Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (36 page)

T
he cane
still felt strange in my hand, but I could at least get rid of the damn crutches as I walked toward the dance studio. With my current condition, I couldn't do much in terms of learning how to be an enforcer, and I was going nuts hanging around the house all day, so I had asked Dad, and he agreed to let me help out around the Bertoli Pizza offices. It meant that I spent a lot of the day doing basic typing and office work, and I'd learned a lot in the past two weeks about just how much food it takes to keep a five-location pizza restaurant and delivery chain in business. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a cow the same ever again.

All that sitting around left my lower back tense and my legs cramped, which is why I was making my way toward the dance studio—I was going to see a friend of the family. The woman who owned the studio would be Adriana’s maid of honor at her upcoming wedding.

I opened the door, a little bell tinkling as I did. I looked around and saw that the studio was still pretty raw, with that sort of just-opened feel that most new businesses had. The floor was bare concrete, but there were a couple of moveable dancer bars lined up against the wall, and the far wall was fully mirrored. "Hello?"

"Just a moment," a voice from the back called. "Are you Tomasso?"

"Yeah," I said, looking at the chairs in the reception area and deciding I'd rather stand. "You're Carmen?"

"Yep," the voice said, coming closer. The curtain separating the studio floor from the rest of the space twitched, and out came a tiny little woman, maybe only five foot one or two, with dark brown hair and a tan that belied her Latina heritage. "Hi."

"Hi," I said, offering my hand. Carmen was dressed in dancer's pants and a polo shirt that had
Dreamstyle Dance Studio
over the left chest. "Thanks for seeing me. Did I interrupt?”

"Not at all," she said, leading me toward the back. She had me wait and brought out a rolling massage table, which she positioned in the middle of the room. "When Daniel said that you needed some deep tissue work, I just bumped my dance workout an hour earlier. Only thing you're keeping me from is watching some soap operas, which isn't really that bad of a thing. All right, before we begin, let me give you the rules. You're going to keep your underpants on, I'm keeping all my clothes on, and there's no such thing as a happy ending here. If that’s what you’re looking for, I can give you the address to a place about a mile away that would be happy to accommodate you.”

"That's okay," I said, laughing at the spunky little firecracker in front of me. "I . . . I have someone. Besides, I'm glad to know that my father's investment is being used for a real dance studio and not just a front for something else."

Carmen looked surprised, then blushed slightly. "You're Mr. Bertoli’s son? Sorry, I had no idea. Daniel just said his friend, Tomasso."

I waved off her concern. "I'm not trying to live off my name. Just . . . my lower back and hamstrings are killing me with all this sitting around, and I could really use some work on them."

Her confidence restored, she smiled. "Okay then. Well, let me say the word that gives me so much ironic pleasure then.
Strip
."

I had to laugh, and I took off my shirt and tie before sitting on the edge of the table and working off my shoe and my pants. "I can see why Adriana likes you," I said, lying down. "You two have a similar spirit."

"Thanks, I'll take that as a compliment," Carmen said. She had me lay face down on the table, then disappeared into the back, where she came out with a shoulder bag of supplies. "So how'd you break your ankle?"

"Ramming into the back of a Tahoe." I chuckled, putting my face in the little hole that allowed me to breathe and keep my neck straight. "You didn't see it on the news?"

I couldn't see anything except the polished concrete of the floor, but I could hear her arrange her supplies as she talked. "This place has me working too hard to get much news. But I think I remember something about that. Did it have something to do with this girl that you mentioned?"

“You could say that." I chuckled, humming as her hands started working on my legs, warm and oily. There was a light fragrance to whatever she was using—I thought it smelled a lot like eucalyptus, but I wasn't sure. Either way, it warmed my muscles, working loose the knots and relaxing my body. "Ouch, is that your elbow in my hamstring?"

"I weigh a hundred pounds. The only way I can get pressure is with my elbows," Carmen said, grunting lightly. "You've got lower legs like a bunch of sticks,
Papi
. You're going a little hard in the rehab, I think."

"I'm going to walk again soon," I hissed in reply as she found another knot and worked at it. "Jesus, what kind of dancer were you, a dominatrix?"

She laughed and eased up the pressure. "Nope, I teach ballet, jazz and hip-hop—mostly to kids. If you mean prior, I usually went with the schoolgirl shtick. I think you understand if I don't have any pictures of that on the walls around here."

"Of course," I said, sighing as the knot she was working on let loose and the pain immediately went away. "Although I've read that stripper-robics and pole dancing is becoming popular with the Mom set."

"It's a fad that will fade away soon enough, and a lot of girls are going to be out of work if they only build on that," Carmen replied. "Now, I'm going to work your butt now—don't get any fancy ideas."

“Don’t worry,” I said, focusing instead on the mix of pain and pleasure as the tiny woman proceeded to spend the next half hour working my back, hips, and hamstrings before finishing up with a massage of my right calf and foot. I would have liked one of my left foot, but I understood. She wasn't going to touch that until I was more recovered. "You're talented."

"Thanks," she said, slightly out of breath from the effort. "You'd be surprised at the number of Bertoli men who come in and only want a rub down. They follow the rules, though, or else I sick Daniel on them."

I laughed. "That'll make anyone behave," I said.

"So tell me about this girl. Is she cute?"

I sighed happily and relaxed, nodding. "She's the most amazing woman in the world. Smart, spunky, great . . . yeah, she's great."

"And what's keeping you two apart? I mean, besides your being a Bertoli."

"Actually, that I'm American," I said as Carmen started on my shoulders and neck. They were pretty loose from my workouts, but it still felt good anyway. "Her father
hates
Americans. We’re good enough to be business partners, but that’s about it.”

Carmen gave me a look, then shrugged and finished up her massage. "There you go."

* * *

G
etting home
, I parked in the rear of the line of cars we owned to give myself extra motivation to move. Maybe it was only another fifty feet or so, but that made a difference with my rehabilitation. I went in the side entrance of the house and closed the door behind me.

Jessie was the first person to see me, and she shook her head. "Sir, your father was looking for you, and he didn't seem to be in the best of moods."

"What's wrong?" I asked. "I mean, you look like you're scared witless."

"Your father . . . it's not good when he's in moods like this," Jessie whispered. "He's
quiet."

Ah hell. When my father goes quiet, bad stuff starts happening to other people. I patted Jessie on the shoulder, smiling. "Okay. Let me handle this—thanks for the heads up. Where is he?"

"His study," Jessie said. "Be careful."

I nodded and went to my father's study, knocking on the door frame. "Dad? Everything okay?"

He was facing away from me, staring out the window when I knocked. At the sound of my voice, he turned, his face cloudy as his mouth was turned down in its most extreme frown. "Tomasso. Come in—sit down."

I swallowed the ball of spit that was stuck in my throat and made my way across to the desk, sitting down in the chair across from him, realizing that it put me lower than him, probably something he’d designed into the desk. Taking a few seconds, I arranged my cane as carefully as I could, trying to gather my thoughts. What the hell was going on? "What's up, Dad? You've got everyone around here frightened."

He turned around, setting his hands on the blotter. "I just had an interesting conversation with Guillermo Mendosa. Well, I will call it interesting because it's the only word I can think of to describe a fifty-year-old Brazilian man screaming at me uninterrupted for ten minutes non-stop in broken English and Portuguese, at the end of which I didn't know much more about what the hell was going on than when I started. "

I blinked, shocked. "What? What the hell is he upset about?"

"That's what I’d like to know," Dad said, leaning forward. "From the little bit that I was able to understand, he's pledging war on our family, and something about dishonoring him and his daughter. Care to tell me why?”

I blinked, shocked. "Uhm, not really. I mean, Luisa and I were intimate, but I figured everyone knew that by the time she left. And we've stayed in touch."

“What do you mean you’ve stayed in touch?” Dad asked.

I explained to him the emails and video chats we had, along with the bit about her father's feelings toward Americans and both of our past heartbreaks. He listened, his eyes tightening when he heard not only about Luisa's heartbreak, but mine as well. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s go.”

"To do what?" I asked, confused.

"To see if there’s a chance at peace,” Dad said, a half-smile on his face. “As pissed off as he sounded, I don’t think he wants war with us.
No one
would want that. Do you still have your passport?"

"Real or fake?" I asked. "Last I knew, both were still up to date."

Dad chuckled. "Fake, of course. I may be attempting to be a peacemaker, but I'm not going to fly into Brazil telling everyone that I'm coming. Lord only knows what the TSA and the FBI would have waiting for us when we got back."

* * *

I
was shocked
that Dad would personally go to Brazil, especially if Guillermo Mendosa wanted war. Harming my father would definitely make that happen.

By the time the sun went down, we were at King County Airport, getting out of my car while Pietro unloaded our bags out of the back and took them over to the Gulfstream G280 that my father had chartered. The flight crew took them and stowed them on board before Pietro turned and came back.

"Don Bertoli, it’s my duty to advise against this," he said when he returned. "Going to Brazil, just the two of you, on a chartered flight like this? You're going in unprepared and without backup."

I'd had the same thoughts, but I was so caught up in the whirlwind of the past few hours that I hadn't had time to voice them yet. Dad wouldn’t be deterred, however. "Pietro, you’re a good man and a good lieutenant. But this isn’t just Bertoli Family, but
my
family business. We’ll handle it alone—Guillermo Mendosa may be a boss, but he doesn’t have the balls to harm a Bertoli man on a peacekeeping mission. Now, while I'm gone, Margaret is in charge, okay?"

Aunt Margaret, who'd made the trip out to the airport along with Adriana and Daniel, looked on with concern. "Carlo, are you sure?"

He nodded. "Margaret, this is going to be like a vacation for me. It's been far too long, and I'm already feeling younger."

She sighed, then nodded. She glanced over at Adriana and Daniel, who nodded as well. "We'll be back in time for the wedding. Don't worry about that,” Dad said, clapping Daniel on the shoulder.

Dad got on the plane, and I exchanged hugs with Margaret and Adriana and shook hands with Daniel. "I expect you back for the bachelor party."

"I'll be there," I said, grinning. I turned and headed for the plane, stopping when Pietro stepped in front of me. "Pietro?"

He held out a small case to me. "In case you forgot—always be prepared. Take care of the Godfather."

I looked in the case, smirking as I saw the muted gleam of the twin Berettas inside. "Hope I have enough to bribe the customs officials on these."

"Don't worry," Pietro replied. "I made sure there's an extra attaché case inside the plane with a good gift to any customs officers who stick their noses in. We'll have the skids greased when you get there."