Fate Book Two (11 page)

Crap. This is awful.
If I were one of those characters in a movie, I might be screaming at the screen, saying, “Get the hell out of there, you idiot!” But the reality was, once you love someone, truly love him, you can’t just shut it off. The person seeps into your bones and permeates your soul. With time, I knew the pain of losing Paolo would lessen, but that felt so far into the future that it wasn’t even real. Because right now, in this very moment, the agony of not knowing was just as bad as the pain from losing him. I might be willing to gnaw off my own foot to break free. Meaning, I’d risk myself to learn the truth.

But if Paolo is dead, you can’t bring him back. And if he’s not dead, you can’t save him.
I dropped my gaze to my trembling hands resting on my lap.
I need to talk to my father. He’s the only one who might have a chance of helping.

No, I couldn’t trust my dad to tell me the truth, but I could trust that he’d do anything to keep me from harm’s way. I’d have to appeal to his heart and help him understand that there would be no moving on until this situation ended one way or another. I needed to fly back to St. John and talk to him face-to-face.

I took a deep breath and released it.

“You all right?” Horse asked.

“
Signore? Dove stiamo andando
?” said the driver.

“He wants to know where is your hotel?” asked Horse.

“Oh.” I dug out a little card from my purse and handed it to him.

Horse looked at me like I was nuts.

“What?” I shrugged. “They don’t give us a lot for expenses.”

“Now I know why you’re so unhappy.” Horse told the driver where to go, and during the entire ten-minute drive, he talked about how Rome had the nicest hotels in the world but that I’d managed to pick the only one where people were regularly shot.

When we pulled up to the front of my fleabag, he offered for a fifth time to put me up in one of his uncle’s hotels. “You won’t have to pay for a thing,” he assured me.

“Thanks for the offer, Horse, but I’m fine here.”

I slipped out and then remembered. “Oh dangit. Will my rental car be okay? I left it parked about a mile from Nikki’s house.”

“You didn’t take a taxi to the party?” he asked.

“No.”

“I will come by in the morning and take you to your car.”

“Oh. No, that’s not necessary. I can take a cab on my way to the airport.”

“You’re leaving Italy?” he asked. “But you didn’t get your time with Nikki for those photos.”

I’d forgotten about that. “I got enough last night outside of the restaurant and bar,” I lied.

“What time is your flight?”

I didn’t want to tell him because I felt an impending offer of hospitality coming my way.

“Not sure, actually. Six a.m., I think? I’m on standby.”

He looked very disappointed. I guessed he wanted more time to get into my pants.

“Sorry,” I said. “But it was really nice meeting you and—”

“Well, then. I will take you to dinner right now.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 1:00 a.m. “It’s kind of late.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is Rome. We only go to bed when we have someone sexy and warm to put in it.”

“I really can’t—”

“Please?” He pressed his palms together in the prayer position. “Besides, you cannot leave Italy without having tried the best meatballs in all of Rome.”

“I’m actually not a big meat eater. I’m more of the tofu type.” Although, I had to admit my earlier sandwich had made me reconsider my vow to eat animals only on special occasions like Christmas or Thanksgiving or when I was in Italy hanging out with violent cokehead mobsters. Yanno, special.

Horse’s big green eyes blinked at me, and it was hard to resist that beautiful face, even though I wasn’t into him.

“Please?” he repeated. “What are you going to do other than sleep for ten hours on a plane tomorrow? And who knows if you will ever return. You must seize the moment in life, and this is something you won’t want to miss.”

He’d successfully pushed one of my buttons. I really hated to go home without seeing more of Italy. And Spain. And Greece. And…okay. I wanted to see the world. “All right.”

“Yes!” He scooted over to let me back in the limo.

“What convinced you?” he asked.

“I can’t stand seeing a man beg.”

“I will remember that.”

CHAPTER NINE

Within about twenty minutes, the limo pulled up to a set of iron gates in a very posh-looking neighborhood. To be clear, the homes we’d passed weren’t like Nikki’s. These homes reminded me of those outrageously huge English estates like on
Downton Abbey
. Anyway, whoever said that Texans owned the market on “big” had never been to Rome.

“Whose house is this?” I asked Horse, wondering why we weren’t pulling up to an after-hours, hole-in-the-wall restaurant instead.

“My grandmother lives here.” But as he spoke, I noticed a family crest and name in big huge iron letters right on the front of the gate.

“Abelli?” I whispered in horror. “You’re an Abelli?”

“I thought you knew.”

Oh shit.
“So Felix is…?”

“My cousin. And do not look at me like that. Just because I am an Abelli doesn’t mean I’m a murderer or thug. Even Felix has been trying to live a better life.”

Whatthehellever
.
I have to get out of here
.

“Why did you bring me here?” I was about to jump from the car and make a run for it. But at the same time, I didn’t want to raise any suspicion because Horse didn’t seem to have a clue who I really was. The people inside, however?

“Uhh…because my grandmother makes the best meatballs in all of Italy.”

“I can’t go in there,” I said.

“Why not?”

Why not?
“It’s almost two in the morning. It’s rude.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Granny Abelli is a night owl; she never goes to bed until after three. Besides, she’s been begging for me to stop by—she’ll be overjoyed to see us.”

I felt my little heart trying to beat its way from my chest.
Granny Abelli?
Granny Abelli!
I remember reading all about her when I did my high school paper on “the family” for my history class. The theme was Organized Crime and Its Impact on Modern Society. Most of the kids chose to write about prohibition or organized crime in New York—everyone loved
The Sopranos
and
Boardwalk Empire
—but I chose the infamous Abelli family. Granny Abelli’s husband had been the ringleader in supplying Nazi Germany with hard-to-come-by Western products ranging from American sodas and candy to car parts and ammo. After the war, members of the family went on trial, but every prosecutor who took on the case mysteriously ended up dead. Then in the ’90s, there had been several articles posted about their alleged involvement in brokering deals with terrorists for atomic bomb parts.

Convicted or not, these were not nice people. Of course, Granny Abelli had to be ninety-something by now, but even at her nonthreatening age, I so did not want to be there.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea—”

“I see. You think my grandmother is some criminal. Well, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read. You’re a reporter. You know the newspapers will print anything.”

“Yeah, but—”

“My grandmother wouldn’t hurt a fly. Yes, I won’t deny that my grandfather—when he lived—and some of the other men in my family aren’t upstanding citizens, but not all of the Abellis are Mafia. Least of all my grandmother.”

Horse seemed genuinely offended that I would dare to think badly about his granny, and part of me felt guilty. I got the whole “loving your shady family” thing.

Regardless, the iron gates opened, and I knew I was not going to win this battle. We were going in.

Okay. How bad can it be? She’s an old woman. A really, really shady old woman, but it’s not like she’s going to pull a gun on me.

“Does she live alone?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s why I come by as often as I can.”

The car pulled around back of the three-story, huge frigging home with terra-cotta exterior covered in sprawling ivy, and a red tile roof. It was dark out, obviously, so I couldn’t see much else besides the illuminated front and the acres of green lawn surrounding the place.

As soon as we stepped out of the car onto the gravel driveway, a frail-looking woman with short white hair, wearing a red robe, came from the back door, hands raised in the air, practically sprinting toward Horse for a hug.

“Holy crap, your grandma can move. How old is she?”

“Ninety-two.”

Horse walked over, and she gripped him in a bear hug. Horse grunted.

Man, she looks strong.
Then I realized that she was Paolo’s grandma, too. It was strange trying to imagine him as a child playing at this house with his brother and cousins, running on the giant lawn, being bear-hugged by this crazy woman.

The woman released Horse and then looked at me and rattled away in Italian.

He shook his head and answered whatever question she’d asked.

“What’s she saying?” I asked.

“She asked who you are and why you’re so skinny.”

I laughed. “Sorry?”

“She thinks no one loves you because you don’t have any meat on your bones.”

Well, that was a first. For the record, I’d never been called skinny. I had an average build, average height, and average curves.

“Uh, thanks?” I said.

The woman reached for my hand and pulled me inside as she rambled at Horse. I guessed it was some lecture about settling down or visiting more often—typical grandma stuff. It was sweet enough to almost make me drop my guard. Almost. That said, I had to do my best to remember where I was and get the hell out of there quickly.

When we entered the home, the smell of garlic and onions and something delicious instantly hit me.

“Welcome to my grandma’s kitchen,” said Horse. The room was enormous—two industrial-size stainless steel refrigerators, two dishwashers, two banks of ovens, a brick pizza oven, and an enormous cooktop in the center island. “She really loves to cook, and with a family our size there’s always someone to feed.”

Horse chatted a bit with his grandma and then turned to me. “She says she made some fresh meatballs this morning, but she’s got to heat them up. Why don’t I show you around while she does that?”

I wanted to tell him we really should leave, but again, I thought about making a scene. Not a good idea. “Sure. Thanks.” I smiled at the old woman. “
Grazie
.”

She dipped her head and waved us off.

Horse led me out into a very large, formal dining room with a long, dark cherrywood table in the middle big enough to seat about forty people. The chairs were upholstered with shiny gold brocade, and two enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the gold-trimmed ceiling.

Seeing me take it all in with a sort of disgusted fascination, Horse said, “My grandmother is old school when it comes to decorating.”

I tried to mask my judgmental thoughts with a cool smile and a shrug. “Grandmothers.”

Horse then showed me the theater, living room, library, and a few guest rooms. The place smelled like a museum and looked like a shrine to their heresy, including a mug-shot wall and news-clippings wall—arrests and murders and such.

Horse must’ve noticed my eyes popping from my head, because he said, “It’s not what you think. She likes to show them as reminders to everyone, especially her grandchildren, of what will happen if they go back to the old ways.”

“Old ways?”

“Let’s just say there’ve been a lot of changes in the family businesses over the past few years.”

I really didn’t want to know details, so I nodded politely.

“And this is the game room.” Horse pushed open a set of double doors. Inside were about twenty men of various ages, mostly plump, all smoking cigars, sitting around a large poker table. In the center of the table was a pile of cash mixed with chips and some guns.

Crap, is that a brick of coke?
It sure the hell looked like it.

I tried to hide my fear slash shock, but it wasn’t easy; I think my eyes naturally wanted to jump out of my head.

Horse immediately pushed his hand behind my back to reassure me. “Is it poker night?” he said in English, seeming genuinely shocked.

“I thought you said she lived alone?” I whispered to Horse.

“She does,” he whispered back, “but they play here once a month to keep her company.”

The man farthest from us, with a very robust figure, a balding head of salt-and-pepper hair, and gripping cards, looked at me over his reading glasses. He then jerked his head and barked at Horse in Italian.

I guessed he said something like, “What the fuck is she doing here?”

Whatever reply Horse gave, it must’ve been a gem, because the man then smiled, stood and walked around the table, stopping directly in front of me. “Ah. So you came to sample my mother’s cooking before you leave?” His accent was by far the toughest thing I’d heard the whole trip.

I stuck out my hand. “Yep. Horse says she makes the best meatballs. Ever.”

He took my hand and kissed it. “I am Giuseppe Abelli.”

Giuseppe Abelli. Giuseppe Abelli. Oh fuck. Giuseppe Abelli is holding my hand.
He was not only Paolo’s father and the head of the “
famiglia
” but, if my memory served, he had recently been indicted on charges of multiple homicides.

I giggled nervously, praying I didn’t pee myself. “Leah.” I had actually forgotten my last name, so I hoped he didn’t ask.

He lifted his head and stared for a moment. “Have we met before?”

I shook my head. “No. And I’m sure I’d remember meeting you. Not that I mean anything rude by that. It’s just…it’s just you’re so handsome.” He was uglier than sin, actually, with stained teeth and a deep scar on his brow.

I guess Paolo got his looks from his mother.

One of the men at the table—thin, short black hair, a cigar hanging from his mouth—barked at Giuseppe.