Bounty Hunters: 03 Stay Hungry (14 page)

Mario leaned back, envying how simple things had been in his
padre
's time. Mossimo Mandela had married the most beautiful woman on the planet. They had five children and Mario knew his
padre
regretted that Mario wasn't his firstborn son. Of course Mo Sr. mourned Mo Jr.'s death. A father did that sort of thing. But Mo Sr. never had questioned how his son died. Mario's
padre
never sent his men or anyone from the village down to the river to investigate how it could be that such a strong teenage boy could die where he had. The undercurrents could get deadly, but they were a ways from the ocean. The river didn't flow as fast where Mo's body had been found. That death had been necessary, just as Uncle Petrie's death had been. From the day after Mo's oldest son perished, drowning in the river, Mo had kept Mario at his side. It was their secret, one they never discussed. Mo Mandela was quite possibly the smartest man on earth. Mario knew it and so did Mo. Mario never brought up his older brother's death, and Mo never asked questions.

"So what would you do now, Padre?" Mario whispered.

Tomas didn't turn his head or give any indication he heard Mario speak. Mario glanced at his cell, which was still perched on his knee. He'd come looking for Angela, and she'd gone back to his house. The
signorina
perplexed him and got his dick harder than stone.

Who would return to a scene that she'd run from in terror? It would have been one thing if she'd called the police, frantic that she'd just witnessed a death. Mario could have handled that. The American judicial system was too easy to work around. Money was everything, and Mario had plenty of that.

"But you didn't return with the
polizia,
did you,
signorina
?" he mused, and continued tapping his finger against his lips as he tried figuring out the sexy black-haired
seduttrice
. "So why did you return?"

What would provoke a person to return to a scene of a crime? Mario let his memories slide backward until he sat on the stool next to his
padre
's desk. Padre would lean back in his wooden chair that was worn in a concave pattern from years of him sitting there. His hands would be clasped behind his head, forcing those thick black waves that were laced with silver to push forward and border his round face. Padre would puff on his pipe, angling his gaze so his black, watery eyes focused on Mario, on his favorite son.

"
Che cosa succedera ora
?" Padre would ask in his husky, influenza-inflected voice.

Mario always straightened when asked that question. His
padre
cared what Mario thought. Mo saw the intelligence in Mario and helped it blossom. Mario would predict the next action, or step, in whatever they'd been discussing. It might have been town politics or how to reprimand one of his
fratelli o sorelle.
Mario had enjoyed deciding the appropriate punishment for one of his siblings. Mo Mandela was a strong advocate of corporal punishment, which usually kept most of the Mandela offspring well behaved. As Mario grew older, deciding the best outcome for the people in his town appealed to him more. He'd almost been a man when he and his
padre
had argued heatedly about the best way to govern the people.

That had been the day Mario and his
padre
had screamed and yelled at each other until Mario's father burst out into a fit of coughing. Mario had gone to the tobacco pouch, shoved his
padre
's pipe deep into the pungent leaves, then brought the deadly tobacco to his
padre
and forced him to inhale until it killed him. But not before Mario had learned everything his
padre
had to teach.

It had been an honorable death. Mossimo Mandela had died where he was master of his
terra,
which was much better than dying slowly in
l'ospedale
. Nor had he faded away to nothing, no longer able to command his world, or protect and provide for his family. Mario knew his
padre
looked down on him from heaven with love and pride.
Il mio unico figlio generato.

"What should happen next?" Mario repeated the words in English his
padre
had always asked him. If only he could ask his
padre
that question now.

Angela had been standing next to Mario when his uncle began his rant. Mario had leapt into the house when his temper had erupted. Uncle Petrie had collapsed to the floor after Mario had broken the old man's neck. When Mario had turned, Angela was gone. Marco had just stood there, dumbfounded, staring at a corpse that wouldn't move instead of paying attention to Angela, who was quite capable of flight.

"You didn't go to the
polizia
if you returned alone." Mario pondered this, staring at his phone. Marco had sounded too excited, already too full of himself with his new rank and authority. Marco was a hypocrite, mourning his
padre
's death yet thrilled to have his job. And he was an idiot for not paying attention to Angela when he should have been. "So now the moron calls and tells me she's at the gate," he grumbled, thinking too little too late, an American expression he was rather fond of.

Angela had even suggested she wait in Mario's bedroom, not wishing to be in the way of the staff, until Mario returned.

It had been a tempting offer and one Mario had almost accepted. "There is no brain in balls," he murmured, one of of his
padre
's favorite expressions that translated well into English. And also one Mario's
madre
despised. Mario credited himself for thinking on his feet. There was no reason for Angela to be in his home if he wasn't there.

Regardless of how many times his
padre
had encouraged him to marry, Mario knew himself well. Mo Mandela had been many things and even in death had his honor. Mario would swear on his
padre
's grave that he never once cheated on Mario's
madre.
He also knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't be able to take that matrimonial oath. One woman simply wasn't enough.

Which was why Angela would wait for his return and enter his home with him. She wouldn't get so comfortable at his home that she felt she could come and go as she pleased. No
donna
would ever work her way into Mario's world and feel she was part of it. Angela was around because she intrigued him. He wanted to fuck her. They weren't friends and never would be. Mario saw clearly, even when he was a
bambino
, how his
madre
was his
padre
's weakness. Mario would never allow an Achilles' heel. Not when the world was so dangerous.

Besides, he needed time to dissect the information Marco had show him earlier.

Mario had conducted the search on Angela Torres after first meeting her at the country club. Her story had seemed believable, which was why he had questioned it. Not to mention she was new on the scene. He wasn't paranoid, but a man could never be too cautious. Diving into something just because it was hot and sweet could blindside a man. Mario knew he wasn't perfect, but he strived to make as few mistakes as possible. Angela had been witty, charming, and very flirtatious the first time he'd met her. Her behavior hadn't changed. But Mario always did a thorough background check on any bitch he decided he wanted to fuck.

When Mario did a background check on Angela, the only flag he came up with was that there was hardly any information on her. Which would make sense if her story was true. She'd received most of her education from being tutored while living in her parents' different homes in Europe and in America. Mario had confirmed her mother was in Buenos Aires, which was where Angela said she was currently residing. Angela had recently come to Chicago to spend time with her father. She had told Mario if she gave both of her parents equal time each year it helped ensure her monthly checks from each of them continued coming in.

His uncle had run a background check on a local detective. It was a project Mario had given the old man, one to help him learn how to be comfortable using a computer, and as well, it was always good to know what all local law enforcement was doing. Uncle Petrie had reported every little thing about any officer on the force and detective in the area. It had gotten old. No matter how much Mario tried emphasizing he only wanted to know if any of them were involved in local scandal or if there was ever news on their family, his idiot of an uncle continued hurrying to tell him every little detail about all law enforcement in Chicago.

When Uncle Petrie had sent Marco to Mario's bedroom, with Angela alone in his room with him, Mario had started wondering if Uncle Petrie would ever learn. It was easy to see why Mario's
padre
had little use for his brothers. And there were six of them. Mario had grown up with Uncle Petrie and Uncle Enrico. Both of them were a lot younger than Mario's
padre.
Mossimo Mandela had helped raise his youngest siblings. So where was the appreciation?

It was another lesson Mario learned. Family mattered more than anything, but when they became a handicap it was his duty to eliminate them. Nothing would tarnish the family name. Uncle Antonio was proof of that. He was the firstborn Mandela son. Mo was next in line. That hadn't stopped Mario's
padre,
and it hadn't stopped Mario. Something had happened between his
padre
and Mario's uncle when Mario had been in his late teens. He remembered the night well. His
madre
had cried for his
padre
not to leave the house. Mo had been stern, even going as far as to tell Mario to take care of his
madre.
When Mo came home he refused to discuss what had happened, but Mario never saw Uncle Antonio again.

It was how life worked. Mario had worked closely with Uncle Petrie, even when he knew the old man was skating on Mario's coattails. Uncle Petrie didn't have hard jobs. Mario never gave him too much responsibility. And Mario paid him well to sit around and be a useless bum, which he was very good at being.

Wouldn't it just figure the one time he came to Mario with a bit of news worth biting his teeth into he would present it at the most inopportune time? What the hell was Mario supposed to do with Angela: leave her alone in his bedroom? Like hell!

Uncle Petrie was thickheaded enough not to figure that out. He pressed and pressed, even after Mario instructed Marco to have his
padre
hold on to the information until he could come to them. It wasn't until after Uncle Petrie's death that Mario sat down and took a look at the old article his uncle had found online.

He had sat at Uncle Petrie's desk and stared at the article that was still pulled up on the old man's computer. Mario couldn't help wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake with Angela. Unfortunately, there was no way to know for certain. Uncle Petrie had been convinced, obviously. Marco seemed to believe it to be true as well. The short article was about the nationally recognized private detective James Huxtable, who lived right here in Chicago. The picture was seven years old and the article didn't name the daughter. Mario had stared at the picture for a long time. Huxtable stood next to his teenage daughter, both grinning recklessly at the camera. The teenage girl was pretty, her soft curves just starting to form and her thick black hair tumbling down her front in two neat braids.

Mario was pretty sure Angela had green eyes. It looked like the kid in the picture had the same stubborn jaw line and pouty lips that would soon turn into a seductress's alluring mouth. Angela dressed to show off her cleavage and the rest of her hot body. Mario didn't spend a lot of time looking at her face. One of those programs that did age enhancement would make it a hell of a lot easier to decide if the kid in the picture and Angela were one and the same.

This was a matter he would research further on his own, though. Not only did he not want any of his family, or hired help, thinking Mario was considering that he might have been wrong in killing Uncle Petrie, it was a delicate matter that he best handle discreetly. Not to mention, the old man was better off dead.

However, if Angela was, in fact, Huxtable's daughter, then she wasn't rich. Which meant it was probably not a coincidence that they met. If the little
puttana
was investigating him on behalf of her
padre
, Mario would have some fun with the bitch before killing her. Or maybe he'd hold on to her and make her part of his army.

Due troie sono meglio di uno.

"Is that picture of you, Signorina Angela?" Mario bit back a smile as he thought about adding to his
puttana
collection.

A few minutes later Mario stepped out of his limo as Tomas held the door for him. Marco hurried across the large six-stall garage.

"We couldn't get her to wait," Marco said, out of breath. "She was
une l'molto arrabiato.

"What?" Mario hadn't decided whether Marco's busybody nature was an asset or an annoyance just like his dim-witted intelligence. "The signorina drives back to my home but refuses to wait ten minutes for me to return? Why was she so upset?"

"I did everything you told me to do," Marco complained. "The
signorina
said she was too upset to wait and not be alone. She said if you didn't want her in your bedroom that was fine with her," he finished, winded, then rocked on his heels as if he were pleased to relay the message to Mario.

"That's fine." Mario waved him off. All that mattered was Angela wasn't there. As to why she was upset, he could wait to find out. There wasn't any proof that Angela Torres was James Huxtable's daughter. If she was, though, she'd lied to him. It wouldn't have bothered Mario if her father was an investigator. Hell, that might have made fucking her even hotter. What mattered was the truth.

It had been easy enough to verify Mona Torres lived in Buenos Aires. As for Angela's father, her
padre
, Juan Torres, an investor, whom, according to Angela, loved to play the American and European stock markets, he was a bit harder to validate. Torres was a global player and someone Mario would love to know. Not as someone dating his daughter.
Niente affato!