Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (21 page)

Michael took it in stride, bless his heart. Or at least he did, until the cookie platter arrived.

“So, what do you know about them Russians?” Carlos butted into Nora’s re-telling of Bill’s latest Words With Friends play (Did you know the word
shit
is accepted? How filthy.).

Michael choked a bit, but it could easily have been a wedge of steel-enforced cookie caught in his throat. “Wh-ah, excuse me?”

“Carlos– er – Grandpa,” I hissed. “Not appropriate table conversation.”

Carlos gave me a look of mixed glee and challenge. I met his eye contact, daring him to press the subject.

“I only ask because my lovely granddaughter here mentioned you live in the Uptown area. Heard about some shootings there lately. The cops think they’re tied to the infusion of the Organisatya.”

Michael nodded and patted his chest as if needing to belch. I wondered if it wasn’t – in fact – cookie that’d choked him up.

“Yes, sir,” Michael said. He offered an affable grin and swallowed. “But I mean, I’m Italian, so I don’t know any of them too well. I’m just new to the area and when I showed up, I picked the most affordable housing.”

I cleared my throat again.

Carlos ignored me. “But if you’re Italian, then why not choose the Italian side of town?”

“Didn’t you hear? He didn’t know.” I chipped in before Michael was forced to defend himself.

“Ah, but he’s young. I imagine he understands The Google?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to Michael.

“They don’t understand the Internet,” I mumbled in his ear.

“It’s no problem,” he whispered back. However his smile seemed a bit more frozen than it had been moments ago. “I didn’t pick the Italian side because I have no family here. I’m Italian by descent, but I’m not close with my family. I associate with being American more than Italian, so I didn’t think it mattered where I lived.”

I took one of the cookies Auntie Nora was offering me just so she’d stop shoving the platter in my face. Butch eyed the cookie as I set it on my plate, untouched. I nudged it in his direction and he gobbled it up greedily. His mouth must’ve been like a garbage truck, able to plow through cement.

“An Italian not close to his family… interesting.” Carlos took a slow slip of limoncello.

“Carlos Luzzi.” Auntie Nora interrupted this time. “This man has agreed to join us for dinner. Stop interrogating him.”

I took another cookie from the platter out of a massive feeling of graciousness towards Auntie Nora. I even took a feeble nibble at the outer edges – which made no indent whatsoever.

“Really, it’s okay.” Michael looked down at his plate, a saddened expression coming over his face. “My parents passed when I was young. I was raised by a German family. A wonderful family, despite their being German. They’re my family, now. That’s why I’m not on the Italian side of town.”

“Great. Good job, Car – Sir – Grandfather,” I spat the last word. “Let’s go Michael; you don’t have to answer any more questions.”

Michael shot me a weak smile. I squeezed his hand and together we stood and I grabbed his jacket from where Nora hung it on his way inside.

“I’m sorry I can’t come with you right now.” I gestured towards my car outside. “But I really appreciate you showing up to this weird function, thingy. And don’t worry, it’s not just you. Carlos puts every male that enters this house through the wringer, but this was out of hand. It’s my turn to apologize.”

Michael swooped in and kissed my cheek. “It’s not your fault. It’s just family. What does your grandfather do, by the way?”

“He’s uh, a businessman,” I said, kind of unsure. “I don’t really understand what he does.”

“Cool. He’s got quite the place,” Michael gestured around.

“Yeah, he’s been successful.”

Michael kissed me on the cheek and gave me a small salute as he walked to his car.

I waved goodbye and watched as he pulled out of the driveway. He didn’t look back, and I didn’t blame him one bit.

Returning the house, I cornered Carlos. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t trust him.” Carlos poured more limoncello into his tall, skinny glass.

“Oh, really? After two seconds of meeting him? Daiii.” I spoke the Italian word for
Come on
. It just happened to sound like “die.” I guess it could’ve been taken in English or Italian at this point.

“Carlos, he’s a good judge of character,” Butch chimed in. “He knew the second Layla walked in that she was a keeper.”

I gave Butch my best smile, halfway upturned lips at best. “I bet.”

Butch leaned over and began slobbering all over his girlfriend again.

“Sick,” I said, unable to help myself. Neither of the lovebirds noticed.

“An Italian not close to his family? I don’t buy it.” Carlos shook his head.

I stomped my foot. Nobody could infuriate me like Carlos. “We’re in the twenty-first century. There are all sorts of different types of family. There are gay people, mixed race marriages, adopted children. There’s the Internet and cell phones, and, for crying out loud ,Google! Without the THE! And shit is a friggin’ word, of course it’s accepted.”

My outburst had pulled Butch’s lips away from his lady friends’, and he gaped open mouthed at the exchange. Auntie Nora blushed a shade of crimson as she watched from the corner.

With a voice like ice – steely and unemotional – Carlos spoke slowly. “You shouldn’t see him again.”

“What? You can’t say that! It’s not up to you who I date and who I go out with. You’re not my parents. You’re my boss – and that has nothing to do with my personal life.”

My shouts went unanswered as Carlos moved to the living room for his post lunch shot of Grappa and espresso during his favorite radio program.

I turned to the quiet, shocked kitchen. “Auntie Nora, I can’t bring anybody over. I’m not bringing Andrey this evening if he’s going to act like that again.”

Auntie Nora came over and gave me a squeeze. Her head came up to about my shoulders, but she was plump and cuddly and gave some of the best hugs in town.

“You don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of that man. You just show up and we’ll have a nice,
quiet
dinner.” With a firm, feisty expression, Nora patted me on shoulder and marched off in search of Carlos.

“Well, I’ll see you later.” I gave a finger wave to Butch and company as I headed out the front door to the sound of muffled voices coming from the living room. One of them was Nora’s, and she did
not
sound happy.

I had work to do before my dinner date with Andrey.

** **

“Why was Carlos so suspicious of him?” I moaned to Clay at the laundromat.

Clay looked up from the computer. It wasn’t his day to work, but he’d agreed to cover for Nicky. Clarissa or Marissa had gotten sick and Nicky needed either a babysitter or a cover for the laundromat, and Clay had made the obvious choice.

“Beats me.” He shook his head. “Surprising. Even though Carlos is a nutcase and an asshole – not in that order – he’s usually a good judge of character.”

“You liked Michael, didn’t you?” I hated the feeling of misgiving creeping up in my stomach. I was a twenty-eight (nine) year old woman. I shouldn’t care what my lunatic grandfather thought of my choice in men. Especially when I wasn’t even dating them. People seemed to keep forgetting that fact.

Clay scrunched his nose and peered closer at the screen. “Look at this.”

I crept forward fully aware he hadn’t answered my question. But when I saw the screen, my question was blown away into smithereens.

Clay had pulled up some forum, all in Russian, that seemed to be a Wanted type of list. And at the top was a face I recognized from my first night dressed in the sexy baby onesie. “That’s Andrey’s Uncle.”

Clay nodded grimly and hit a few buttons to translate the page into English. Thanks to Google, we were able to read an incredibly poor translation of the site. But the garbled bits we took away weren’t good.

“Vadim Mikhaylova – age sixty-two – Wanted For: the murder of multiple babies-” he read out loud. “What? Is this right?”

I looked over his shoulder, not sure how I could help translate. I didn’t read or speak or understand a bit of Russian. “Oh, that word means bimbo. It’s mistranslated. Wanted for the murders of multiple hookers,” I clarified.

Clay raised his eyebrow.

“It’s similar to the Italian word for prostitute,” I mumbled, not wanting to explain
exactly
how I came to know the Russian word for hooker.

“This list goes on for a long, long time,” Clay scrolled through multiple pages of notes. I caught a few words here and there: weapons trafficking – shooting – anti-government – Russian Mafia – America.

“So, we’ve got ourselves a winner,” I said.

“I don’t know about that.” Clay looked up. “This guy is dangerous. But he’s also not the mole. He’s in way too deep.”

“But he’d make the perfect mole! He’s at the top so he’d be able to tumble the whole Bratva ring in Uptown.”

Clay grimaced. “Something’s just not right about that. Why would he have been talking about the mole like he was the other night?”

I opened my mouth to offer a reason, but Clay silenced me with a finger. “Lacey, you didn’t hear this guy. Our man Vadim was
pissed
. Like absolutely about to lose his shit furious.”

“Hmmmm.” I tapped my thumb against my lips. “Maybe I’ll ask Andrey about his Uncle tonight. See if he has anything to say about it.”

“I think you should cancel tonight.”

“What? No.” I gave him an openly shocked look. “It’s our best chance to get another lead. What else do you have?”

“We could stake out Vadim’s house and see what happens instead.”

“Oh,” I grinned. “You will.”

He nodded. “I’ve been priming my baby for the occasion. But promise me you’ll be safe and smart with Andrey.”

“I’ll be with Carlos. His house is the safest in the city. What can happen in a house with bulletproof windows, an army that could kick America’s ass and an arsenal that rivals Cuba’s in your basement?”

Clay gave a hesitant nod and dropped the subject, but the uneasiness in his face matched the queasiness in my stomach.

** **

I left the laundromat having totally forgotten to ask him about Anthony. The shooting the previous evening seemed so long ago with everything that’d happened since. I debated going to the gym, but took a detour home first. I wasn’t up for a workout. Or a confrontation. I’d had enough of both recently.

I opened my door and ignored the bullet holes in the hallway. I dumped some food in Tupac’s bowl, even though he didn’t come out to so much as mew a hello. I migrated towards my room, and whether it was lack of sleep or over eating or all the workouts I’d been doing the last few days, I collapsed onto my bed. I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was dark already and nearing 7:30.

“SHIT!” I yelped. “DINNER.”

I had missed messages on my phone, but no time to check them. The only one I opened was from Andrey, which read
SEE YOU SOON!

As an afterthought I opened the one from Clay also, which said:
HANGING W THE OLD MAN. G-LUCK.

We rarely used code, but I figured this was his attempt at telling me he was set in position at Andrey’s Uncle’s place. For all Clay knew, I was already at dinner and Andrey was lurking over my shoulder, off-handedly reading my messages.

I rushed into the bathroom to fluff my hair and swipe on some lipstick before I rushed to my Kia – my yellow sweatshirt still loyally waiting in the front seat – and drove to Carlos’ house. I pulled into the driveway with a bad case of déjà vu.

I heard an engine behind me and turned to see Andrey put his car in park a few feet back. He opened the door, but missed the first time he reached to shut it. His hands trembled.

“Hey, you,” I said. I was determined to put him at ease. Determined the second family extravaganza would be better than the first. “Don’t be nervous. They’re excited to meet you.”

I grabbed his hands in mine. He was shaking so heavily that I worried he was having some sort of weird seizure. “Uh, you okay?”

“Y-yes,” he said in his accent. “Very good. Thank you for invited me. Your family.”

It seemed his English worsened the more nervous he felt, and I prayed upon any and every god that Carlos would leave Andrey’s accented speech alone.

“Come on in.” I took his hand firmly and led him inside, waving to Harold and whizzing past the guards with a razor sharp tongue. My stomach had filled again with butterflies banging against my ribcage, and I was filled with the sudden and overwhelming realization that I had no idea whose hand I was holding. Some stranger that’d given me a ride to an apartment he thought was my home when he thought I was drunk? Everything I’d told him had been a lie. I felt a sudden desire to turn around and rush through the door crashed over my head like a broken egg. What had I gotten myself into? And why had I dragged Andrey into it with me?

I was hardly appeased as Auntie Nora whipped the door open with a false smile, her lipstick touched up, cheeks re-polished and hair re-puffed. “Welcome!”

I led Andrey into the kitchen and the sight seemed eerily staged. Butch and his lady friend stared blankly, Nora bustled to the corner where she stirred a bubbling pot of gravy and Carlos leaned back and sipped his limoncello easily, a keen eye cast in our direction. It was as if they hadn’t moved all afternoon. Not that I’d moved either (once I’d reached my bed), but still.

Andrey bowed his head and murmured “Hello” at the floor.

“This is Andrey,” I said loudly. “He was nice enough to give me a ride home the other day. I invited him over for dinner as a thank you.”

I smiled at Andrey, who gave me a watery grin in return, still not making eye contact with anyone in the room

“How nice,” Auntie Nora gushed. “Sit down, sit down. Food’s ready.”

We sat. We ate. Talk didn’t wander into a dangerous territory until the cookie platter was unearthed.

We’d passed the time querying Butch’s lady friend about where she’d flown during her stint as a flight attendant, probably back in the day where her hair was natural and her wrinkles ironed out. The conversation was equally boring and safe.