Charade

This book is dedicated to the city of Rome for being such an amazing inspiration and for helping me get into Sasha B’s point of view.

C hampagne in hand, Sasha Bracciali wandered through a late-afternoon crowd of wedding guests, enjoying the rays of simulated sunshine
pouring
down from the skylight in the domed ceiling of the Martino family’s ballroom. This magnificent venue had been inspired by the ancient Pantheon, complete with marble floor and ornate columns. And like its predecessor, the room’s circular walls were studded with alcoves that housed huge statues of Roman deities and Italian saints.

Sasha had played here often as a child, especially during wintertime, when
don
Antonio Martino had allowed his children and their guests to skate and ride bicycles and to in-line skate here, warm and secure, no matter how fiercely the Chicago blizzards raged outdoors. The place still gave her a sense of complete security, even though she now knew all about the dirty business that supported it.

She also knew what don Martino would do to her if he found out she was working as a confidential informant for the feds, so she was careful, as she moved among the beautifully dressed revelers, not to appear too detached or too observant.

Just let the bra-cam do all the work,
she reminded herself, strolling over to the wedding cake so that the tiny lens embedded in the lacy bodice of her navy-blue waltz gown could get a clear shot of some nearby musclemen. Clad in black suits, these thugs weren’t making any pretense of enjoying themselves. For them, this was business: protecting the bride, the family and the expensive wedding presents.

“Any sign of him, Camper?” asked a voice from the microreceiver in her ear.

Sasha raised her glass to her lips to hide her reply.
“Lots of familiar faces, but so far, no zio Vincenzo.”

“You’re doing great,” the voice assured her. “Even if the Butcher doesn’t show up, we’ve got some valuable footage, thanks to you.”

She bit back a smile, wondering how Special Agent Jeff Crossman always managed to sound so reassuring and appreciative when she was wired, especially since he was so suspicious and critical of her at all other times. As her handler, code name Summit, he had helped her through every one of her official ops so far, while tirelessly working in the background to get her fired.

If he ever used that sweet, sexy voice on you in person, you’d have a vaginal meltdown,
she teased herself.
Luckily, there’s not much danger of that happening.

She began swaying to the music, acknowledging that the love ballads filling the air were beginning to get to her. Nearby, a father was dancing with his toddler daughter, allowing her to stand on his feet to follow his steps. It stirred vague memories of Sasha’s own father, and she imagined him—the powerful Franco “Big Frankie” Bracciali—behaving in the same indulgent way at weddings past.

It brought to mind one of Big Frankie’s favorite stories, about the first time he took Sasha to Rome. She had been five years old, and when they had walked into the middle of the Pantheon, she had looked around,
then
announced cheerfully, “The Romans stole this idea from zio Antonio!”

Refocusing on the little girl dancing nearby, Sasha warned her silently,
Your
dad’s a hero to you now. I envy you that. But I’m also afraid for you, because if he works for don Martino, or any of these other Mafiosos, you’re in for some serious heartache.

“Heads up, Camper.
A limo just pulled into the private driveway at the side of the house. Keep an eye out.”

“Copy that, Summit.” Grateful for the interruption, Sasha turned toward the entry hall that led to Antonio Martino’s study just in time to see the bride—Gianna Martino-Barrett—dash through the columned doorways. The poor girl was probably sneaking out for a bathroom break, or even more likely, a quick drag on a cigarette. But there was always the possibility that her exiled uncle—Vincenzo “the Butcher” Martino—had shown up to kiss the bride, despite the multiple outstanding arrest warrants that bore his name.

“Summit? I’m going to check out the rest of the house.”

“Negative, Camper. The party’s in the ballroom. It’ll look suspicious.”

Sasha continued walking toward the hallway, murmuring, “Vincenzo won’t show himself in here. Not with a crowd like this. They’ll meet in Antonio’s study for a quick hug and some tears,
then
he’ll be gone. This may be our only chance, and I’m taking it.”

There was a moment of silence, and Sasha was sure Jeff had muted the speaker so that he could fire off a couple of expletives about the “spoiled Mafia princess” he was being forced to handle. Still when his reply came, it was in Summit’s trademark tone. “Don’t take chances, Camper. Just get a shot of his new face,
then
get out of there.”

“Copy that.”

Relief flooded through her. Of course, she would have proceeded with or without his blessing, but it was better this way, especially given the number of times the words
willful
and
reckless
already appeared in her file.

And
always
in Jeff’s handwriting.

“Pardon me, miss.” A huge guard blocked her path as she reached the far end of the entryway. “Can I help you?”

“I need to use the little girl’s room.”

He motioned toward the alcoves at the east side of the ballroom. “Guest bathrooms are over there. The entrance to the ladies is behind Minerva.
Gents behind Neptune.”

Sasha pretended to pout. “I’m not just a guest. I’m an honorary member of the family.”

“This part of the house is off-limits at the request of don Martino.”

“I’m guessing you don’t know who I am. Either that or you have a death wish.” She arched an eyebrow, but only in mock reproach. “I’m Sasha Bracciali.”

His brow furrowed.
“Bracciali?”

“That’s right,” a man’s voice growled from behind her. “She’s Big Frankie’s daughter, you moron. Get out of her way.”

Sasha turned to give the bride’s brother, Carmine Martino, a quick hug.
“Finally!
I was wondering when you’d notice me. Thanks for the rescue.”

“My pleasure.”
The future head of the Martino crime family beamed. “Good thing you changed your mind about coming. I would’ve taken it personally if you didn’t.”

“It’s all so complicated, isn’t it?” She exhaled slowly and audibly. “I was afraid I’d run into Daddy and end up making a scene. But when I heard he could only stay for a few minutes, I decided I could time my arrival to avoid him.”

“I figured it was something like that. Come on.” Carmine took her by the arm and tugged her back toward the party. “Let’s dance. You owe me one from the last time I saw you.”

“At Bobby’s wedding?”
Sasha grimaced. “That was your lucky day. Remember how I left early with a stomachache? It turned out to be the mother of all flu bugs. Be glad you didn’t get close enough to catch it.”

“It would’ve been worth it,” he murmured, his eyes openly scanning her body.

“You’re so sweet. Stay right here, okay? I need to pop into the powder room for a sec,
then
we can dance.”

“I’ll show you the way.”

She almost reminded him that she knew this house by heart, but decided it might offend him. Or worse, make him sentimental for the old days, when she had hung out here with his sisters—Gianna and Vittoria—while Carmine lurked in the background, wanting to hit on her, but afraid that her father would hear about it and have him erased from the face of the earth.

She even wondered if she and Carmine might not have ended up dating, secretly or otherwise, if she hadn’t spent most of her teenage years at the Athena Academy, an all-girl prep school in Arizona . That experience had changed Sasha’s life, exposing her to cultural and ideological influences that differed greatly from her childhood in Chicago —or more accurately, the Chicago of her honorary uncle Antonio Martino and her father,
don
Franco Bracciali.

Still, Carmine had been enough of a stud back then to attract her when she came home during school breaks. Sasha hadn’t yet discovered the dark side of her family’s business, much less the way it warped men like her father—and boys like Carmine—with its heady combination of power and violence.

In those days, all she had wanted to do was design dresses, fall in love and please her father—not necessarily in that order. Slowly but surely, the Athena Academy had shown her there was more to life, nurturing her academic and creative talents while also teaching her martial arts, weaponry and mountain-climbing—skills she never would have thought to acquire otherwise. That solid foundation had given her the strength to endure and succeed even after her mother’s violent death during Sasha’s second year of college, an event that might otherwise have damaged Sasha beyond repair. Even so, her subsequent estrangement from her father, whom she believed was responsible for her mother’s death, had almost destroyed her.

Reminding herself now of the job she had to do, she allowed Carmine to take her by the hand and lead her into a second hallway, where she noted in frustration that the door to don Martino’s study was closed tight. There was no sign of Gianna, and the room was guarded by two armed men.

“What’s
that
about?” Sasha asked in a hushed tone. “I’ve never seen muscle in this part of the house. Not even during the drug war.”

“We’ve got a very special guest,” Carmine told her, adding quickly, “It’s no one you know.”

Noting a hint of wariness in his hazel eyes, she decided to take a chance. “I know everyone who’s anyone, remember? And the more special they are, the more likely they visited
my
house at least once during my childhood to pay their respects to Daddy.”

“I thought you needed to take a leak.”

“I do.
After
I prove to you that I know your special guest. Unless he’s so special that
you
aren’t allowed in there with him.”

Carmine laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still gotta have your own fucking way every single fucking minute of every single fucking day.”

Sasha laughed, too. “Why should I change? I’m perfect just the way I am.”

“True.” He licked his lips.
“How about a deal?
We’ll join Pop and Gianna and the guest. If you know him, I’ll wait on you hand and foot for the rest of the reception. If he’s a stranger to you, we’ll go up to my room and you can be my love slave.”

Summit ’s voice intruded immediately. “Negative, Camper. Do
not
take that bet.”

“Hmm…” Sasha sifted her fingers through her long, loose hair,
then
nodded. “Okay, handsome. You’re on.”

As much as Sasha disapproved of violence, she felt a tingle of anticipation when one of the guards refused to step aside on Carmine’s orders. In an instant, her muscular escort had pinned the poor slob against the doorjamb with one hand while sticking a slender silver blade against his throat.

“If this wasn’t my sister’s wedding day, you’d be dead,” Carmine assured him. “Now apologize to the lady,
then
move your fucking ass out of the way.”

Sasha flashed them both a playful smile, then took a deep breath and tiptoed into the sanctum sanctorum, where she saw her friend Gianna crying in the arm’s of a middle-aged stranger while another man stood nearby, also sobbing. Sasha would have known the second man anywhere, despite the fact that all the shades were drawn and the lights were dimmed.

“Zio Antonio!” She didn’t have to pretend to be happy. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

“Sasha?” He strode over to give her a bear hug. “My God, look at you.
More beautiful than ever.
And because of you and your God-given talent, my Gianna looks radiant, too. This gown you designed for her is a work of art. It should be displayed in the Uffizi next to the masters.” He held Sasha at arm’s length as he added, “What’s this I hear about you refusing to let us pay you? If anything, I should double your usual fee for such a treasure.”

“You got the family discount,” Sasha explained. “I hope you don’t mind, but that’s how I’ll always see you and Gianna.
And Carmine, of course.”

Carmine chuckled.
“No, thanks.
I’m looking for a different kind of relationship.”

Sasha laughed,
then
turned back to Antonio. “Take a closer look at Gianna. I think
she’s
the work of art. Don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Sasha,” Gianna said, wiping away her tears. “And thanks again for coming. I was afraid you wouldn’t. And you’re the closest thing to a sister I have, now that—well, you know.”

Sasha gave the bride a warm hug, knowing how much it would have meant to her—to everyone—if Vittoria Martino had lived to see this day. But Tori had died young, another victim of the mob violence that had plagued both their families for almost a century.

Wasn’t that why Sasha was working with the FBI?
To put an end to that madness once and for all?