Текст книги "Masked Innocence"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Thirty-Eight
Brad drove his car through the city streets, weighing the few options he had. He was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, his shoes polished. His father would expect nothing less for a dinner at home.
The car took the curves easily as he left the city and moved into the streets of old money, condos and skyscrapers stepping aside for brick pavers, Rolls-Royces and heavily staffed mansions.
The estate had been in his family for over three generations. It was a fortress, surrounded by a fourteen-foot stone wall, stylishly covered by boxwood hedges, with security cameras positioned at regular intervals along the wall. The estate, for its pretentious address and luxury appointments, was small, only two acres, for ease in monitoring. Brad pulled up to a small guard shack and nodded to the uniformed man, a longtime employee, who manned it. Two other uniforms came from the shack and circled the car. Brad pressed the button, releasing the trunk, and waited as they shone their lights in the car and glanced through the trunk. Finally, the large, electrified gate in front of his car swung open, and he pressed on the gas.
* * *
STEVIE FINISHED HIS SEARCH of the house and entered the kitchen again, checking all of the windows and the locked door. He finally relaxed and sat at the island. Martha glanced over from the pot she was tending. “We could have just told you there was nobody in the house. And I checked all the doors and locks myself.”
“Nothing wrong with a second set of eyes,” he said softly, looking into her caramel-brown ones. She sniffed disapprovingly, and went to the fridge, getting the pitcher of tea out and pouring him a glass.
He smiled, looking like a teenage boy, and sniffed appreciably. “How soon before the food is ready?”
“Aw, I’d say about twenty minutes. Can you wait that long, or do you need a snack?”
“I can wait.” He took a big gulp of tea, then studied me over the rim of the glass. “So. What’s a pretty thing like you doing with the big ogre?”
I turned to him, a smile in my eyes. “The big ogre being Brad?”
“Of course. He doesn’t know how to treat a lady. Now, me, I could give you the finer things in life.”
Martha laughed, her spoon hitting the counter. “Like what? A Milky Way bar and a six-pack of Miller?”
He groaned, his hand to his heart. “Martha, how am I supposed to impress her when you paint me in that light?”
Martha laughed and grabbed three plates from the cabinet. “Stevie and Brad always thought they had some magic quality with the ladies, used to call it ‘the Force.’ Stevie’s never mastered charm like Brad has—but that doesn’t stop him from trying it on every female he sees.”
“Oh, just ’cause you never fell victim to it doesn’t mean it’s not there. I just went easy on you, didn’t want to give an old woman a heart attack.”
“First of all, I wasn’t old back then. Second, every time you boys got into trouble, you’d be sitting in my kitchen, trying your best to charm your way into me sneaking you some food—so don’t tell me you haven’t tried to use it on me!”
“Did they get into trouble a lot?” I interrupted them, curious.
“When they were younger it was mostly just kid stuff—BB gun fights, sneaking into movies they had no business seeing, throwing oranges at cars. Remember that guy in the Corvette?” Martha’s eyes twinkled at Stevie, and he laughed, shaking his head. “Brad and Stevie were on a curve by the house, with about twenty oranges they had stolen from the groves around the pool. Every time a car would come around the curve, blam—they would peg the side of it with an orange. Now, most of the oranges were ripe and would splatter all over the side, scaring the bejesus out of whoever was driving and making a huge mess in the process.”
Stevie broke in, taking over the story, his eyes lit with excitement. “So around the corner comes this red Corvette—beautiful car, so hot that we got distracted, just staring at the thing. Brad finally snaps out of it and grabs an orange and throws it at the car. There were two sounds at once,” he said, holding up two fingers to illustrate the story. “A horn—the driver laid hard on the horn, alerting everyone within two miles. And brakes. That guy slammed full force on his brakes, squealing and leaving burnt rubber all over the place.” He laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “The guy driving the car was one of these bald ugly guys, probably right in the middle of a midlife crisis. He threw open the car door before it even fully stopped and started screaming bloody murder and running for us.”
“What did you do?” I leaned forward.
“Took off! Brad was trying to carry the orange bag with us, but it was heavy and bouncing everywhere, so finally he dropped it, and we split up, running in opposite directions. We were on residential streets by then, in Brad’s fancy-ass neighborhood, so we stuck out like sore thumbs. And this guy was fast. I had slowed to catch my breath when, out of nowhere, the guy tackled me.”
Martha held up a hand, stopping his story, and looked at me. “I’m gonna stop him right now before he starts blowing smoke into this story. Stevie starts crying like a little girl, screaming that they got the wrong guy, that he doesn’t have anything to do with oranges—basically admitting to involvement every time he opens his mouth. The guy wrestles him onto his back and pulls back his fist, telling him that he better fess up and give him both his and his friend’s name, or else he’s going to beat the hell outta him. That was back when a grown man could beat up a kid and, as long as he deserved it, no one gave two shits. So, what do you think Stevie did?”
She had a hand on her hip, another one on the counter, and was staring at me as though she expected my prediction. “He told them?” I ventured hesitantly.
“Well,” Stevie said, jumping back into the story. “As scared as I was of this middle-aged freak of nature, I was ten times more scared of Brad. But I wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with anything on the fly.”
“So this idiot,” Martha said, “just flip-flopped their first and last names.”
“Hey—” Stevie broke in. “I was under pressure! I blurt out that I’m Steve Magiano, and that it was Brad Magiano who threw the orange, and that I had nothin’ to do with it.”
Thirty-Nine
The names hit me like the middle-age Corvette owner’s fist, and my face must have shown it, for Martha flinched, then busied herself pulling out silverware.
“Magiano? You mean De Luca. Brad’s last name is De Luca. Right?” I stood, breathing hard, and stared at Martha and Stevie, who had both found other items in the kitchen fascinating.
“I fucking need honesty right now.” My voice was rigid and I saw Martha glance quickly over at me, and then look away. “What about women needing to know what they’re up against, Martha?”
“It’s not my place,” she said quietly, as subservient as I had ever seen her, pain in the eyes she quickly averted from me.
“And you?” I turned my wrath on Stevie, who was desperately trying to get a little more tea out of his empty glass.
He set down his glass and turned to me, his face unreadable. I could tell from his eyes that I wasn’t going to get any information from him, and he felt no shame at that. This was a man who had no issue with confrontation, or with withholding information.
Just minutes before, the kitchen had relaxed into a comfortable atmosphere, filled with the smells and noises of good cooking. Laughter, sizzles, pots banging. Now it seemed cold and foreign. I glared at both of them, then whirled and stormed up the stairs, hearing Martha’s sigh behind me. I flew onto the landing and turned, looking into Brad’s bedroom with the damn naked woman above his bed. She, in her black-and-white hotness, caught my fury. I strode in, climbing onto the bed and grabbed the large, canvas-wrapped frame and yanked it off the wall.
* * *
DOWNSTAIRS, MARTHA AND Stevie heard the sounds as Julia tore the portrait to shreds, slamming it against the door to break the wooden frame. He raised his eyebrows at Martha and she shook her head, turning off the burners and covering the rice. Dinner was finally ready, for all the good it did now.
“I always told that man his secrets would undo him.” Martha set three plates on the counter, and spooned rice onto each one.
“You act like he ever had a choice,” Stevie said, walking to the fridge and refilling his tea. He lowered his voice. “He was born, he grew up, he walked away from it as soon as he was old enough to make the decision. Why does it matter what she knows? You and I both know she won’t be around long, either by execution or him tiring of her. And she won’t tell anyone. Not now that she knows who he is.”
“I don’t know,” Martha said, heaping jambalaya onto their plates. “This one might be different. I fought it, didn’t want to see it, but something is different in his eyes when he looks at her. And from the evidence—don’t eat at that table, I got to clean it—she can keep up with him sexually, which is a feat unto itself.”
“So, what are you saying, he’s in love?” He spat out the words, incredulity coating the question.
“Maybe not yet, but it could get there.”
“Brad doesn’t fall in love. Even with Hillary.”
“Well, I told that boy marrying Hillary was a colossal mistake. It’s not my fault he didn’t listen then. But he hasn’t asked me now. Probably won’t, given as hardheaded as he is. But I will tell you, if that girl gets herself killed, I’ll be upset. And Brad? He’ll start a war the likes of which the Magianos haven’t seen in a long time.”
* * *
I LAY ON the soft sheets of the guest bed, and fumed. I was mentally exhausted, and the stress of the day weighed on me like concrete bricks, pinning me to the mattress. To make matters worse I was hungry. But I’d be damned if I sat down there with those two and ate. I could smell the jambalaya, the scent somehow making its way up the staircase, down the hall and through the thick wooden door. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to push away the thoughts that were drilling through my head.
So Brad is a member of the Magiano family. Those are the “connections” he mentioned. Hell of a connection. The Magianos, who killed Broward and tried to kill me. I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy. Even worse, I’m in love with the enemy.
I rolled over, curling into a ball, snapshots of the last few weeks shuttering through my mind. He had opened me up so much, pushed me so far past my sexual boundaries, stolen his way into and consumed my heart. At a time when everything had gone to hell and I didn’t know where to turn, he had been my constant, my strength. The man I had trusted my safety to. And now this. Brad Magiano, not De Luca. A first name I loved combined with a last name I despised. The man I had turned to was the one I should have run from. I didn’t know what bothered me more, the new danger facing my body or the risk I had brought to my heart.
Forty
“She has to die,” Dominic Magiano said in Italian. “I’m sorry, Brad, but she knows too much.” Words Brad felt he had overheard a hundred times before. Proper regret placed on the syllables, but compassion never truly behind them.
Brad faced his father in the darkness. They stood on one of the many outdoor terraces of the home where he had grown up, facing the subtly lit and landscaped gardens. He said nothing, listening to the sounds of the night.
“Are you close to her?”
“Yes.” He said the word quietly, not needing to add anything more. Despite the estrangement, his father knew him well enough to understand the weight behind the response.
The old man stepped forward, a crack of light uncovering his features, features that had aged since the last time Brad had been home. His father was a handsome man, with a full head of white hair, olive skin and strong, powerful features. His eyes differed from Brad’s; they blazed blue instead of brown, and had never failed to find weakness in an adversary. But the skin around his eyes had sagged, and age spots now covered his skin. He looked like an old man, though Brad would never dishonor him by pointing it out. From Brad’s reflection, the aging process had begun when his wife, Brad’s mother, had left. Now, over twenty years later, there was little life left in his bones. An old, stubborn man.
They had eaten in the large formal dining room, a fire lit despite the summer month. His father, it seemed, was perpetually cold, an irritating condition for Brad, whose internal temperature was the exact opposite. They had been the only attendees to the meal, and sat at opposite ends of the ridiculously long table. Brad was grateful for the distance, if only because it put him farther from the fire’s heat. The dinner was long, five courses, and they were served by Abigail, a longtime employee of his father’s.
There had been little conversation, because Brad refused to discuss his father’s business and his father had little interest in Brad’s caseload. Brad knew that any discussion regarding Julia would wait until after the meal. Over beef tenderloin with new potatoes, Brad had asked about his brothers.
“Alfonso’s wife is pregnant again. They moved out of that townhome, they live in the Glades now, close to Dante. I wish you didn’t live so far away from the family. You isolate yourself, so far from the rest of us. You think you’re better than us?” He pointed his knife at Brad, his features dark.
This was where the conversation always ended up. No matter how it started, whether it was discussing the Yankees, the weather outside or current stock prices, it always ended with that accusation.
And now the night had finally climaxed to this point, cigars and whiskey on the balcony, Julia’s imminent demise.
He spoke slowly in their language, barely containing the anger in his voice. “Explain to me why you would order a hit, to someone I know, without contacting me first.”
“You assume too much. When I gave the order I did not know her connection to you. All we had was a name and location—her home.”
“I’m not just talking about Julia. You killed my business partner without consulting me.”
“It was business. He knew the risks, as did you when you refused the business. His work was sloppy. If it hadn’t been, our hand wouldn’t have been tipped before the takeover occurred.”
“Do you not have enough power? Why are you going after other families?” He puffed on his cigar, blowing the smoke up into the night sky, willing himself to stay calm.
“You know this business. We grow or die.”
“That’s Alfonso talking. You letting him call the shots now?”
His father’s features tightened. “Don’t forget your place, my son.”
“Don’t lose yours. You still stand in control of this family.”
His father’s face tightened around the lit cigar. He sighed, old again, and looked at Brad. “What do you suggest I do with this girl?”
“Leave her alone. She’ll keep her knowledge secret in exchange for safety.”
The older man scoffed, shaking his head at Brad. “You know better than that. Women cannot be trusted. As soon as you leave her, or scorn her, or she catches you with a whore, she will tell. She will forget the danger and do whatever she can to make you bleed.”
Automatic sprinklers started in the gardens below, and Brad leaned on the railing and ground out his cigar in frustration. His father spoke again. “No. Death is the only way.”
Brad straightened, turning to face his father. “I have stood aside and watched you ruin and take countless lives. You know my opinion of your business. I won’t dishonor you by voicing it in your home. But this is one time I am not coming to you and asking for compassion. I am demanding her protection. You have cursed me with this family. Now let me have one benefit from its association. If you come for her, you will be sacrificing me.”
The eyes of his father deadened, black holes on gray skin. “You’ve been away too long, Brad. You’ve forgotten how I respond to demands. You may be my blood, but you are also the biggest indicator of my weakness. And everyone watches me closely for weakness.” He stepped forward, gripping Brad’s shoulder with his hand. “It’s the principle of it, Bradley. My priority is this family. A family you ceased being a part of a long time ago. And she risks that priority. So, as I said before, death is the only way.” He released his grip and turned, stepping back to the railing and looking outward, away from his son.
Forty-One
Brad came home at 1:00 a.m. His cousin and Martha were in the den, Stevie watching TV and Martha dozing in a recliner. Brad leaned on the door frame, his hands in his pockets, and asked Stevie the question with his eyes.
“She’s upstairs. Asleep, in the guest room.” At his words Martha stirred, then opened her eyes, seeing Brad and nodding hello.
“The guest room.” Brad’s tone was quiet, questioning.
Martha swung the recliner closed and stood, stiff-legged, and came over to Brad. “There was a slip of the tongue, Brad. She knows who you are.”
Brad’s eyes showed his anger, but he patted Martha’s shoulder and kissed her head. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her. You go on to bed.”
Her shoulders slumped, she walked over to Stevie, kissing his cheek and squeezing him hard. “See you soon, Stevie. Don’t be such a stranger.” Then she left, and Brad followed her to the back door, waiting at the window until he saw her enter her apartment. He locked the door, then swung by the fridge on his way back to the den.
He rubbed his brow, stress evident on his face, and met Stevie’s eyes across the room. Walking forward, he set two cold beers down on the table, pushing one to Stevie. “Figured you might want one.”
Stevie grinned, and used his shirt to open it, taking a big sip. “Didn’t want to take one earlier. Thought you might want me sober.”
“You thought right.” Brad sank into a big leather chair, putting his shoes on the table and opening his own bottle, tossing the cap toward the corner trash can. It missed and Brad wearily closed his eyes, resting his head against the worn leather.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Stevie asked.
Brad opened his eyes in response, lifting his head and his bottle. He took a sip and then played with the liquid on his tongue, staring forward, thinking. Stevie let him think, knowing that he would get an answer eventually.
“I am in a bit of a predicament.” Brad spoke slowly, deliberately, his deep voice filling the quiet room.
“If you need help, you know you have my loyalty.”
“This is not your fight.”
“It’s not yours, either.” Stevie leaned forward, dropping his voice to almost a whisper. “She’s pussy, Brad. I know you hate collateral damage, but you need to let this one go. They will make it quick. She won’t suffer. And then all of this, the Broward mess, the family rift, the takeover complications, will disappear. And you can go back to your clean life and continuing pretending that you’re not numero due of the Magiano dynasty.” His eyes searched Brad’s and Stevie shook his head in disgust at what he found there. “Don’t give me that look. You know this world. I don’t know that girl, and I have no loyalty to her. My loyalty is to you, and I love you like a brother. You standing up on this—for her—it’s going to rip apart every bit of this life you’ve worked so hard for. She’s a fuck. Maybe a hot one, but one who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. These girls come and go—you know that.”
Brad spoke, steel in his words. “Because you’re one of the few friends I have, I’m not going to break your fucking face for that statement. I’m also not going to dignify it with a response. Except for this. She’s not just pussy. I don’t know what she is yet, but she means something to me. You’re right. I know this world, and I know the risks involved. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told my father. If they come for her, they will have to go through me. And I have no problem dying in that fight.” His eyes cold, resolute, he drained the rest of his beer and stood, walking toward the kitchen. On his way out, Stevie spoke.
“Martha was right.” His voice was bitter, quiet, and Brad dropped the bottle into a trash can and turned to face him.
“Right about what?”
“You love her.” He spat out the words as if they were dirty.
“No.” He shook his head quickly, looking away.
“Christ, Brad, you’ve known the girl, what, a month or two?” Stevie stood up, walked over to Brad, looking into his face, which was growing darker. “You, with the heart of steel and the unending supply of ass. You’re supposed to be the smart one!”
Brad’s right fist connected with Stevie’s chin in a strong uppercut, his left hand grabbing the gun out of his holster. In one smooth motion, he flipped the gun around and cocked it, pointing it at Stevie’s head. The wounded man recoiled, and he glared at Brad, not bothering to wipe the blood pouring from his split upper lip. They faced each other, two experienced men in the game of war, one unarmed and knowing his weakness.
“Get out.”
Stevie laughed, cold and hard. “You need every friend you got right now.”
“I don’t need any more bullshit right now. And you’re bleeding all over my fucking carpet.”
Stevie walked slowly around him, eyeing the gun, leaving the study and heading for the front door. “When you’re over this shit, I’m gonna want that gun back.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
Brad locked the doors and reset the alarm. Then he turned off the lights and walked upstairs.
* * *
HE CHECKED THE master bedroom first, hoping that she had moved there and was waiting for him in bed. But his bed was empty, the room silent. He turned to leave and then stopped, seeing something. Pieces of wood and ripped canvas scattered the floor and bed. He stepped forward, trying to distinguish the items in the dimly lit room. Then, realizing what they were, he swallowed a smile and headed to the other bedroom.
He opened the guest-room door quietly, stepping over a tray of untouched food and walking silently into the dark room. Julia was sleeping, her breathing quiet and regular. She lay at an awkward position, her arms splayed, head tilted up by too many pillows.
He watched her sleep, his mind thinking over Stevie’s accusation. Was it possible? Or was this his knight in shining armor instinct? He had felt things for her, had told her as much this morning. But it was way too soon for love.
He felt out of sorts, a sensation that he was not used to and was uncomfortable with. He was used to being in control, to manipulating circumstances so that everything flowed to his liking. Staring at her, frustrated, he let the thought move around in his mind. Love. The thought floated, flipped, then settled. Maybe they were right. And in the realization, he saw light at the end of the tunnel.
