The Gun Runner (Mafia Made) (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Terra

“Mom must have misunderstood.”

My father picked up a slice of capicola and folded it into his mouth. “Misunderstood how?” he asked as he chewed the slice of meat.

“It was just a guy I met. It was nothing serious. We just talked at the coffee shop,” I lied.

I’d gone to see my father with every intention of telling him about Michael. As soon as I got there, it was apparent my mother told him about the
Lutheran-American
I met, and he wasn’t happy at all. As much as I wanted to be truthful about everything, he had made me extremely uncomfortable doing so.

Thinking about it in my father’s absence was easy. In his presence, things were much different. He was a very intimidating man, even when he was simply trying to be my father. I looked out the kitchen window, hoping I could finish my discussion with my father before my mother arrived and turned my lies into an argument.

He peeled another slice of the meat from the loaf and folded it in his palm. “I’ll talk to your mother.”

“Okay,” I said. “I think she just got mixed up.”

Beside the capicola sat a cold dish of
pasta al ragu
he had taken from the refrigerator. He lifted a forkful of the pasta to his mouth and slurped it from the fork. Noodles dangled from his bottom lip. “What happened with Vinnie?”

I looked away, disgusted by his choice of snacks. “We broke up.”

He raised his fork. “He was a good Italian boy.”

He wasn’t, but I knew better than to share my experiences with him. “He was okay.”

Another forkful of pasta. “You’re not getting younger.”

“I know.”

I needed to change the subject. “So, is Peter still sick?”

His face lit up with joy. “Sick? No. Peter is a strong boy. He’s just fine.”

Apparently, while in Argentina, Peter had ingested something that made him terribly sick. When he finally got home, he was ill for several days that followed.

“I talked to Mom, she said he was thin. That he lost a lot of weight.”

His face went angry. He reached for the ham, paused and pulled a slice from the loaf. “His weight. Yes, he lost weight.”

I often wished my father wasn’t completely secretive about his dealings with the mafia. According to him and his men, the
mafia
didn’t exist. They claimed to be businessmen, conducting business. They never admitted to being part of anything larger, participating in any criminal activities, or being organized.

But everyone knew.

I learned more about what my father was involved in by reading about him on the internet, watching the news, and listening in on conversations when I had the chance. I was left to decide what I believed to be true and what I hoped were embellished lies.

I sighed. Men and their secrets. Michael said if I asked the right questions, I would always get the right answers. Maybe I never asked the right questions. “Why was Peter in Argentina for so long?”

The words came out before I had a chance to stop them.

He snatched another piece of ham. Then another. He plunged his fork into the pasta, became frustrated, and tossed it into the dish. He folded the capicola like he was angry at it.

He poked the ham in his mouth. “Business.”

I wondered if Michael’s statement regarding asking questions would work with my father. Considering what had been revealed about Michael, I decided to delve further. I reached for the ham and shot him an innocent look. “What kind of business?”

“What’s with the questions? Business.”

I tore the slice of ham in two. “Since when do you have business in Argentina?”

“Since now.”

Ask the right questions
,
get the right answers.

“What happened to him to cause him to lose the weight?”

He reached for the ham, paused, and glared at me. “He was sick.”

“Because why? What made him sick?”

He shrugged.

It wasn’t an answer. He was avoiding answering me. Maybe he was just like Michael. If he didn’t tell me anything, he wasn’t telling a lie, he was simply choosing not to respond.

“You don’t know why he was sick? What caused him to lose weight? You have no idea?” I poked half the ham into my mouth and waited for him to respond.

He opened the refrigerator door. “Cannoli?”

“You’re avoiding answering me.”

He set the cannoli down on the island and gripped the edge of the countertop so firmly his knuckles went white. “Why the questions?”

I decided to tell a version of the truth. “Vinnie and I broke up because he wasn’t telling me everything. He wasn’t being truthful. It hurt me. I just want to know.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to know. He was sick. He’s fine now.”

I poked the remaining ham in my mouth and stared. He held my gaze for a long time. I struggled to keep from looking away. After what seemed like a lifelong stare-down, he sighed.

He released the counter, picked up one of the cannoli, and began to pace the kitchen floor. “Your family’s business stays in this home,” he said sternly. “It is not for your friends.”

“I understand.”

“I tell you. Don’t be upset. You want to know?”

“I won’t be upset.” I fought not to smile. “I just want to know the truth. For once.”

He stared.

I laughed, hoping to ease his mind. “I’m a big girl.”

He walked the length of the kitchen floor and nibbled on the cannoli. After pacing back and forth a few times, he took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “
Figli di putanna
took your brother hostage. I had to get a man...”

Holy shit!

I knew it wasn’t
business
.

My heart raced.

He glanced at the cannoli, walked to the trash and tossed it inside. “A man specializes in such things. They wanted money. So much money. They threatened the family. The man, the specialist, he agreed to help. He rescued Peter from the savages.”

He looked at me with uncertain eyes. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

I was still trying to process everything, but I was glad he’d told me the truth. “Yes. Thank you.”

“People. They think we have so much money. We don’t.”

I knew better, but I agreed. “I know.”

He reached for the ham and shrugged. “I work hard.”

“I know you do.”

I walked the edge of the island, and reached for his hand. “We’re safe? I don’t need to be worried?”

“A misunderstanding,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding. You’re not at risk.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as the Pope is Catholic.”

I wasn’t as sure as he was, and I always worried about such things. I asked, and he answered my question, trusting me to be able to accept the information he gave me. I was excited, fearful and wanted to know so much more, but knew to mask my feelings.

I forced a smile. “Good.”

“You say nothing to your mother. Not to Peter.” He pointed to me, and then to himself. “You and me. Our secret.”

I grinned. “Our secret.”

He glanced at his watch and gasped. “I’m late. Jimmy. He’s so demanding of my time.”

I waved my hand toward the island. “I’ll put everything away.”

He smiled, kissed me and turned toward the door. Before he got to the hallway, he turned to face me. “Loose lips. They sink the ships.”

I shook my head. “Our secret.”

“That’s my girl.”

I cleaned up the mess and thought about everything he said. While I was wiping off the countertop, I had an epiphany.

No way.

In my father’s explanation of what happened to Peter, he didn’t mention Argentina. Peter wasn’t in Argentina. It was probably what he told everyone to hide what was really happening.

Michael, Cap and the other two men had saved a hostage on the night before Peter came home.

Cap said Michael gave the man one of his suits to wear.

I tossed the rag on the countertop and raced to Peter’s room. Nervously, I looked through his closet at his suits. Four suits, all roughly the same color of dark gray, hung in his closet. They looked like what Peter had always worn when he was dressed in a suit, and not like Michael’s more modern-fitting clothes.

Shit.

I felt like a detective who had chased a lead in an investigation, only to find out it was a dead end. To think that somehow my father had talked Michael into saving my brother from someone who took him for ransom was a ridiculous thought anyway.

I laughed to myself at my mind’s ability to manufacture such nonsense and walked out of the closet and into Peter’s bedroom. A quick scan of the room brought back memories of my childhood, and how I always felt like the much older sister, although I was only two years older.

I turned to walk out, and when I did, noticed a few articles of clothing draped over the back of a chair at the desk—more than likely things he intended to take to the dry cleaners. Excitedly, I walked to the desk, lifted the items from the back of the chair, and voila.

A navy suit.

I looked inside the jacket.

Brioni.
44R
.

I didn’t know what size Michael was, but he was smaller than Peter. Peter was like my uncle Sal, kind of thick and a little chubby, but really tall. I ran to the closet, removed one of the jackets and looked inside.

Joseph Abboud.
46L.

I looked at the next. And the next. And the next. All were Joseph Abboud 46L.

I carefully draped the clothes back over the chair and stared at them. I had no idea what was going on—or if my suspicions were accurate—but I suspected somehow Michael became involved in my brother’s rescue. I wondered if it was common knowledge that he was a former marine, and he offered such services, or if my father somehow knew him. Maybe my father purchased guns from him, I had no idea.

I stumbled to the kitchen. I began to run through the possibilities, seeming almost frantic to find the answers, only to realize I couldn’t know anything for sure. There was no way I would be able to find out anything definite without telling Michael who I really was, and if I told him now it was quite possible I would jeopardize our relationship.

And that was something I couldn’t risk.

My father certainly wouldn’t volunteer anything, and if I revealed I knew Michael—depending on how my father came to know him—it could create many more problems than simply dating a non-Italian beyond the authority of the Catholic church.

I somehow needed to find a way to remain Terra Wilson and act like I knew nothing—at least until the entire truth revealed itself.

But I feared the guilt from not telling Michael who I really was would kill me.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Michael

I didn’t want to appear stupid, but I was sure beginning to feel that way. “I guess I’m not really following what it is you’re trying to say.”

Agrioli adjusted himself in his seat, turned toward Jimmy Cupcake and shrugged. Cupcake brushed the sleeves of his jacket with his hands as if he was cleaning them of an invisible filth. He locked eyes with me and leaned forward in his seat.

“Like a fuckin’ security detail. Your men accompany our drivers, make sure everything goes smooth.”

I picked up my pencil and flipped it between my fingers as I focused on Jimmy. He sat expressionless, waiting for my response. I weighed the pros and the cons of such an arrangement, and came up with many more cons than pros.

“And if something happens? If the cargo is threatened?”

Cupcake shrugged.

I shifted my eyes to Agrioli. He shrugged and unsuccessfully attempted to hide his smile.

“It’s not really what I do. Not my forte,” I said.

I watched as the pencil flipped from finger to finger. It was relaxing for me, and something I had perfected, starting when I was a bored kid of twelve years old. I had spent countless hours flipping a pencil between my fingers, often driving whoever was trying to talk to me insane before finally stopping.

Cupcake’s eyes darted back and forth between the pencil and Agrioli. Agrioli inhaled a deep breath through his nose, held it, and exhaled slowly. “You’re a businessman, no?”

I considered myself so. I glanced around my office and nodded proudly. “I like to think so.”

Agrioli gave the office a quick visual survey. “Successful?”

“Again,” I said. “I like to think so.”

“Your success. Do you measure in customer satisfaction, or in earned profit?”

Cupcake chuckled.

I didn’t find it humorous. I glanced at Cupcake. He stopped laughing. I met Agrioli’s gaze. “Profit.”

Agrioli nodded. “A percentage of revenue from each safe delivery.”

His habit of beating around the proverbial bush was driving me insane. I shot him a half-assed glare. “You’re offering me a percentage of your revenue? Is that what you’re saying?”

He shrugged and glanced at Cupcake. Cupcake shrugged.

I had very little, if any, interest in being involved in the mafia’s many business transactions. Being considered a man of honor was one thing, but actually being involved was another altogether. Illicit activities brought the watchful eye of the law, and along with it, the potential threat of imprisonment.

And I doubted there was much the mafia was involved in that I would be able to embrace as being morally acceptable.

Agrioli sighed. “Last month. We lost three trucks.”

Cupcake turned his palms up in agreement to the loss.

“Hijacked?” I asked.

They glanced at each other.

It seemed like a simple question. Obviously, there was more to their operation than they wanted to reveal.

“Your drivers were hijacked? While in transit?”

Cupcake looked at Agrioli. Agrioli studied me. I felt lost. Terra was on her way to meet me for lunch, and I really didn’t want two of the mob’s upper echelon in my office when she arrived. I glanced at my watch.

I had fifteen minutes.

The pencil continued to flip through my fingers while I alternated glances between the two men. I was done with the mafia secrecy and the guessing games. “Look, I’m afraid there isn’t going to be much I can do to help. I appreciate your offer, though.”

Agrioli adjusted himself in the chair. “Cigarettes. Each truck delivered, fifty thousand dollars.”

He had my attention. “My way? Fifty grand?”

Agrioli nodded.

“How many deliveries a month?”

Cupcake responded. “Four? Six?”

I stopped the pencil in my palm. That was two-and-a-half million bucks a year in cigarette delivery security detail. I doubted Agrioli had a license with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, so I was left to wonder about the legitimacy of the deliveries.

I glanced at my watch.

Ten minutes.

“You pay in cargo, or in cash? I don’t need a warehouse full of Marlboros.”

Agrioli laughed out loud. Cupcake joined in. “Cash,” Agrioli said when he finally caught his breath.

I stood. “Let me consider it, and talk to my men. I’ll have a response to you by the end of the week.”

I planned on shaking the men’s hands, but realized when they stood that we were going to do the hugging thing again. I walked around the edge of my desk, hugged each of them and walked them to the door.

I watched as their Cadillac backed out of the parking spot, but my mind was elsewhere. It seemed like a lot of money to assure safe delivery of a truckload of cigarettes. I decided there had to be more to it than what they were telling me, but felt not knowing might have been best.

I stood in the warm sun for several seconds and considered their offer. A few hundred thousand dollars extra a month would allow me to retire in Belize a lot sooner than I originally expected.

My eyes came into focus at the sight of Terra’s Mercedes approaching the entrance to my parking lot as the Cadillac pulled out. Instead of pulling in, she simply drove past. The Cadillac went left, toward the highway, and Terra drove off to the right. After she drove a half mile down the street, I lost sight of her car.

I reached for my pocket, realized I had left my phone on my desk, and decided to wait and see if she returned. Five minutes later, just as I was giving up, she pulled into the lot.

She opened her car door, pressed her hands against her hips, and stared. “So, what are you doing?”

“Wondering.”

“About what? It’s hot out here and you’re dressed in a freaking suit.”

“Wondering what the fuck happened. You just drove by like you forgot where I was.”

“I was daydreaming. The next thing I knew I was way up by that Three Corners bar. I’m a ditz sometimes, I swear.”

“Some guys came to talk, and I was bidding them farewell, and whoosh! You blew past.”

“What uhhm. Some guys came to talk, huh?”

“Yeah, they made me a business offer.”

Her eyes fell to the parking lot. She kicked at a loose pebble and then dug the toe of her shoe into the asphalt, trying to free another. “A uhhm. Was it a good one?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I wondered just how comfortable she was with my gun dealings. She sure seemed to be skittish about it sometimes.

She looked up. “A gun deal?”

“No,” I said. “To provide a security detail.”

She furrowed her brow. “Like armed guards?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that legal?”

I shrugged. “Depends.”

I returned her gaze and waited for her to ask many more questions, wondering how long I could distract her from reaching the actual answer to what she wanted to know.

She sighed heavily. “Ready for lunch?”

That was easy.

“Let me lock up.”

I locked the door and turned around. Wearing a dress with her hair twisted into a bun, she looked elegant. Sophisticated.

Beautiful.

I walked toward her. “I think I’m about ready for a little time off.”

“What do you mean?”

I kissed her lightly, leaned away and waved my hand toward the building. “I need some time away from
this
.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We. What are
we
going to do? And the answer’s relax.”

“Sounds fun.”

She was right. It would be fun.

And so much more.