Spin Ruin: (A Mafia Romance Two-Book Bundle) (32 page)

“He’s with me,” Margie said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“And you?” he asked Margie.

“She’s my sister.” I put my hand on Otto’s wrist. “They’re okay.” I looked him in the eye, transmitting sincerity and seriousness, until he lowered the weapon.

“
Mi dispiace
” he said to Margie. He shot Will a dirty look before stepping out the door. I clicked it behind him, and before I could let Margie know that Antonio would likely interrupt us in a few minutes, she reached behind me and locked the door.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked.

“You should try answering your phone.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

Will interjected as he removed files from a briefcase, “Hanging around Alberto Mongelluzo, apparently.”

“His name’s Otto.”

“No it’s not. Otto’s the Italian word for eight.” He holds up his pinkies. “You should ask him how he lost these. It wasn’t a golfing accident.”

“Who are you, again?” I asked.

Margie sat in my chair. “Mr. Santon freelances for my firm, and today, he’s doing me a favor.”

“That’s a fucking answer?” I said.

“Correct use of the word fuck. Well done.”

“Don’t be a bitch. And no clever quips. Just answer.”

She sighed. “I think I liked you better when you acted like a lady. But all right; before you tear my face off, Will works for me. He finds things out, does research, and kidnaps my sisters when necessary. He’s a good guy. You should be nice to him.”

“Antonio’s going to show up about five minutes after he finds out you’re here.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“I’m making tea. Do you want any? Or is it just bust in and run?”

“Coffee,” Margie said.

“Dark and bitter, I presume?” I stormed into the kitchen before she had a chance to answer.

Why did she make me feel like a prepubescent? Was it because she was more of a mother to me than my actual mother, who popped designer pills between emotional outbursts? Margie had earned the mother role by giving me affection and gaining my trust where no one else had, but her methods were drastic and overbearing, and apparently included breaking and entering.

“You broke into this apartment because you don’t like who I’m sleeping with?”

“‘Don’t like’ is mild. Very Old Theresa. New Theresa would say something more colorful. So I’ll tell you this. The guy you’re fucking terrifies me, and I’m just going to spoon-feed you some sense before Daddy gets wind of it.”

A phone rang in the other room. I peeked in, wondering if it was Antonio. Santon placed piles of files on the coffee table and answered his phone. Margie dialed hers. I heard everything while I slapped the pieces of the coffee maker together.

“Good evening to you too, little brother.” She turned to look into the kitchen. I ducked away. “You have Will Santon’s team flying to Vancouver to watch Kevin Wainwright?”

Margie, single at forty-seven, had never been in love as far as I knew. She’d been a model of sharp, dirty, cut-and-dried sense; even her tone over the phone to our brother was tidy and utilitarian. As if love made sense. Love didn’t stay on budget or check to see if the ledger balanced. Love didn’t care if all things were equal. Love bathed the books in red, shredded documents, spent more than it brought in one month and paid too much income tax the next.

When I came in with cream and sugar, I heard Jonathan’s voice, made tinny though the phone as he shouted, “Physically and irrevocably hurt.”

“You know, Jonny,” Margie said, “I don’t mind you getting paranoid and crazy, but you’re doing it on my dime.”

Jonathan growled something, and I went back into the kitchen.

“Now you’re getting nasty,” said Margie pointedly, yet without an ounce of upset in her voice. “I gotta pull him, Jonny. I’m sorry.”

She hung up just as I came back with the coffee. “I just lied for you.”

“You want a medal?”

“I’d like some appreciation.”

“For coming into my apartment uninvited? Because I didn’t answer your texts in the right amount of time? Because you don’t approve of the man I love?”

“Oh, it’s love now. Great.” She tossed her phone on the coffee table and grabbed a cup. “I’ve never seen anyone make a good decision for love.”

“Love is its own decision,” Will cut in. “It chooses you.”

“Thanks, Delta,” Margie said. “You can engrave that on your headstone.” She turned back to me. “You already made it clear you wanted nothing to do with what I had to say. I stopped caring what you wanted when Dad asked if you were really with that guy from the Catholic Charities thing.”

“What did you tell him?” I said.

“I laughed. But he knew I was evading.” She snapped open a briefcase and swung it over to Will. It was his, and she was hurrying him.

“He can’t control who we’re with,” I said.

“He does like to try.”

“And you?” I glanced at Will, then back to Margie. “What is it you’re trying to do?”

Will cut in. “We’re educating you.” He removed a file and opened it on the coffee table.

Antonio. Even his mug shot made me tingle, the curl of his smirk, the jaw set in anger, the tousled black hair. He was younger in the photo and had a reckless edge. His mouth was shaped for a different language, and the lines around his eyes were somehow unset, reversible. He watched me from a wallet-sized rectangle stapled to a document that told me what had been implied but never stated.

“Antonio Spinelli is the bastard son of Benito Racossi.” Will put his elbows on his knees, the angle of the sun cutting his face into dark and light sides. “By the time he found out who his father was, he’d already made a name for himself as a petty criminal and pickpocket. He went to his father to settle a dispute between himself and another thief who’d stolen a shipment of his bootleg cigarettes. He was eleven. A prodigy, even by Neapolitan standards.”

“Look at you.” Margie, arms crossed, leaned back in the chair. “You got a face like a brick wall. You don’t want to hear it, because you already decided you don’t care. This mug shot, it’s Interpol’s. He was accused of killing the men who killed his wife.”

This story wasn’t new or shocking, though I guess it should have been. I guess if anyone else heard their lover had murdered someone, they’d be upset. But I wasn’t just anyone. I was a savage.

“She took a car bomb that was meant for him,” Will said. “He was visiting a client in a neighboring town. His business partner drove, which saved Spinelli’s life and ended his wife’s. He killed the two guys allegedly responsible.”

“And?” I flipped through the file, moving quickly past the photos of the bodies of the men who’d killed his wife. Allegedly killed. “It’s just a theory. Do you want me to say, ‘Oh, darling, welcome home, let me take your coat, what exactly happened with your wife?’”

“You could start by asking about the real-estate-assessment racket,” Will said. “Go on to the money laundering, the car insurance fraud out of his shop, the sideline in tax-free cigarettes, and the occasional truck hijack on the 60 freeway.”

“If that’s not enough to make you ill,” Margie said, “I don’t know why you even need a car-bombed spouse.”

It didn’t make me ill. Not a bit. It made me curious and hungry. And a little turned on. I was fascinated not by the wife but by the web of underground criminal activity and the way he’d mastered it. He’d turned East Los Angeles into his own marionette theater.

I hid my excitement behind a cold stare and a raised chin. As if she saw right through me, Margie got out of her chair and looked down at me. “I’m trying to say things so you hear them. I love you. I want to protect you. How has he protected you?”

“Maybe it’s time everyone stopped trying to protect me.” I stood up. I’d heard enough facts I already knew and the rest was conjecture. “Will needs to go back to doing whatever he was doing for Jonathan, because there’s nothing here to fix.”

I started to leave. Margie took my shoulder. “Please, Theresa. It’s going to get worse, and you’re going to be a target.”

“How could it be worse?”

“There’s a wedding,” Will said, gathering his papers and files.

“I know all about it.”

“It’s a serious imbalance. No one knows how it’s going to be rectified, but it won’t be bloodless. All I have to say is Spinelli will have to get involved. His life isn’t his own. Never was.”

“Speak clearly, Mr. Santon. Tell me what you mean. You didn’t come all this way to make insinuations.”

His mouth curled into a knowing grin. He was a nice-looking man with brown eyes and scruffy black hair he’d tamed into something conservative and nondescript. “You really are all cut from the same cloth,” he said warmly.

“Enough, Delta,” Margie cut in. “Get to the point.”

He cleared his throat and sat back. “To correct the imbalance, Donna Maria Carloni is going to have to have a granddaughter marry into a nice Neapolitan family with ties to the old country. The most likely candidate is a young lady named Irene. She’s just been flown in from Sicily, where she was educated in the old way. She is unsullied, if you will.”

It was funny, what came to mind. Will was describing a young woman educated in a particular way to achieve a certain goal and groomed in behavior and speech, much the way I’d been.

“Well,” I said. “I hope she likes it here. If she can stay a virgin for fifteen minutes, I salute her.”

“Oh, she’ll stay a virgin,” Margie said. “Because the Neapolitan who was supposed to marry her has disappeared.”

“The
stupido
?”

“And his girlfriend.” Will handed me a picture of a nice-looking couple on the beach. He was dark-haired and bulky, smiling. She was cute as soda pop, mousy blond and cap toothed.

“Theresa,” Margie said softly. “Get out while you can. It’s chaos.”

“You were there when the thing happened with Daniel. You saw me. You saw what I went through. You want that again?”

“I’ll take it over a funeral.”

“I can’t; it’s too late. I love him, and whatever he faces, I face with him.”

“You might face it without him. He’s part of a world you don’t understand; he’ll cut you out, and you won’t even know what hit you.”

“You don’t know anything,” I growled. “You’re so closed off. You’re so scared. You run every piece of information through your worry filter, and nothing gets through unscathed. You calculate everything that can go wrong, and when you’re done doing it for yourself, you do it for the rest of us. I think you were happiest when I was alone and not taking any risks. You need to stop. You need to let me try and be happy.”

“I can offer this,” Will interrupted. “I know you won’t take protection from the authorities because of Daniel. But I can offer it to you separate from that. I have contacts in the military who can keep you safe from Paulie Patalano, Antonio Spinelli, Donna Maria. All of them.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“It’s through me,” Margie said. “Limited-time offer.”

“Thanks for the offer, Margie,” I said, “but I have mistakes to make.”

As if summoned by the word “mistake,” the latch turned, and Antonio walked in as if he owned the place. A second passed, or a fraction of one, during which all parties assessed the imminent threat of danger. Antonio was armed, as was Will; I knew that much. If either of them was worth his salt, he would smell it on the other.

“
Buongiorno
,” Antonio said with a smile. The three of us stood. I went to him, kissing each cheek. He put his hand on the small of my back.

“Antonio, have you met my sister, Margie?”

“I haven’t,” he said, smiling to her and offering his hand. They shook.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “This is my friend Will Santon." They shook hands, as well. The distrust in the room was palpable, multiplying exponentially, like compound interest on a bad loan.

“Tea? Coffee?” I offered, half joking.

“A butter knife for the tension, please,” Margie said.

“Something serrated might help?” Antonio offered.

“You’d know, apparently.”

“Margie!”

“I don’t like niceties,” Margie said. “They bore me.”

“Of course, then.” Antonio spoke the words with one hand extended, as if offering peace, and the other firmly planted at the base of my neck. “Let’s skip all that. How can I help you?”

“You can let my sister answer her calls.”

“Your sister does what I ask her to because she knows what’s best for her.”

The conversation was going nowhere in a big hurry. If I knew anything about Margie, her intention had been to leave the apartment with me, and she wasn’t walking out any other way. If I knew anything about Antonio, she was going to have to walk over a dead body to do it. So, either the unstoppable force and the immovable object were going to have a meet up, or I was going to step in between them.

“I can pick up my phone any time, Margaret. But I don’t want to. I’m sorry; I wasn’t trying to worry you or stress you out. But you really have to step back and trust that if I’m not answering the phone, I’m busy. I want you to consider that no news is good news.” She started to say something, and I held my hand up. “I’m not in a bit of danger. Boredom is my biggest problem right now. Antonio,” I said, turning to him, “you tell my sister you’re bossing me around, and she’s going to get a SWAT team in here. Personally, I don’t need the aggravation.”

“I’m sorry, then,” he said, facing Margie. “Of course, she’s a grown woman, in America.”

I held my hand out to Will. “Mr. Santon, thanks for coming. I appreciate your candor. I hope we never meet again.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” he said as we shook on it.

I separated from Antonio and went to the door with a cold spot at the back of my neck where his hand had been. I opened it. Otto was waiting in the hallway.

“I promise I will pick up my phone from now on, as long as you don’t unleash a stream of neuroses on me.”

Margie brushed her skirt down and composed herself, which meant, in Drazen parlance, that she was about to unleash a torrent of The Truth According To Margaret, and nothing could stop her, not a word, gesture, or forward tackle.

“I’m fine with being dismissed like a child, and I’m fine with you not taking my advice. I can walk out of here without a problem. But when the last asshole did things I don’t even want to talk about, I was the first one you called. And I was the one who stood by you for the whole thing.” She slashed the air with the flat of her hand, the gesture filling in for words like bawling, suicidal depression, the inability to move, long bouts of self-doubt, reproach, and loathing. She’d been with me for every minute of it, and with that karate chop, I relived it.