The Italian Page 11
So she sat in the corner of the couch and endured. She thought occasionally of Stefano but mostly she thought of her grandfather. She had condemned him to death—to a long, lingering, painful death. There was no way to sugarcoat that, no way to outrun that thought.
He would die—badly—because of her. The man who’d shown her nothing but love and support her entire life.
One of the many, many horrible things about the situation was that she knew he would approve of what she’d done. She knew him, inside out. Knew that he had a strong sense of honor, felt strongly that a civilized society needed laws and had a deep practical sense.
He had lived his life. He had lived a long, honorable life. A life any man would be proud of. He was nearing the end of it and he would not want her to sacrifice the life of another good man for him, a man who had years of service to society ahead.
No, he’d approve of what she’d done.
The thought didn’t make it any easier.
At times, she and her grandfather were on the same wavelength, finished each other’s sentences. If ever there had been a psychic connection between the two of them, now was the time to use it.
She sent him strong waves of love, as hard as she could. Knowing she could do nothing else.
The night was silent. Some nights she could hear neighbors talking, a TV show somewhere, a passing car, a barking dog. Not tonight. Tonight was silent, completely still. The only sound was a helicopter flying over once. Nothing else.
Each minute was heavy as stone, heavy as her heart. But eventually pale light shone through the east-facing kitchen window and the heavy drapes in the living room were once again outlined in yellow.
Dawn came at six. Another three hours.
At eight she stirred, stiff from remaining immobile for so long. She pulled back the living room curtains, because that was what they’d be expecting. The man was still on the street, leaning against a shop front, looking up at her window. They stared at each other for almost a full minute before she turned away.
They were going kill Stefano on his way to her. Try to kill Stefano. He was protected after all. And yet he had a traitor among the men protecting him. Stefano was strong, inside and out. She’d felt his strength intimately. But no man can withstand a bullet. It was possible, of course, that he’d be wearing body armor. She sincerely hoped he would.
But she read thrillers and she knew all the terrible weaponry that could be brought to bear to snuff out a man’s life. A sniper’s bullet to the head, a bomb set to explode under his car. Hell, some criminals had RPGs.
Time had been a boulder all night but suddenly it turned into a river, a raging river tumbling down to the sea. An unstoppable force. It was nine.
It was time.
During her long vigil, she’d tried to go over what she’d say but nothing sounded normal. But she found, as she punched in Stefano’s number with a shaking finger, that whatever words she would say, the stress and fear were real. They would be listening. She had to do it right.
“Jamie.” That deep voice. That deep, beloved voice. “What is it?”
And then the words came tumbling out and she put everything behind them, because if Stefano’s enemies were listening and thought she was faking, she’d have condemned both her grandfather and her lover.
“Stefano!” The words tumbled out of her hard, fast, real, raw. Tear-soaked. “Stefano, I need you! I miss you so much! I couldn’t sleep, thinking of you. I took pills to sleep but they didn’t help. I want you. I need you here, right now! You must come. I need you. You can’t leave me like this!” Her voice rose, became hysterical. “I have a whole bottle of those damn pills, Stefano. You think I’m kidding? If I don’t see you right now, I don’t have any reason to live and I’ll take them all! Every last damn one of them!”
She gave a sob that wasn’t faked.
His deep voice was calm. “Jaimie, darling. Don’t do something you’ll regret. Listen, I’m coming to you, okay? Just wait for me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t do anything, just wait for me and we’ll talk.”
The tension was becoming almost unbearable. Jamie needed to cut this off.
“Come as fast as you can,” she cried, and broke the connection.
There.
Maybe she’d just sent Stefano to his death.
Restless, she rose and went to the big living room windows and pulled open the drapes again, wincing at the bright Sicilian sunlight. It took her eyes moments to adjust and when she could see properly, all that was there was an empty street. Shark Eyes’ guy was gone.
No need to keep an eye on l’americana anymore. She’d done what she was supposed to do.
Entice a man to his death.
The river of time slowed once more.
She stood at the window, imagining Stefano running downstairs followed by his men, one of whom was a traitor. Car doors slamming, tires smoking as they pulled out…
She imagined her grandfather somewhere. Wounded. Hurting. Maybe bleeding to death…
There was absolutely nothing she could do about any of it. So she stood and waited. And waited.
The street usually came to life around seven, men and women leaving for work, kids leaving for school, traffic starting up. Today, everything was silent.
No thought processes were possible as she waited. Only emotions were possible. Terror, rage, despair. The faintest possible tendrils of hope.
Another helicopter flew overhead then disappeared, leaving an even deeper silence than before.
And then—
BOOM!
An explosion, close enough to rattle the windows. Immediately afterward, gunfire. Intense gunfire. A firefight. And then—silence.
Nothing except for a column of smoke rising three blocks away.
Jamie didn’t think, couldn’t think. She had to be there, to see what had happened, more than she had to breathe. In an instant she was out the door, down the stairs, out on the street.
The animal part of her knew where to go. There was the column of smoke and there was a smell, a horrible smell of violence and death. She turned instinctively to the right and began running, running for her life.
* * * * *
“Stupid fuck,” Buzzanca said, toeing Salvatore Serra’s dead body. There were two other dead bodies. Three armed men against twenty police officers.
“Stupid fuck,” Stefano agreed. He was really, really tempted to haul back and kick Serra, but he’d have to explain things to the blood-spatter people who were on their way. “He was desperate.”
Stefano had been close to finding Serra’s spider hole and he had accumulated enough evidence to put him away for ten lifetimes. Italy didn’t have the death penalty, but the prison on La Maddalena for Mafiosi was worse than Alcatraz had been.
Across the square, a police officer put his hand on top of Ispettore Lomele’s head and settled him in the back of the police car. Stefano elbowed Buzzanca. “There goes another stupid fuck.”
Buzzanca grunted. Stefano knew he was still furious at Lomele, one of his men, who’d accepted €10,000 to report to Serra. They’d caught him calling Serra right after Stefano received Jamie’s call. There was another one who’d spend years in jail. Not a lifetime, but he’d get out an old man.
A sudden gust of wind brought the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning rubber. There’d been rumors of the Mafia hooking up with terrorists, and it was possible, because that had been a perfect IED. Luckily for them, Serra had money and liked gadgets, so the IED hadn’t had a pressure trigger. If it had, Stefano would be dead, together with several of his men.
No, Serra had hooked it up to an electronic detonator that he could set off himself. He’d been parked on a side street, waiting for Stefano’s car to go by. He’d been there since dawn and they had helicopter shots of him getting out once to pee. It would have been an airtight case of attempted murder, along with racketeering charges and five other counts of murder.
But they had a wonderful countermeasure, a gift from the American
s. A signal guaranteed to set off explosives at a distance. They’d gone with sirens blaring then stopped fifty meters away from where Serra had set up—and detonated the bomb.
It had made a nice, satisfying boom that had shattered a few windows. After a minute, when the orange had turned to oily black, Serra and his men had gotten out of their cars and cautiously approached the column of smoke, looking for car parts and people parts.
And when Buzzanca had shouted at them through a bullhorn to put their weapons down and surrender, the fucking morons had opened fire.
His cell buzzed in his hand. A U.S. number. A familiar number.
“Yes?”
“Got him, Stefano.”
He slumped in relief. Thank God. He’d called his good friend and second cousin, Al Bertolucci, U.S. citizen and FBI agent. The photos Jamie had sent of her grandfather were geotagged. Al could pinpoint where they’d been taken down to a meter.
“The poor old guy had been kept captive in the basement of an abandoned building in the North End. Our HRT guys are good though. He’s on his way to Mass General.”
“How is he?”
“Wait.” Stefano heard him talking to someone then Al came back online. “He’s banged up but the medics say he should live. We got there just in time. We caught the two guys torturing him. They’re going down hard.”
“Good. Keep me informed.”
“Will do.”
Stefano cut off the call and took a deep breath, rocking back on his heels, looking up at the sky. His first breath of freedom in three years and it smelled of smoke and rubber and fuel. It smelled wonderful.
He was free.
His posting back to Milan was already on his desk, had been there for months. He hadn’t intended on going back until Serra went to trial, but now Serra had taken care of that for him by committing suicide by cop.
Stefano was free. To move about, to be with Jamie…
“Ah, Judge.” Buzzanca elbowed him. Stefano brought his head down from contemplating the sky and looked at his loyal friend. “Woman at twelve o’clock.”
And there she was. Pale as ice, beautiful face tear-streaked, running down the street straight toward him. The woman who’d saved his life.
His woman.
This was crazy! For all she knew she was running straight into danger! She must have heard an explosion, gunfire, she shouldn’t be here! She should be at home, waiting for him. She should—
And then he couldn’t think of anything because there she was, in his arms, crying, and he was holding her, kissing her like he’d die if he didn’t.
She pulled away, touching him all over, touching his face. “You’re alive!”
He brought her hands to his lips, kissed them. “Yes, darling. Thanks to you. I owe you my life.”
Jamie shook her head sharply. “You’re alive,” she repeated in a whisper.
She needed to know that someone else was alive too.
Stefano bent to kiss her. “Your grandfather is all right. The FBI went in last night and rescued him. He’s in the hospital right now.”
“Oh!” Jamie’s already pale face drained of blood completely, down to her lips. Her knees buckled. Stefano caught her, held her. Held his woman, his brave, brave Jamie.
They stood like that, Stefano holding her tightly as the crime scene unit arrived and men and women started pouring out of the van. They didn’t move even as the police cordon was established, more helicopters flew overhead and journalists started screaming from beyond the cordon.
They just stood and held each other.
Finally, Jamie stirred and pulled away. A little color had returned to her face. She lifted her hand and traced his cheekbone, his mouth with her fingertips. “I have to go to him,” she whispered. “I have to be with him.”
“Yes.” Stefano smiled down at her. “But you will come back to me.”
She smiled, a dazzling smile, just for him.
“Yes.” She lifted on tiptoe and kissed him softly. “Oh yes. I’ll come back to you.”
The End
About Lisa Marie Rice
Lisa Marie Rice is eternally 30 years old and will never age. She is tall and willowy and beautiful. Men drop at her feet like ripe pears. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archaeology, nuclear physics and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. Did I mention the Nobel?
Of course, Lisa Marie Rice is a virtual woman and exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.
Lisa Marie welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Lisa Marie Rice
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A Fine Specimen
Midnight: Midnight Angel
Midnight: Midnight Man
Midnight: Midnight Run
Port of Paradise
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Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
The Italian
ISBN 9781419943720
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Italian Copyright © 2012 Lisa Marie Rice
Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover design by Kendra Egert
Photos: Andreas Gradin, Circumnavigation/Shutterstock.com
Electronic book publication December 2012
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