Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (9 page)

"Actually, I kind of need your help. It's nothing big, just I need a friend to talk this over with, a sounding board. Think I can stop by the house?"

"Sure, as long as you don't mind the laundry sitting in the living room. With Johnny being a bit down, I've been lazy with my housework this weekend, and I'm in between pieces right now anyway."

"What, you didn't crack the whip on Daniel to do the folding for you?" I joked, feeling better already. "You're slacking off, girl."

She laughed, then hushed. "Shh, don’t make me laugh. As for the whips, you know I keep those only for special occasion, when he's been a very bad boy."

"Yeah, right," I retorted, knowing she was joking. While Adriana and I had more than once had frank discussions about her sex life with her husband, I also knew they weren't into any sort of S&M. "I'd hate to see your uncle's reaction the first time you showed up at the mansion with a whip mark on your back, even a loving one."

“He'd be second in line behind Mom," Adriana said. "Come on. Get over here, and we can talk. See you in twenty."

I took the packet from the AADP with me and drove to Adriana and Daniel's house, a nice three-bedroom ranch-style house that had an attached garage and a nice backyard with a wooden play set with a tire swing that Tomasso and Daniel had built by hand for Johnny.

I found Adriana in her normal house clothes, a paint stained baggy t-shirt and jeans, holding Johnny in her arms when she opened the door. "Hey, Aunt Carmen," Johnny mumbled, his eyes still sleepy. "Can I have a hug?"

"Of course, squirt," I said, holding my arms out. Johnny was big for his age, but even though he was already over three feet tall and weighed thirty-five pounds or so, it was nothing for me to hold him. I held him as Adriana and I went into the house before laying him on the sofa. "Okay, buddy, your mom and I have to do grown-up talk. Think you can hang out here a while?"

"Okay," he half-whined, already falling back asleep. "Will you watch Thomas with me later?"

"Of course," I replied, giving him a kiss on the forehead. "Now just relax, and when I'm done, we can watch a Thomas DVD."

Adriana was in the kitchen, where she had already laid out some cookies and milk. "I'd have made tea, but I just wasn't in the mood," she said, pouring me a glass. "So what's up?"

"Well, I got some mail today," I said, handing over the packet. "A dance competition."

"I know you've been looking for one of those," Adriana said, reading the cover letter quickly. She always read things quickly, so much so that you could hand her something and you'd think she'd barely glanced at it. "Sounds like just what you've been looking for. A big-ish competition, lots of exposure, and if you flame out, it won't hurt you either as that'd be at a regional that won't get broadcast. So what's wrong?"

"All of the competitions need a partner," I said glumly. "And I don't have a partner."

"You don't?" Adriana commented, handing the packet back to me. "What about Dante?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I mean, yeah, I’ve been giving him lessons, but for competition? We wouldn’t have a chance in hell.”

"You said it yourself that he's a quick learner, and I could tell something else even more important. There's chemistry between you two. Tell me I'm lying."

I shook my head, admitting the truth. "You're not lying. Just . . . he may be a quick study, but he's raw. The only way we'd have even half a shot is if we started practicing every day, multiple hours a day . . ."

"Oh, and spending all that time together in close proximity would be something so intolerable for you to deal with," Adriana shot back, taking a cookie and biting into it. "I've come to recognize that you are in happier, perkier moods on the days you two practice than you are the other five days a week."

I sighed, then chuckled and took a cookie. "He's already a busy man, Adriana. I'd be asking a lot of him."

"Then ask," Adriana said, reaching out and taking my hand. "Seize the moment. If anything, talk to Tomasso too. Maybe he can help you work it out."

I laughed at her horrible pun and finished off my cookie. "All right, you convinced me. I'll see what I can do. First, I need to talk to Dante though. I'll give him a call. If he says yes, maybe he and I can talk to Tomasso. But he's so proud of what he's accomplished here lately, I know he’s not going to want to jeopardize that."

"As he should be," Adriana said. "He pulled his reputation from the gutter, something few people do in the Bertoli family."

"I've heard other people make mention of that," I said, curious. "What is it that gave him such a bad rap?"

Adriana shook her head. "That's not for me to tell right now. Maybe Dante will when the time is right for him. In any case, give him a call."

I took out my phone and dialed, leaning back in the chair as it rang. Dante picked up after three rings, slightly out of breath. "Carmen?"

"You programmed my number in your phone already, I see," I said, and Adriana gave me a knowing smile. "How's it going?"

"Ah . . . good," Dante replied, only slightly flustered. "I'm just doing some work. What's up?"

"After you left today, I got some mail," I said, trying not to rush. "There's a dance competition, and there's a chance for national exposure, even some prize money."

"Wow, that's awesome," Dante said, clearly excited before sounding glum. "But I guess that means you need to train a lot, right? Does that mean we need to stop our lessons?"

"No, the exact opposite," I said. “The competition is a pairs competition. So I need someone to dance with. I was kind of wondering, well . . . would you be my partner?"

"What? Are you serious?"

I blinked, not at all expecting that answer. "Well, yeah. I'm totally serious. I need your help. This is my big chance. Please, will you be my partner?"

There was a long silence on the end of the line, and I saw Adriana hold up her crossed fingers, giving me a smile and a nod. Finally, Dante came back on. "Okay, I guess. I’ll try. What's this going to take?”

"We're going to have to practice every day, at least two hours or more. How about I come by there, sit down with you, and discuss it? I know I'm asking a lot, but I wouldn't if it weren't important, and well . . . you're the only person I can depend on with this."

"All right then," he said, a bit more enthusiastically but still not a hundred percent sure. "How about at four? That's before my work dinner, and we can go over the details."

"Sure," I agreed, trying to keep up my good spirits. I possibly had a dance partner, after all. "And Dante . . . thank you. I owe you big time for this."

"No you don't. It's going to be my pleasure. I just hope I don’t make you look like a fool,” Dante said, for the first time sounding honest and open with me, like I'd gotten used to. "See you at four."

I hung up the phone and looked at Adriana. "Well, I've got a dance partner."

"Good. Now, how about we take the rest of these cookies into the living room, where a certain little boy wants to watch
Thomas the Tank Engine
with his Aunt Carmen?"

I
t was
bright and early the next morning at six o'clock when I got to the studio the next day, and I was still wiping the sleep out of my eyes. Thankfully, after talking to Carmen the day before, Tomasso and Luisa were willing to make some changes so that their friend could go after her lifelong goal. Besides, the Bertoli’s were part owner of the dance studio, and if it just so happens to take off as a result of any publicity, all the better.

I felt pressure on my shoulders as I knocked on the door to the studio. Carmen came out and unlocked the door, letting me in. "Dante . . . thank you. To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd be here this morning."

I could see the concern in her eyes, and I felt my nervousness replaced with something else, a desire to make sure she was taken care of. "Carmen, I made a promise. I guess that yesterday, I was a worried because of how this project might interrupt my new job. I mean, twelve hours a week alone of dance practice . . . that's a lot of time and hard work. But Tomasso reassured me, and he put the decision in my hands. So I thought about it, and I decided that you're right. This is the sort of opportunity that doesn't come around often, and if you really are serious about wanting me to be your partner . . . well, I’ll do my best to help you win.”

Carmen smiled, and looked like she didn't know what to say. Finally, she nodded and stepped back. "All right, let's get to work then."

Inside, I stretched out, while Carmen fiddled around on the computer. "Tell me more about what we're going to be doing," I said and I rolled my shoulders.

"Okay," Carmen said, tapping the touchpad on her notebook. "Well, the first round is a compulsory dance, with everyone having to do the same music, same style, same steps. It's boring as hell to watch, as literally it's watching the same thing over and over and over, with the only difference being the people involved. In this case, at Regionals, round one is a foxtrot to an instrumental version of Dean Martin's
Ain't That a Kick in The Head
."

"Well, the Don will like that," I chuckled. "After all, a mobster classic for us is somehow appropriate."

Carmen went on. "The next round is going to be the hardest for us, I think—the wildcard round. Basically, the head judge will pull a style and a piece of music from a fishbowl and we have to make it up on the fly. To top it off, that round is done with other couples on the floor at the same time."

"Maybe we can try it out with some other couples? Kinda like a test run?"

"I think Adriana and Luisa can talk their husbands into that sort of thing," Carmen said, smiling. "Good idea. Anyway, the big one is going to be the showcase dance. That's the big number, where we can go with any of the recognized dance styles, and really turn it loose. Uh, I was thinking last night, buzzing on ginger green tea, and I was kind of hoping that we could do a mambo."

"What's a mambo?" I asked, lost. "I mean, other than that silly song
Mambo Number Five
, I have no clue."

"It's a fast Latin dance. Earlier you said I was of Mexican heritage, but you're only half right. My mother was actually Cuban, from Santiago de Cuba. It'd be a favor to me if we could turn it loose to that."

I thought about it and nodded. It was Carmen's decision, and I'd put my trust in her. "Okay. I know on the floor I'm supposed to lead, but you're going to be the coach and brains behind this operation. You decide what we should do and I’ll just try to learn and play catch up. And what about costumes? Don’t people go crazy with that stuff. At least, that’s what I’ve seen on TV.”

Carmen stopped, staring at me before slapping her forehead. "Oh God, I forgot all about that. This is going to be expensive."

“Let me help,” I said, cracking a smile. “I’m making halfway decent money now, and it’s not like I have things lined up to spend it on."

Carmen stopped, and came over, giving me a hug. I was surprised, but my hands knew what to do, and I pulled the beautiful woman closer, relishing the feel of her body pressed against mine. "Thank you," she whispered, burying her head in my t-shirt to hide the tears that I suspected were in her eyes. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her tight for a moment, then let go. "Come on. Let's get started. Starting with, how in the hell do you dance a mambo?"

* * *

W
hen I got
to the diner where I was meeting with Tomasso before work that day, I was limping slightly, and he gave me a knowing look as I sat down. "Feet a little sore?"

"I thought your wife was a tough trainer," I groaned as I lowered myself into the booth. "Carmen makes Luisa look like a Sunday school teacher."

"My Sunday school teacher was a nun named Sister Abigail," Tomasso said with a chuckle. "Trust me, comparing Luisa to her is a compliment. Abigail would be more than happy to take a ruler to someone who screwed off in her classes. But I get your point. You gonna survive?"

"You know I can," I said, sighing as I was able to stretch my legs out. "But I'll be honest if I didn't say that I could use a couple days a week of rest. Got any stakeouts or paperwork that needs filed?"

"Stakeouts, maybe, but not at the moment," Tomasso said. "As for the desk job, well, that's not the way we do things, as you know. But tonight I do have something that'll keep you off your feet for a while, but your legs might not like it."

"Oh?" I asked, intrigued. "What's up?"

"Priority pickup, materials and some information from friends in Portland. They agreed to meet at the edge of their territory, considering the amount of money we're talking here."

"Where is the meet up?" I asked.

"Castle Rock," Tomasso said. "A gas station just off the Interstate. You drive down, in a truck unfortunately, give them the briefcase I'll give you in a few minutes, and take the delivery. I know it sounds like a step down, but trust me when I say this is important."

Castle Rock. I'd been there, once, stopping at probably the same gas station Tomasso was talking about on my way to Portland. It was tiny, with St. Helens visible in the distance, a nice place to take a rural vacation if that was your thing. But it was also nearly two hours away by Interstate. "What time is the meet up?"

"No complaints about the distance?" Tomasso asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm surprised."

“Have you ever heard me complain? I do what’s asked of me,” I said.

Tomasso nodded, his eyes telling me he liked my answer. "All right then. Well, let's get you that case, and get you over to pick up that truck. It's a U-Haul, but at least we made sure that it's one of the newer models, a fifteen-footer."

We drove over to the dealer and picked up the truck, which as promised was at least a newer truck, with only twenty thousand miles on the odometer. "By the way," Tomasso said as he handed me the keys, "I'd recommend driving with your coat off, men in suits don't normally drive moving vans."

I shrugged off my coat, then chuckled. “Good thinking.”

Tomasso laughed and handed me my case. "Just a word, inside the glove box is some backup for you. I hope everything goes smooth, there shouldn't be any problems. The Portland crew and my father are good friends. Give me a call when you get back to Seattle."

The drive down was easy, and the empty U-Haul was able to do seventy miles an hour without strain. I wanted to keep it no faster than seventy, the last thing I needed was to be pulled over by a cop when I had a briefcase full of fifty dollar bills and the Beretta from the glove box sitting next to me. Other than that, the only drawback was that the truck only had a simple AM/FM radio, which meant that I was stuck listening to either talk radio, country, or formulaic Top 40 stations the whole way down. As I drove, my mind kept hearing the beat, and I found myself tapping away on the steering wheel, imagining how I'd dance to the song along with Carmen. In the three days since agreeing to do the competition with her, I'd learned more about dancing than I ever thought possible, even though I was sore from my neck down almost constantly.

I got to Castle Rock and pulled off the highway, looking for the gas station. It wasn't far, only about a half mile, and on the side I found the blue Toyota I was told to look for. Pulling over, I tapped at the window. "Alan Pangborn?"

The man, who in no way resembled the character from the Stephen King book he took his alias from, rolled down the window and nodded. "You're Eddie Dean, I take it?"

"Yeah," I replied. Working with Tomasso had opened me up to more formal learning, but I still remembered the years of reading pop novels from the library, and even still, I thought our aliases were borderline over the top. I wondered if this guy would have called Tomasso 'Roland of Gilead' or something. "How's the antiques business?"

"Good. In fact, I have the item you ordered at my shop. Follow me," the man said, our little charade completed. It was total bullshit, but just in case, it paid to be paranoid.

I followed the man in the truck to an auto body shop on the outskirts of town, where he had me pull around back. Sliding the pistol into the back of my pants just in case, I closed the money up, and walked with him into the back of the shop, where I found two other men, both armed, but their guns resting clearly out of the way. "So you've got the money the Don was supposed to send with you?" 'Alan Pangborn' asked after closing the door. "Don't worry, this shop is owned by us, and we're using an electronic jammer. Cops can't hear shit, and besides, we own the local cops."

"Okay then. Here it is," I said, tucking my pistol into the back of my pants before setting the case on the workbench next to me. "To be honest though, I don't know how much is in the case. I'm just supposed to get two things from you guys. Product, whatever that is, and information."

"Of course," Pangborn replied, nodding to one of the two armed men. "You must be one of Tommy Bertoli's new boys. The Don and us have good relations, but it takes balls to come do a pickup like this by yourself."

"I do what I'm asked, and get the job done," I replied, not threatening, but just letting these guys know that I wouldn't be tolerating any intimidation crap. I wasn't the same Dante Degrassi who'd been pushed around by Danny Huong a few months earlier. "So where is it?"

"On the hydraulic lift," Pangborn replied. "If you don't mind, my boys can back your truck up to the bay doors here, and we can wheel it right out to you. The parking lot's a little tight for a three-point turn, and they've done this before."

I looked over at the hydraulic lift, and saw a single wooden crate, already lifted into the air. "Why'd you guys want me to get a fifteen-footer for one box?"

"Weight," one of the gunmen said, sliding his rifle off his shoulder and putting it aside. "The box is heavy as fuck, and you'd fuck up the suspension on most trucks. You could have fit it in an F-350, but I guess the Don don't drive Fords."

"You know him,” I said. I took out my keys and held them out. "If you don't mind, I'll watch the backup and loading job."

The Portland boys were professionals, and there was no screwing around. Within ten minutes of me walking in, I was driving out, my Beretta sitting on the seat next to me while the back of the truck was locked. Driving back to Seattle was more difficult, mainly because I was stiffening up, and was sleepy to boot. Finally, I pulled over into a truck stop to do some stretching and a few jumping jacks, getting the blood flowing and the kinks worked out.

I was about halfway through my little routine of making myself look like an idiot when I saw the kid approaching me, the hood on his dirty sweatshirt pulled up and his hands already trembling as he tugged at his scraggly, matted beard. "Hey man, can you help me out?"

"Sorry, not tonight," I replied, trying not to start something. He was obviously a tweaker. Considering where I was, more than likely it was meth. "Can't help you right now.”

"Come on man, I just need a few dollars," the kid said, his eyes widening. "Why you gotta be a dick?"

"Not being a dick, I’m just busy. Now move along, man. Go chill out and sleep it off."

I saw his hands clench and knew what was coming. While I was nowhere near an expert yet, the tweaker's punch was telegraphed, and I blocked it easily with my left arm, stepping in and snapping his head back with a viscous uppercut elbow that sent him crumpling to the ground. I looked around, seeing that the clerk was already stepping out of the minimart, probably after seeing the whole thing. "You okay?"

I nodded, dusting off the sleeves on my shirt. "Yeah. Fucker took a swing at me."

"I know, it's all on video, and I saw it personally. You want to call the cops?"

I shook my head, waving it off. “He needs detox, not county jail. You want to call the cops?"

The clerk shook his head. “No. I know him, he's on his second strike already, drugs as you'd guess. I call, he goes down for a long time. I know someone who might take him in, see what he can do."

"All right then. Have a good night," I said, walking away and getting into the truck. I made the rest of the drive back to Seattle, adrenaline still pumping through my system. The
fight
had been so quick, I hadn't had a chance to even be nervous, and I floored the guy with one shot. I hadn't even thought about it, it had happened on pure instinct, and was starting to realize just how changed I was.