Lady and the Champ (40 page)

Nick gives me a concerned look when I move out of his arms and off the dance floor. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I think. I just need some food. Why don’t you take some time and talk to your guys? I think they want to congratulate you or something.” Chris and the others have been antsy all night, almost like they want to dance with Nick but I’m not letting them.

He nods. “Okay. Come and get me right away if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

I grab a finger sandwich or two, hoping it’ll help me feel a bit more myself. As I’m heading for the chicken satay, though, a hand closes on my arm.

I know that hand. But it can’t be him.

I turn. It’s him.

His fingers tighten hard, making me flinch. “Let’s dance.”

“No.”

Sal leans closer. “Don’t make a scene, Sarah. I just want to chat.”

“Why are you even here?” I snap. He’s tugging at me now. There’s no sign of Nick anywhere close.

He leans in again and says right in my ear, “Your
husband
invited me.” His breath reeks of alcohol, and not just champagne. He’s been into the hard stuff at the cash bar.

The hell? I’m so shocked at this that I forget to struggle, and he pulls me out onto the dance floor.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Sal says with a sneer. “I assume by the speedy wedding arrangements that you’re expecting.”

“Fuck you, Sal.”

“I didn’t think you liked that anymore.”

“I never liked it, you son of a bitch. Let me go.”

“We’re just dancing. For now.” He’s holding me far too close. Where the hell is Nick? A few other guests are eyeing us like they know what’s happening isn’t right, but nobody seems to have the balls to do anything about it. I’ll give Nick about forty-five more seconds and then I’m kneeing Sal in the nut sac, scene or no scene.

“You just enjoy your happy little life, my girl,” Sal says, his hands tightening on mine as we dance. “You never know how long it’s going to last.”

“Excuse me.” Oh, thank God. That’s Nick, looming up behind Sal and tapping him on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” The words are polite, but his tone is ice cold and knife-edge keen. He’s teetering on the edge of violence.

Sal lets go of one of my hands but not the other, turning to half face Nick. “I believe you already did.”

Nick takes a step forward. “Get the fuck away from my wife,” he growls. It’s low and it’s not the kind of sound anybody should fail to take seriously.

“Fine.” Sal lets go of my other hand. “If sloppy seconds is your thing, don’t let me stop you.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“I’m an invited guest, just like everybody else.” He makes a sweeping gesture at the other occupants of the dance floor. Most have abandoned any pretense of dancing, just gaping at the three of us.

“Well, I’m uninviting you. Didn’t want you here in the first place, but Spada insisted.”

“Isn’t that nice.” He takes a silver cigarette case out of the inside of his jacket. “Well, I guess I’ll be off, then.”

Lighting the cigarette, he moves away from us, looking back with a smile, one hand cupped around the flame of his lighter.

“And no smoking!” Nick hollers after him.

“No problem,” says Sal, and, just inside the room, snubs out the cigarette in one of the big pink roses on my beautiful, perfect wedding cake.

Nick flies across the room. I’ve never seen him move so fast. He’s on Sal before Sal can quite get the door open.

Sal staggers back as Nick’s fist slams into his face. “I said get the
fuck
out,” Nick says.

Sal drags himself to his full height, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. He’s lost all pretense of control or faux politeness. “Fuck you, Angelino. That cunt is
mine
and you know it. I own every hair on her fucking body.”

Nick stalks another step forward, fists clenched. I hear rustling around me and suspect several guests have their hands on their previously concealed guns.

God, no. Not a shooting at my wedding.

“You just watch your back, Angelino. And you too, you fucking little whore.”

Finally he leaves the hall. Outside, I see him get into that fucking silver Porsche. Nick comes back to me and pulls me into his arms.

I
hold Sarah carefully
. There’s so much rage seething through me I’m afraid I might hurt her.

Goddamn Sal De Luca. I stroke Sarah’s back and take another look at the wedding cake. It’s still edible, but goddammit if I’m going to scrape off that ashy rose and act like nothing happened. De Luca has desecrated my wedding. My
wedding
. More importantly, he threatened Sarah. I’m not putting up with his shit. If anything happens to Sarah, Sal’s a dead man.

Fuck that. Sal’s a dead man, period.

I see Chris nearby and wave him over. “Get Sarah home for me, okay? I’ve got business.”

“No, you don’t.”

I spin on Spada, who’s come up to join the discussion. “You think I’m letting that motherfucker get away with this?”

“Just wait, Angelino. Give it some time.”

“I’ve done enough waiting.”

I give Sarah a quick kiss and then head out into the parking lot, the rest of my crew following automatically.

“So what’s the deal, boss?” Mitch asks as we scope out the parking lot.

“His car’s gone.” Not that I’m surprised. I didn’t figure he’d hang around.

“Yeah, I saw him heading out right after you gave him what for.”

“Then we go find him.”

Another voice pipes up. “Boss, you sure we should go after him? I don’t think Spada wants—”

“You think I give a shit what Spada wants right now? This is personal. And you’re either in or you’re out. Pick one.”

Nobody bows out. “Then let’s go.”

* * *

I
get
three of my guys in the car with me and send the rest out in separate cars. We text back and forth, and for about a half hour there’s nothing. I stop at a gas station to fill up, grab a couple sticks of beef jerky, and then, making it look like an afterthought, buy a plastic container and fill it up with gas, too. It’ll come in handy. This is the perfect time to execute the plan I’d already formulated to get back at Sal.

About fifteen minutes later I spot De Luca’s car outside one of the bars where I know he hangs out from time to time. It’s not his regular meeting place; I figure he thought we wouldn’t think to look there.

He’s not in the car. Which probably means he’s inside the bar, sucking down still more alcohol.

I pull in to a parking spot across the street and tell the guys what I’m planning to do. Glances are exchanged, but nobody says anything.

“You in?” I snap, and then relax a little. “The way I figure it, we’re doing him a favor. I guarantee you he’s way too fucking drunk to drive.”

That gets them laughing, and we get out of the car. I get the gas container out of the trunk and pull the handkerchief out of Mitch’s pocket.

“Hey!” he says.

“Keep your pants on,” I tell him. “Yours is cotton. Mine won’t work—it’s silk.”

Mitch gets my drift and nods, a flash of “holy shit” rising in his eyes. But a second later it changes to a kind of unholy glee. “You’re really going to do this?”

“Damn fucking straight I am. Nobody calls my wife a cunt at her wedding.”

That’s not even the tip of the iceberg as far as beefs I’ve got with Sal, but they know that. I open the gas container, tuck in the handkerchief, and set the handkerchief on fire with my lighter. One toss and it’s inside the Porsche. A few seconds later…

The explosion is louder than I expected. That’ll bring the cops coming. But then I laugh, teeth clenched, because it’s damn satisfying. I can feel the heat all the way across the street, and damned if that Porsche isn’t a lot more flammable than you’d think.

The door to the bar slams open and several people come out, including De Luca, who starts screaming when he sees his car up in flames. He hasn’t caught sight of us yet, but it’s only a matter of time. As much as I’d like to hang around, I wave to the guys and we get the hell out of Dodge.

* * *

I
don’t feel
a bit guilty about it. Not, that is, until I get home and find Sarah pacing back and forth across the living room, still in her wedding dress, mascara smeared in black streaks down her face, wringing her hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody literally wring their hands before.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, sobbing as she flings herself at me. “I was afraid you—” She breaks off, which is probably for the best. I feel bad enough without her telling me exactly what horrible fate she imagined for me.

“I’m fine, honey, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

She rubs at the tears on her face. “I was just scared. I…” Obviously relieved, she flops down on the couch, satin and lace poofing up around her. “God. It was such a beautiful wedding until…” Her gaze flares into mine. “I hate that son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, me, too.” I sit down next to her, put an arm around her. “I’m sorry, babe. I wouldn’t have invited him except Spada insisted. I have to keep the peace with him, at least for a little while.”

“I know. It’s not really your fault.” She leans into me, burying her face against my jacket. “I mean, it kind of is, but…”

“I liked ‘not my fault’ better.” I can’t help chuckling a little, and I kiss the top of her head. “Anyway, we got him back.”

She jerks back from me, terror on her face again. “Oh my God. What did you do? I knew you were going to do something stupid.”

I shrug. “Torched his Porsche.”

Her jaw drops, and she stares at me. “His Porsche? He loves his Porsche. He’s going to be madder about that than he was about you taking me.”

“Really? ’Cause it was kind of pretty, but it was just a car.”

Sarah just shakes her head. Her face has gone white. “He’s going to kill you, Nick. He’s seriously going to kill you.”

“He can try.” Gently I pull her back against me. “Don’t get yourself so worked up. It’s not good for the baby. Here—you go change, and I’ll make you a sandwich, okay?”

I expect her to protest, but she doesn’t. She heads upstairs to change, and I’m left to put together a ham sandwich, when we should still be back at the hall eating prime rib.

I clench my teeth. De Luca is going to die for this. And for so many other things, but seeing Sarah with mascara all over her face is the proverbial straw that’s broken my back.

And I’m not going to stand for it anymore, no matter what Spada says.

* * *

S
arah’s curled
up warm next to me in the morning. It was all I could do to keep my hands off her last night, and it’ll take the same kind of restraint this morning. But it didn’t seem right to ask for sex right after she told me she was pregnant, and it doesn’t seem right this morning, either.

So I just kiss her gently on the temple before I get out of bed, trying not to wake her. I’m sure she can use her rest. But I have work to do, and I can’t stay home, unfortunately.

When I get downstairs I grab my cell phone from its spot on the kitchen counter and notice it’s blinking. A flash of adrenaline hits me. Text? Voice mail? From whom? Did somebody see us leaving the scene of the crime last night? I turn on the phone. Voice mail. “Emergency meeting.” It’s one of Spada’s lieutenants. He gives the location—it’s at one of our regular restaurant meeting rooms rather than at Spada’s home office, which is unusual. The time—I need to leave right away.

So I leave Sarah a quick note and go, spending the whole drive wondering what shit has hit the fan now.

Major shit, as it turns out. Spada’s not there, and Leo, one of his senior lieutenants, is leading the meeting. I’m surprised it’s not Sal, but Sal is smirking in a corner. Something big has gone down—I can tell the minute I walk in the room.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Leo says as I take a seat at the table. Sal gives me a sidelong glance, which I don’t bother to acknowledge. Leo’s gaze takes in the whole room. “We can get straight to business.”

“Yeah,” says Sal, his tone a bit sullen. “What the hell’s going on?”

Leo glances briefly at Sal but pays more attention to the rest of the room. “Phil Spada was arrested this morning.”

The room blows up, question layering over question. Leo puts up with it for about ten seconds then lifts a hand and gives a piercing whistle.

“Shut up, and I’ll give you the details.”

The room takes a few seconds to settle back to silence. I sit quietly, hands in my lap, deliberately not looking at Sal even though I can feel his eyes scraping me from his corner of the table.

“The FBI took him in very early this morning,” Leo continues. “As I understand it, the charges are racketeering as well as some other charges related to the MMA fights.” There’s another swell of voices, but Leo lifts a hand. “Yes, one of the fighters went state’s evidence. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“What’s going to happen now?” This is Chris, one of my own men. “Who’s in charge?”

“That’s what we’re here to decide.”

“Decide?” This is Sal, of course. “What the fuck is there to decide? We all know who’s been Spada’s right-hand man since Carmine bit it.”

Leo gives him a sharp look. “My orders are to take a vote.”

“Orders from whom?”

“From Spada.” He holds Sal’s gaze just a moment longer than Sal’s apparently comfortable with, because Sal finally leans back in his chair. “We vote,” Leo continues, “between Sal De Luca and Nick Angelino.”

“What the—” Another incipient outburst from Sal, but Leo cuts him off with a look.

“Show of hands,” Leo says, raising his voice. “Sal De Luca.”

Maybe a third of the hands in the room are raised, most of them Sal’s men. Leo counts and writes the total on a notepad. “Nick Angelino.”

The rest of the room raises their hands. It’s a solid majority, and I can’t help but smirk a little as Leo takes the final tally. I can almost feel the rage coming off Sal, but he’s keeping his mouth shut for the moment. I give that about another ten seconds.

“Official total puts Nick Angelino in charge until Spada’s back among us. The next—”

“You have got to be fucking
kidding
me!” Okay, less than ten seconds. Sal’s on his feet, his face turning a dull purple as he spits his words across the table. “You can’t put this stupid motherfucker in charge!”

“You want to present evidence as to why not?” Leo asks calmly.

Sal starts tallying on his fingers. “He owes me a fuck ton of money, per Spada’s orders. He fucking
destroyed
my car. He kidnapped my fiancée from our engagement party—”

Leo breaks in. “Do you have any actual proof of any of this?”

“Of course I do. I—”

“You’ve got nothing, De Luca.” This is Chris. I almost wish he’d kept his mouth shut—there’s no real benefit to having my own men stand up for me, because what else are they going to do? “You have a contract from Spada? You have any evidence as to who fucked up your car? You have any goddamn proof Sarah didn’t leave you voluntarily? I mean, I sure as fuck would have.”

That brings a bit of laughter, some of it even from Sal’s own men, as they hide it behind their hands. I almost don’t manage to stop the grin that wants to curl my mouth. If he can’t keep his own men in line then he’s done. And that’s perfect. Everything I planned has worked out. I’ve undermined any trust his men had in him, any respect he still had in the organization.