Читать книгу Charade - Kate Donovan - Страница 9

Champagne 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?

Taking a deep breath, she directed her full attention toward the man with the unfamiliar face who had backed into the shadows, watching them in silence. “You must think I’m awfully rude, sir, bursting in this way and interrupting your tender moment. I’m Sasha Bracciali.” Extending her hand, she walked closer to him, positioning the bra-cam to capture his face, and hoping that there was enough light for the image to be useful.

“You’ve grown into an exquisite young woman. More beautiful than even your mother, and she was a goddess.” The stranger kissed her fingertips respectfully. “You may call me zio Dante. I’m not really your uncle, but I’m an old and dear friend of your father’s, here for a short visit.”

Sasha tried not to stare, but the effort was wasted. This was just too good to be true. The man’s voice was familiar, but she had never seen that face before in her life. Rumors of Vincenzo “the Butcher” Martino’s plastic surgery had abounded for years, and she was sure she was now getting confirmation thereof, not to mention, a huge coup for the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit.

“Did you get a chance to see Daddy?” she asked him carefully. “He was here earlier, I’m told. But he left before I arrived.”

“Big Frankie and I had a nice visit last year when he came to Roma on a business trip. I was sorry to hear about your mother’s death, Sasha. She would be so proud if she could see you today.”

Yeah, it’s a shame Dad killed her, isn’t it? Sasha challenged him silently. But considering how many people you’ve offed in your time, I guess you’d be the first to understand why he had to do it. Caesar’s wife and all, right?

“Don’t talk about her mother. It makes her sad,” Gianna scolded the men. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“The happiest day of my life,” Antonio said quickly. “To see my daughter married—that is pure joy. And on that same day, to have both Sasha and my beloved cousin return to this house after too long an absence. It is more than a man deserves. We must drink a toast immediately. Carmine?”

His beloved cousin? Sasha’s pulse began to race. Vincenzo is one of his cousins! Isn’t that enough proof of his identity to move in now? I hope Summit’s getting all this! If the bra-transmitter lets us down I’ll shoot myself.

Carmine poured brandy into four elegant snifters and handed them out. Then he murmured, “To Sasha. She’s as fucking stubborn as ever, but tonight, that’s gonna work in my favor.”

Antonio scowled. “What sort of toast is that?”

“Allow me.” Sasha lifted her glass with a flourish. “To my family, not through blood but through choice.”

The man who called himself Dante chuckled. “Any girl who can quote Sinatra deserves to be a Martino.”

“To Sasha,” Antonio agreed, raising his glass.

As the others echoed the toast, Summit’s warm voice sounded in Sasha’s ear. “Okay, Camper. We’ve got more than we need. I’m going to ring your cell, you’re going to answer, and then you’re going to tell them your best customer just called you in hysterics over some dressmaking emergency and you have to go soothe the ruffled feathers.”

Her phone rang on cue, and she apologized, then stepped away from the group and answered it.

“Good girl,” Summit whispered. “You’ve done an amazing job. First by designing that crazy bra, and now this. It’s unbelievable. It’s also over, so get the hell out of there. And if that horny bastard Carmine tries anything, tell him you’ll sic your father on him if he doesn’t back off. Got it?”

“For heaven’s sake, Martha!” Sasha exclaimed. “It can’t be that bad. Just calm down. I’ll be right there, I promise. Just don’t try to force the zipper whatever you do. We used the last scrap of fabric for the lining of the jacket. So please, just calm down. I’m on my way.”

She could see disapproval in the eyes of Antonio and Dante, not to mention annoyance in Carmine’s. “Sorry, I thought I turned that thing off,” she said in apology. “But it’s lucky I got the call, because my best customer is having a panic attack, and she’s having it in her five-thousand-dollar business suit. I’m so, so sorry, but I’ve gotta dash. Forgive me?” Before they could protest, she walked right up to Dante and said, “I’ll give Daddy your best. And next time I visit Mom’s grave, I’ll tell her all the lovely things you said about her.”

He patted her cheek. “She would be sad to see you put business ahead of a family wedding. You should marry young Carmine here. Then you’d never have to work again.”

“And we’d really be sisters,” Gianna agreed with a tearful smile. Wrapping her arms around Sasha’s waist, the bride insisted, “You were so sweet to come at all. I know it was awkward, but it meant the world to me and that hunky new husband of mine.”

Sasha gave her friend a teasing smile. “You’d better go find him. Last time I checked, he was dancing with Tessie Gallo.”

“What?” Gianna scowled, then said to Dante, “Stay right here, zio. I’ll be back before you leave so you can kiss the bride one last time. Or the widow, depending on what’s going on out there.” Grabbing Sasha’s arm, she added, “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Carmine told her, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Sasha and I have unfinished business. Right, beautiful?”

Sasha arched a disapproving eyebrow in his direction, and was pleased when he winced. Then she took Dante’s hand and smiled sheepishly. “I made such a silly bet with Carmine. He told me you were an old friend of don Martino, and I thought I knew everyone from the old days, so I bet him that I knew you. Is it possible I’m just forgetting? Maybe you met me once, when I was just a baby. I really want to win this bet, so…”

Dante chuckled. “There was one time in particular. You spit up milk all over my brand-new suit. I’d say that binds us for life, wouldn’t you?”

“That doesn’t count!” Carmine bellowed. “Sasha doesn’t remember it, so it doesn’t count.”

Sasha sent an inquiring glance toward his father. “I’ll abide by your decision on this, zio.”

“Fuck that,” Carmine muttered. “I won the bet, and I’m going to collect.”

Antonio Martino’s eyes darkened, but his voice was even when he announced, “My son is the loser here today, in more than one way. Gianna? Show our guest to the door, then go and pay attention to your husband. Sasha, take care. And Carmine?”

The son’s expression had twisted with apprehension. “Yeah, Pop?”

“Apologize to Sasha for trying to take advantage of her. And to your sister, for ruining her wedding day. And then, if you are very, very lucky, I will allow you to apologize to me.”

“So? What do you think the don did to him? Slapped him around, right?” Winston Lowe grinned at Sasha. “Man, I would’ve loved to see that.”

“Yeah, but at least we got to see Carmine Martino cower in fear, thanks to Campie’s brilliant tittie-cam,” said his partner Chuck McBride, the third member of Jeff Crossman’s Organized Crime team.

Sasha bit back a laugh. “Have a little respect. It’s called a bra-cam.”

“Too bad you can’t find a way to have the lens implanted directly into your nipple,” Winston said wistfully. “That way if some hotshot like Carmine ever gets you naked, we could still see the show. Er, I mean, collect the evidence.”

“You guys are so immature.” She glanced toward the special agent in charge, hoping for a nod of agreement. But Jeff Crossman was scowling.

Oh, fine. The honeymoon’s over already? she asked in silent disgust. Even after I got you a photo of Vincenzo Martino’s new face? You’re such an ingrate, Crossman.

Aloud, she murmured, “What’s the problem, Jeff?”

“As if there’s just one?” He exhaled in apparent exasperation. “Fine. Let’s start with that toast of yours.”

“The Sinatra toast?” Winston asked with a wink. “Did you really quote Old Blue Eyes, Campie?”

“Stop calling her that,” Jeff warned him. “If you two clowns want to participate in this debriefing, grow up.”

“Sorry, Jeff,” his men said in unison.

But Sasha could see that their eyes were twinkling, so she threw them a bone by insisting, “I’m fine with ‘Campie.’ But I draw the line at ‘tittie-cam.’”

“That’s right,” Jeff muttered. “Laugh it up. I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

“Of the toast?” Sasha shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve heard my father say.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

“Pardon?”

“You said they were your family. By choice. Did you mean that or not?”

Sasha stared into her handler’s dark green eyes and wondered if he could possibly understand, even a little, the complex world in which she had been raised. A world where family was everything, and sometimes, everyone was family. And sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes, even your own flesh and blood weren’t.

It was complicated.

And Jeff Crossman was a simple guy. Clean-cut. All-American, both figuratively and Heisman Trophyly. With his six-foot-three athletic frame, his squeaky-clean background, his intact family and grass roots schooling—all of which had spawned a black-and-white view of right and wrong—he viewed Sasha’s world through an amazingly clear lens, when in truth, it needed multiple filters if one really wanted to discover the truth.

Jackass.

She sent a warning glare in the direction of Tweed-ledum and Tweedledee, then told Jeff, “Yes, I meant it. They’re family to me in one sense. But that doesn’t mean I endorse their behavior. And it doesn’t mean I’ll protect them. They’re criminals. The kind of criminals who rob innocent victims of any chance for a normal life. They robbed me of that when they killed my mother. And no one robs Sasha Bracciali and gets away with it.”

She paused for dramatic effect, then assured him, “Go ahead. Put that in your report. I dare you.”

“Did you ever sleep with Carmine Martino?” She drew back, stunned by the question, and before she could stop herself, she answered with a resounding, “No!”

“Sheesh, Jeff. That’s kinda rough, isn’t it?” Winston murmured. “She just fingered Vincent Martino for us. Cut her some slack, will ya?”

Sasha laughed lightly. “My hero. Now if you boys don’t mind, I’m going home. I’ve got a raging headache.”

Jeff held up his hand. “Wait.”

She cleared her throat, wondering if for once this hunky marionette was actually going to apologize to her. “What now?”

He slid a picture of “Dante” across the table to her. “You’re convinced this is Vincent Martino, aka, the Butcher?”

“Absolutely.”

“Based on what?”

“Like I said, I recognized the voice, although I couldn’t swear in court that it was Vincenzo. But he said he was Daddy’s friend. And Antonio’s cousin. And that whole thing about me spitting up on him. And his crush on Mom—ugh. That seemed familiar, too. So all in all? Yes. I think we’ve got our guy.”

Jeff leaned forward, his gaze imprisoning hers. “And tell me again, just for the record. What is your relationship with Vincent Martino? Do you consider him family? By choice, not blood?”

Sasha could almost hear the accusation in his tone, but she shrugged it off. “My relationship with him? When I was a kid, he used to slip me a cannoli every once in a while when my mother wasn’t looking. I loved him for that.”

Winston grinned. “Slipped you a cannoli? Is that as dirty as it sounds?”

Sasha stared at him, speechless for a moment. Then she burst into laughter. “That does it. You’re officially a pervert. But that’s better than Jeff, because he’s officially an ingrate.” Grabbing her purse, she headed for the door, adding over her shoulder, “Nice working with you, fellas. I’m outta here.”