. Studying him, she decided he looked familiar. Perhaps she’d seen him at the restaurant? “You’ve come at a bad time. He’s gone.”

“When do you expect him?”

At that moment her phone rang in the background. First the door, now the phone. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She adjusted her son on her hip. “Never.”

“
Scusi
?”

She shook her head. Why had she said that to a complete stranger? Shock, possibly. “He’s gone,” she repeated, struggling to collect her thoughts, which were bouncing around more than a soccer ball in a group of five-year-olds.

“I don’t know when he’ll be back,” she corrected herself.

“This is most tragic,” he muttered, whispering Italian under his breath.

Her interest sharpened. “Can I help you?”

“No, no,
signora
. It is a. . .private concern.”

She wanted to question him more, but her instincts suggested it would be wiser if she didn’t. “I’m sorry I can’t help. It’s cold.” She nodded toward her son. “You’ll understand I don’t feel like chatting.” She closed the door and squeezed Daniele closer to her.

Never still for long, Daniele squirmed to get out of her arms. Reluctantly, she kissed him and set him down. He moved toward the ruined picture on the floor. She had forgotten.

“It’s broken, Momma.” He bent down.

She snatched him up before he clutched a shard of glass. “Yes, it’s broken,
caro
. Momma dropped it.” She pulled out a small box of toys and sat him down to play away from the broken picture. “Be good while I clean up the mess.”

Mess, was right, she thought, sniffing, still fighting not to give in to a disastrous crying jag. Suddenly her life was one big mess.

It hit her as she swept up the last of the glass. She
had
seen that man before at the restaurant. He was in the company of known crime boss, Carlo Peruzzo. It was a repugnant thing, the mob frequenting their family-owned restaurant, but what could they do? The restaurant was in Little Italy, and mob guys were known to be Italian. They paid for their food with money like—

Wait! The woman with Sandro! Nia only saw her profile, but the woman did resemble Carlo’s daughter . . . Marisa, was her name.

Was that why the big Italian came to her door? Because her husband was having an affair with Carlo’s daughter? Would Carlo be trying to hunt Sandro down over something like that? Or was she getting hysterical?

Dumping the idea away the same as she dumped the broken glass in the garbage, Nia put the broom and dustpan back in the closet and sat down to play blocks with Daniele. She knew she should be making plans, perhaps call her mother and ask advice, but the thought of admitting to someone else what had happened made her nauseous.