Summer Kisses (183 page)

Marisa walked by Sandro, punched the elevator button. After glancing around, forcing Dave to slide back out of sight, Sandro folded the magazine in his hands and followed a discreet distance behind Marisa, entering the elevator just as it was closing.

Following them was out of the question. The elevators were enclosed and Dave had no way of knowing which floor their room was on. He considered going to the registration desk and intimidating the clerk for the information. But that would make him too public and at this time discretion was the better part of valor and all that.

From necessity, he reasoned, Marisa was going to have to do most of the legwork for whatever scheme she and Sandro, who was too recognizable to be running around on the streets, had devised. Following a gut feeling that she would soon be back down, Dave decided to stay put and watch the elevators, betting if he followed her, he’d find out quick enough what they were planning.

~~~

A sense of déjà vu welcomed Marisa as she used the key card to unlock the second hotel room of the day. Sandro, walking past her, tossed his cap and magazine on the king-sized bed—one bed only—since she would be staying at her apartment. Or if absolutely necessary, with Luigi. She hid a shudder by giving careful attention locking the door behind them.
Not much longer
, she promised herself.

Sandro unzipped his jacket. Her purse joined his things on the bed before she pulled off her short, leather, fur-lined jacket. She took her jacket, as well as his, and hung them on the standard room hangars.

She didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking. She remembered all too well the horror of learning the person who gave you the reason to exist was in danger. The memory tightened her throat, cutting off her air. She’d been too late for Paolo. But there was still time for Nia.

“Ho bisogono di una pistola,”
Sandro said, asking for a gun.

Her back had been to him. She dragged in a breath and turned to face him. As long as Sandro stayed in the room he was safe enough and had no need for a gun, but she could play along. Without a word, she walked to her purse and pulled out her derringer from its snug compartment.

Looking skeptically at the tiny gun she handed him, Sandro said,
“Questo è un giocattaolo, non una pistola.”
This is a toy, not a gun.

“Un giocattolo mortale, se sei un buon tiro.”
A deadly toy if you’re a good shot, she told him, continuing in Italian since he was more comfortable with their native language. “And you are a very good shot.” She remembered the times before momma’s . . . tragedy, when Sandro joined them on family hunting trips. He’d only been a teen then, but he bagged his shot every time. Birds, a hundred meters in the air. As he grew older, he succeeded in everything he tried. She hoped his luck held with their venture. The stakes were so much higher.

Hefting her derringer in his palm, he bent over and slid it inside his sock. Almost immediately, he pulled it back out and said, “Uncomfortable. I’ll need an ankle holster.”

Apparently he planned to keep her gun, whether he thought it a toy or not. Of course, she did offer. But now she’d need to get herself a replacement. “I can buy you an ankle holster when I buy your clothes.” She’d only had time to go to the software store earlier. Since he couldn’t return home, he was going to need at least one change of clothes.

“I need a bigger gun, too. One where I don’t have to get so close to use it on the people who want to kill me. The derringer is a good back up weapon, but not as a main weapon.”

“I can get you a bigger gun,
si
,” she offered. It would be no problem since she was going to buy herself another one anyway.

“I want to buy my own.”

He simply was not going to be cooperative, was he? “Getting out is risky,” she pointed out, not telling him anything he didn’t know. She’d saved his life once already today. Who knew if she would be in the right place at the right time again? And of course, there would be an ‘again’. Poppa would be relentless until Sandro was stopped.

“You know I have to look for Nia.”

Marisa almost sighed. But truthfully, she’d known there was no chance of talking him into staying hidden and safe. Dave had already tried every version of that tactic. And could she blame Sandro? She would have willingly risked her life, given her life even, to have been able to save Paolo. Sandro, with her help, had a chance to rescue his beloved and stop her father as well. No, she couldn’t blame him. Still his insistence on going out would cause them problems. Keeping him safe being the biggest problem.

Needing time to think, she reached inside the small room refrigerator for a cold drink. “Want something?”

He shook his head.

She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a sip. “Georgio’s nephew sells guns,” she said at last. Georgio was the head chef at Sandro’s restaurant. “You can get one from him without having to wait for a background check.”

“I’d heard that rumor. That will be the best option. I will go to the restaurant and get the location from Georgio.”

“Go to the restaurant? Hello? Ever heard of a
telefono
?” She almost lost her temper, but checked it at the last second. Waste of energy; obviously, he wasn’t listening.

“Who knows if the phones are tapped? Even if they can’t trace this throw-away phone you got for me, calling could put Georgio in danger.”

Ratcheting down her frustration, she stood sipping her soda. She studied Sandro, considering the point he made. It was nice to see his quick intelligence had not deserted him in a crisis moment. “I can swing by and talk to Georgio.” She tried one last time, knowing his answer even before he spoke.

“No. I must do something for myself.”

Her lips tightened. She expected no less.

“Just get me some clothes so I can get out on the streets,” he continued. “I’m too recognizable to everyone in these warm-ups.”

He didn’t mean ‘everyone’, of course. Although avid soccer fans would likely recognize him, true, since his image was splattered over sports magazines and the Internet. But the ‘everyone’ of whom he spoke was the people he would, of necessity, have to be around. The mobsters. They were the ones more likely to recognize him in his customary warm-ups.

She set her drink down on the nightstand and pulled a notepad and pen out of the drawer. “What sort of clothes do you want?”

He gave her a list, and added that he wanted one of those razors to shave his head.

She blinked. “You’re cutting off your ponytail?”

“It will help disguise me.”

Sadness overcame her, he’d had that curly ponytail for as long as she could remember. But it would grow back. His safety was most important, she agreed.

He unzipped the front pocket on his warm-up pants to pull out his wallet. Surely he did not intend to pay? He passed her a debit card. “I could only get three hundred out of the ATM in the lobby. I need that for a gun. You should have no trouble using my card, I’ll give you my PIN.”

Shaking her head, she handed the card back to him. “I will pay. You’re in this because of my family.”

When he refused to take it back, the stubborn Italian, she added, “We’re stealing Poppa’s money anyway, what is the difference?” Stepping closer, she smiled at the grim look on his face. Before he could object, she stuffed the card back into his pocket. “You know I’m right.”

Nia released her homemade rope and dropped to the ground. Mikey examined the tied-together blankets and sheets dangling from the third floor window.

“Pretty slick, bitch.” He nodded. “I figured you’d try something. You’se got the look of a fighter about ya.”

And fight she would, if she thought she’d stand a chance. But that gun in his hand definitely made her think twice. Still. Giving up was a hard thought to process when freedom had been so close.

A black Lincoln Town car pulled into the drive, distracting Mikey’s attention for a moment. “Ah, Giovanni’s arrived with the foo–”

Nia seized the chance. Swinging her foot up to kick Mikey’s wrist, she heard a sickening crack before the gun went flying.

“Fuck!” Mikey screamed cradling his hand. “You broke my wrist, bitch.”

With only a vague idea of how to use it, Nia made a mad dash for the gun. Technical know-how or not, she wanted it with her.

She scooped it up and kept on running, heading for the wooded area behind the house. It would soon be dark. If she could reach the trees, perhaps she could lose them and hide until they gave up searching. Then she could find help.

“Hey, what’s going on?” she heard the man named Giovanni ask as he climbed out of the car.

“Stop the bitch. She’s getting away. Damn it, she broke my wrist,” Mikey whined, but Nia heard him take off after her. He wasn’t too injured to run it seemed.

Giovanni, who was at least a hundred yards away, started running at her from the right. She swerved left.

Instinct, honed from years of being chased for possession of a soccer ball, told her Mikey was fast closing behind her. Giovanni still wasn’t close enough to be a threat. The trees were just ahead, but what once before seemed a welcome haven, now was a hindrance. Mikey was too close; she couldn’t outrun him by weaving and darting between trees. The tangle of branches would slow her too much.

Panic threatened. She forced it down. Stay calm, she told herself.

Just then, she sensed Mikey making his move. He lunged. She twisted and sped away, now running parallel to the trees. He leaped forward again, managing to touch her. He wasn’t close enough to grab her, but he shoved at her.

“Shit!” he yelled. “My wrist.”

Injured wrist or not, his move had pushed her off balance while she had been running full speed. She struggled to keep her balance, but she stumbled, stuttered, then slammed into a tree.

The impact knocked the breath from her. The gun fell from her limp fingers.

Mikey grabbed her hair, jerking her head back, twisting her around to face him. She hadn’t yet recovered from the collision with the tree. Too much pain. She gasped, trying to breathe.

“You broke my wrist, you fucking bitch.” He waved his hand in front her face.

Blinking, she tried to make her eyes focus.

“That hurt, damn it.” He slammed his right knee viciously into her stomach.

She cried out in shocked agony. The baby! “No, not my stomach,” she whimpered.

He let go of her hair and she slumped forward, clutching her stomach. Before she hit the ground his left fist caught her right cheekbone, snapping her head back. She staggered into the tree again, this time the back of her head colliding with the unforgiving tree. She slid to the ground.

“Mikey, what the fuck you doing?” Giovanni caught up to them. “You ain’t s’pposed to hurt her.”

“She broke my fuckin’ wrist.”

Their voices came at her from a growing distance. Over the reverberating in her head, she wished he’d shut up about his stupid wrist.

Mikey jerked her hair again, tugging her to her feet. The pain nearly blinded her.

“Leave her alone.” Giovanni stepped between them. “She ain’t no good to us dead, asshole.” He shoved at Mikey, forcing him away from her.

She nearly crumpled to the ground again.

Giovanni caught her. “Jesus, she can’t even walk.” He swung her into his arms.

He was a lean wiry man who reeked of garlic and cigarettes. Her head swam, sweat dripped in her eyes despite the cool weather. Her stomach protested over the dull throbbing pain. “No . . .” she muttered. “Lemme . . . go.”

Ignoring her, he carried her at a steady pace to the house. “Mikey, get the food out of the car,” he yelled over his shoulder.

“My damned wrist’s broken. How am I s’ppose to get the food outta the car?”

“Just quit your fucking bellyaching and get the damned food, asshole.” While still holding her, Giovanni managed to open the screen and the wooden back door without causing her more injury. They entered into the kitchen. “Hey, Angie, get me some wet cloths and an ice pack.”

Angelo, more commonly known as Angie, met them at the entrance to the dining room. “What the–”

“She tried to escape and Mikey got a little too ambitious.”

“Mikey? Where the hell is he? I’m gonna–”

“Let’s take care of her first.” Giovanni carried her into another room and laid her on a sofa.

Angie brought two wet dishcloths and a plastic bag with ice cubes. “Move outta the way,” he told Giovanni. He lowered his considerable bulk to the floor beside the sofa. “Ah,
Bella
, what was you doing?” he muttered.

Disappointment, anger, heartache robbed Nia of the ability to speak, if Angie even deserved an answer to such a stupid question. She barely winced when he washed her bruised cheek.

“Not too much blood for such a nasty cut.”

She looked dully at the cloth. She hadn’t even realized she’d been bleeding.

“But you will have a big, ugly bruise. Already, it is very swollen.”

It felt like it. It felt like she had a bag of bouncing marbles sewn inside her cheek, while someone else had another bag and was pounding it on the back of her head.

“Anywhere else?”

“The back of her head hit a tree, and Mikey kneed her in the stomach,” Giovanni answered when she didn’t.

Angie swore in Italian, and then his gaze settled on her hands still clutched in a shielding gesture across her midsection. He laid his hand on top of hers and made as if to move them.

“No,” she said finding her voice at last.

“You hurt here?”

“Don’t touch me.” She curled her legs protectively inward.

He nodded, made a
tsking
sound. “Let me see the back of your head, then.” He helped her to a sitting position. More
tsking
noises. “Yes, a very big knot. What the hell was Mikey thinking?” He spoke in a mild tone, yet Nia could see the anger burning deep in his brown eyes. His sympathy brought no relief.

“She was trying to escape, Angie,” Mikey whined from the doorway. “She broke my wrist. I had to stop her.”

“You know she is not to be hurt. You were very careless. I told you she is athletic, and grew up with many brothers. She’s bound to know how to fight.”