Summer Kisses (195 page)

“Any of those phone calls you’ve been taking from Sandro?” she asked sometime later, with a worried expression she couldn’t quite hide.

So, she had been watching him even while avoiding the unpleasantness of the work he had to do. “No. He hasn’t had time to make it downtown yet. Even if he’d been speeding.”

“No doubt he was speeding. I’m surprised we didn’t pass him on the way here, though.”

“More than likely he got a car we didn’t recognize. It’s also possible he took another road in.” Dave wrapped his arm around Marisa’s shoulders and led her toward his government-issued Crown Vic. “Come on, I’m finished here. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

Beneath his arm, she felt tense, brittle. Her teeth were chattering; he suspected it was from more than the cold. The sooner this was over, the better. “We’re going to your place. I’ll drop you off, then go to the office to check on the paperwork for Roberto. When I know something definite, you can get those accounts transferred.”

“Yes,” she agreed, a hard set to her face. “It’s time to end this.”

Dave pulled into the underground parking to her apartment and rushed around to open her car door.

“Thanks.” Her voice cracked on the word.

Alarmed, he took her arms. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She cleared her throat. Attempted a shrug. “Nothing, I told you. Just–”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He wasn’t fooled in spite of the way she pulled herself together.

She looked at him, then sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about that murdered man. What if the same thing happens to Sandro? To you?” She gritted her teeth and sniffed, obviously still fighting for control

“Ah, Princess.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I didn’t even think how that must have affected you.”

She rested against his chest. “Do you know what it makes me feel like? Knowing my father is responsible for that innocent man’s murder. He had a wife. A baby girl. Now you know why he must be stopped.” She pulled back and looked at him. “By any means necessary.” Her words were firm, although there was a bit of moisture in her eyes she tried to hide by blinking.

Dave felt his control slip. Compassion was not something he experienced. He strove to be analytical. Aloof. Professional. There was no room for emotion with his job. And yet . . . he pulled her close and brushed his lips in her hair. Then found himself saying, “Come on, I’ll take you upstairs. Make you some coffee, something to eat. You haven’t eaten all day, you know.”

“I don’t think I can eat.” She stepped away. “Besides, I don’t have any food.”

He led her to the garage elevator. “I’ll order in, then. And you’ll eat or I’ll force feed you.”

She gave a thin-lipped smile, and attempted humor. “There you go being forceful.”

He shrugged and pushed the button to the elevator. “Sorry, it’s just my nature.”

She seemed fascinated by the elevator doors closing. “Sometimes a woman likes a forceful man.”

The statement said in a thoughtful monotone, almost as if she were only talking to herself, left Dave at a loss to answer. He knew how he’d like to answer, but he’d crossed the lines of impropriety with her enough already. He suddenly found the elevator doors fascinating as well.

“I have coffee,” she said once they were in her apartment. “I’ll make some.” She slipped into the serving role; he knew it was an act. He’d seen his mom do the same thing in times of stress.

“No, I’ll make it, and I’ll order something to eat. Do you want to shower or something?”

“A shower would be nice,” she agreed.

Her quick acquiescence clued him that she was off-kilter. Marisa never gave in so easily. “Where’s a close place to order food?”

“A deli’s around the corner. The number is on my refrigerator.”

When she came out of her room again, she was wearing a fluffy maroon robe and towel-drying her hair. Dave had the table set, food arranged neatly on the plates.

“I called about Roberto, we’re good to go. He should be picked up within the hour. We’ll eat, then get to work on those accounts.”

She gave a quick nod. “That was faster than I expected.” She pointed at the table to indicate she meant the food and not Roberto. It was almost as if she were shutting down about the realities confronting her.

“I paid them extra to hurry.”

A half-smile spread her lips. “It isn’t as if I’ll waste away if I miss a couple of meals.”

He stared at her, glad to see some of the worry lines ease in her face. “You’ll feel better once you eat. I hope you like roast beef.”

“Roast beef is fine.”

He pulled out the chair for her. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Dave, I can get my own–”

“Sit down,” he ordered. “Eat.”

When he returned with her coffee, she was absentmindedly playing with her food. Picking at the crust and rolling it into little balls, not noticing her robe gaped open offering him a small view of naked skin. Whoa. He definitely needed not to go there. Setting the cup on the table, he hunkered down beside her chair, putting him below her eye level and out of sight of naked flesh.

“You don’t like it?”

“What?”

He nodded at her plate.

She blinked. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.”

He picked up a sandwich half and held it in front of her mouth.

“Really, Dave, I’m just not–”

“Open.”

She stared at him, then the sandwich in his hand. He thought he had her, when suddenly, she pushed the chair back and ran from the room.

Dave heard her crying and sighed. “Damn.” He slowly put the sandwich down and pushed to his feet.

He found her in the bathroom, splashing her face with water. He had the hand towel ready when she reached for it. She wiped her face.

“I’m . . . sorry.” The crying made her hiccup. “I . . . I just–” She wiped her face with the towel again. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about that man and how he’d never eat again. How Sandro or you might never eat again. How . . . how Paolo will never eat again. How can my father be such a monster?” The last words were a whisper.

“Come on, Princess.” Dave swung her into his arms. He carried her to the living room, ignoring the stark, utilitarian wing chairs and chose the sofa—still staid and stiff, but more comfortable. Cradling her, he let her cry her tears, thinking it interesting that twice now, she’d worried about his safety or Sandro’s safety, but never her own.

Did she think she was immune from being killed? Would a father kill his daughter if he found out she betrayed him? Something told Dave no, or he hoped not. More than likely Carlo would send her off to another country. Maybe. Dave frowned. The thought of her risking her life didn’t set well with him.

Finally her tears slowed, and he used the towel to dry her face. He kissed her forehead. In the silence, the only sound was their breathing. Absentmindedly, he stroked her hair, almost dry now. He noticed some hair was caught it in her silver-cross Florentine necklace. He pulled the hair free. “Did you shower with your necklace?”

She turned watery, big brown eyes on him. “I told you I never take it off. It was my
nonna’s
. She never took it off either—until the day she died. On that day, she gave it to me. She must have known.”

“It must be very special to you. I like it. It looks good against your skin.”

“
Grazie
,” she murmured. She held onto the cross pendant and smiled.

He let her calm a few more moments, then asked something he knew he shouldn’t. It was none of his business. But he found he was wanting to know more about her. “Was Paolo your cop?”

She stared off toward the kitchen. “
Si
.”

“Tell me about him. Where did you meet?” Perhaps talking about the past would help settle her, distract her from today’s problems, Dave told himself.

She seemed willing enough. “I knew him already. Or knew of him, more truthfully. He was Giuseppe’s son.”

“Giuseppe? Sandro’s uncle? Paolo was Sandro’s cousin then?”

“
Si
.” There was pain in that one word.

“What happened, Princess?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”

“Paolo approached me one day. He worked for the police, I knew this. He tried to convince me to testify against my father.” She took a breath. “What he offered was tempting, but I was afraid.

“So, he started seeing me more often—in secret of course. After the first couple of times he stopped trying to convince me to testify, and we just talked. Got to know each other. And fell in love. I broke the engagement with Sandro long before that point. I knew I wasn’t in love with him. He didn’t love me. It would never have worked between us.”

Dave wasn’t sure how he felt hearing her talk about someone she once loved. Instead, he tried to piece the timeline together. “Was Sandro involved with your father then?”

She shook her head. “No. It happened as he told you. My father never approached him with family business until that World Cup when Italy made the finals and Poppa forced Sandro—and others, of course—to throw the game. He’d bet heavily against Italy. He had something on each of the players, he always had something to make sure he got his way.”

Dave didn’t like the sound of that. Carlo had something on Sandro? “Define what you mean by something? Something they’d done wrong to hold over their head?” There was a time Dave would have loved that sort of information to discredit Sandro with Nia.

“Sometimes, it was information,” Marisa revealed. “More often it was people.”

“People?”

“
Si
, you know, he threatened their family. With Sandro, he threatened his Sandro’s
zia y zio
, his aunt and uncle, as well as . . . Nia and her family.”

She cut a look at him. He was sure she saw shock in his gaze. “Nia?” he choked out.

“
Si.
Poppa knew all about her. Her brothers.”

She’d been at risk? And then Sandro took her to Italy? Carlo had still been in Italy a decade ago. Dave’s blood pressure soared.

“After that, my father tried to bring Sandro into the business, he wanted Giuseppe’s business, but Sandro refused. Poppa ruined his soccer career in Italy in retaliation. Forced Sandro to flee to America. The rest you know. It is only fate that we all ended up in New York together.”

Dave struggled to bring his spinning thoughts back to the story, when in reality, at the moment all he wanted to do was strangle Sandro. It was his fault Nia was in danger now. Sandro kept her in his life knowing she would be in danger. He could have broken off their relationship, flown back to Italy and left her to Dave. Yeah, he’d royally screwed up, but she would have forgiven him. And he could have made her happy. Without endangering her life.

Marisa watched him as if she knew all his thoughts. That idea made him uncomfortable. Then again, was she not baring a part of herself to him?

He swallowed his frustration. “And Paolo. What about him?”

Marisa picked up her story. “As I got to know him more, he told me about my mother.”

“Your mother?” What could he tell her about her mother? As far as Dave knew, her mother had a stroke that left her not much more than a vegetable. It happened back in Italy, when Marisa was still a young girl—which had to be hard on an only daughter. “What could he tell you about your mother? I thought she had a stroke?”

“This is what my father tells the world. To me, he said that she had overdosed.”

“Overdosed? As in drugs? Why would she do that?” Was there abuse involved? Did the woman have a moral dilemma when she realized she was married to a mobster? Did she try to leave and couldn’t escape? But no, what sort of mother would abandon her child? Was Marisa a child? He tried to calculate the years, how old Marisa would have been, but his thoughts were a jumble.

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“Was it an accidental overdose? Is that it?”

Marisa shook her head.

Dave guessed again. “She tried to kill herself then? Why would she do that when she had a young daughter who needed her?”

Marisa dropped her gaze and was silent so long that he thought she wasn’t going to answer him.

But Paolo had known. Dave felt a twinge of jealousy that this cop, the one who died, the one who she loved, knew the truth and Dave didn’t. No, wait. Paolo told her the truth, Dave realized. She hadn’t known.

A truth that she obviously didn’t want to share with Dave. “I’m sorry, I’m over–”

“She didn’t overdose.”

“No? And she didn’t have a stroke? Then, what–”

“She had a lobotomy.”

Dave went rigid. “A . . . a . . .” Surely he didn’t hear correctly. “A
lobotomy
?”

Marisa’s nod was barely perceptible, but tears silently leaked out of her eyes.

Dave automatically passed her a tissue from the box on the end table, while his mind struggled through the chaotic jumble of his thoughts. It was an old procedure, once quite common to treat mental illness and other conditions, of cutting the frontal lobe of the brain. “Do they even do those anymore?”

“Obviously.” She sniffed. “Yes, they still perform them occasionally if that’s the only treatment the doctors feel they are left with.”

“Your mother, she was crazy then?”

“No.” Marisa’s head shake was emphatic. “My mother was vibrant. Fun. Maybe a little selfish, but she had a good heart. People liked being around her, they all wanted to be her friend.”

“Then . . .this was done as some form of punishment at your father’s wishes?”

Surely he was wrong with that guess, but Marisa’s nod said otherwise.

“Did she . . . cheat on your father?” He was reaching for motivations for such a barbaric action. “Try to leave him?”

Another slight nod. “She tried to leave him, yes. But not for another man.”

“Another woman?”

Marisa laughed, a quick, startled sound.

“It’s been known to happen,” Dave defended.

“True. And maybe in a way . . . ” She sighed, then stared off again.

Dave waited.

While Marisa warred with herself. Should she tell him? Not even Paolo had known the truth; the police, of course, had the same theories as Dave. But once Paolo told her what had been done to momma, Marisa knew the reason why. And she couldn’t tell him. No, she’d rather pretend it never happened, be happy that Paolo loved her and believe that a new life was possible.