Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (28 page)

“I still haven’t really done my job.” I shrugged. “Carlos still wants the good stuff.”

“Maybe go talk to him,” Clay suggested. “See if he has any input.”

I buried my head in the popcorn bowl, keeping my mouth full until I could think of a response. “I dwown’t wawnt to.”

“Then find the good stuff.” Meg pushed herself to her feet. “I need a nap and a steak. In reverse order. You wanna come?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “I’m good.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” she said. She grunted at Clay. “You.”

“Uh, uhm. I’m full,” Clay said.

“Liar.” Meg opened the door. “See you beaches later.”

I gave Clay an eyeball, but he retreated hastily to his room.

“Wanna come talk to Carlos?” I crossed my fingers very, very tightly.

“Not a chance.” Clay emerged and reentered the kitchen. “I’m starving. Saving people burns a lot of calories. Also, you left Butch and Layla stranded. I had to give them a ride back in my baby, and they slobbered all over my transmitter.”

** **

The meatball on the plate in front of me turned my stomach. Not only had I recently seen a man killed and eaten an entire day’s worth of food in five minutes, but I was so nervous to tell Carlos about my kind-of-botched job that my fingers trembled. My fork clattered against the plate.

Auntie Nora frowned at me. “We’re still waiting for the others. You’re not the only person who needs to eat around here.”

I looked up for the first time as if in a daze and realized that there was an extra place setting. Butch and his lady friend were already seated and Carlos could be heard shutting off the television and grumbling as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Who’s coming?” I asked. “Nicky? Tony? Angelo? Lord please not Marissa and Clarissa.”

“Not exactly,” Nora said with a frown. As Carlos entered the kitchen, a toilet flushed. “He’s already here, actually.”

I opened my mouth to ask who ‘he’ was, when ‘he’ appeared in the doorway looking tall and dark and handsome and all sex-on-legs.

“Anthony?” I gaped. “How do you know –
what?”

Carlos nodded at Anthony with less hatred than I’d seen him nod at anyone with. There was almost an air of acceptance, a feeling of respect. Could that be real? Carlos hated everyone.

I chanced another glance at my trainer. Instead of his usual black spandex and track pants, he was dressed in nice khaki’s and a button down shirt, proper dinner attire. Especially compared to my laid back jeans and sweatshirt. His sleeves were tight around his biceps and his chest filled out his dress shirt deliciously, and if I’d met him anywhere but my grandparents’ house I would’ve visibly drooled all over my new sweatshirt. Which would have been unfortunate and gross because then I’d have to decide between doing laundry and wearing my sweatshirt inside out.

His hair was very lightly gelled, dark and wavy as ever, looking luscious enough to run my hands through. His lips looked soft enough to kiss for hours and his chocolate eyes gleamed with intentions I couldn’t let myself think about at the dinner table.

“Friend of the Family,” Anthony explained.

I eyed him closely. Was it just me, or did he mean family with a capital F? “Then why have I never met you before?”

“I’m new to town,” he said, as if that settled things.

“I believe you’ve met,” Carlos said. He looked between us.

“Yeah, gym,” I mumbled.

Butch smiled, two of his teeth newly missing. “Makes sense he’d be working out.”

I looked at Butch, who was admiring Anthony’s muscles. Butch raised an arm as if to squeeze Anthony’s bicep, and said, “Hey, Tony, if I get muscles like this, can I be a body guard, too?”

Carlos opened his mouth, then shut it as if watching a horror flick.

“He’s not a body guard,” I explained. “He’s my trainer.”

“Nope, he’s your bodyguard. It’s a secret.” Butch clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, crapola. I shouldn’t have said that, eh, sis?”

I could feel the steam coming from Carlos’ head and see the venom in his gaze.

Nora looked at her hands, tied in knots in her lap. It was the first time I’d seen her speechless.

“I don’t have a body guard.” I looked between Carlos and Anthony. “He’s my trainer.”

Carlos didn’t exactly meet my eyes and Anthony cut a large slab of meatball and focused on balancing it on his fork.

“Or
do
I have a bodyguard?” I stood up and my chair clattered to the floor. I pointed a finger at Carlos, then whipped it at Anthony, then back to Carlos. “I see what this is! You didn’t think I could handle a task for the Family. You gave me a babysitter. You know what? I don’t need a babysitter. You know who does? Nicky – for his evil twins. And Nicky himself needs a babysitter. I’m the most responsible person in this Family.”

I looked around. “At least I’m in the top fifty percent of reliable people. You know what? I’m going to go get that good stuff – and I better not see you following me.”

I eyed Anthony with my most menacing stare. “And once I rescue it I’ll dump it here and you can pay me my money and I’m leaving. Changing my name. Screw the Luzzi Family – you’re all crazy!”

I stormed out the door and leapt into Clay’s van which I’d sort of stolen for the ride over and zoomed away. Something clattered in the back seat, but I didn’t turn around. I only cared about putting distance between myself and my family.

When I was sure I wasn’t being followed by my stupid trainer turned body guard, I pulled over to the side of the road. I banged my head against the steering wheel a few times, cried for approximately five minutes, then wiped my sniffles and sat back in the seat.

“Where could that damn good-for-nothing stuff be?” I wondered aloud. “Stupid men. Only the nice ones get killed. Poor Andrey.”

I unbuckled my seat belt and slumped down in the seat. “I let the trainer kiss me and it turns out he’s paid to follow me. Bake cookies for the biggest liar of – oh.”

I wasn’t sure exactly
what
it was, but I knew exactly
where
the good stuff was stashed.

Chapter 22

The creep van was parked about three blocks from Michael’s house, hidden conveniently in the Uptown area.

“Didn’t know when he moved here – pshh,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the window. I’d parked far enough away to hopefully not draw attention to myself, but not far enough where I had to actually exert myself to get to his front door.

“Lacey Luzzi – be smart this time,” I told myself. “You have the creep van, so nobody will come rescuing you this time.”

I groaned and seriously debated calling Clay or Meg to tell them where I was. I even considered calling Anthony. I could yell at him first and then subtly drop a hint about where I was, and maybe he’d feel the urge to come and watch my back.

“No. Be strong, Lace,” I said. “You can do this.”

I could always hope Michael was scared, or at least a little intimidated from the events of yesterday. There had been more guns and hookers and shooting than I was used to in my formerly quiet St. Paul town. I briefly looked for a black sweatshirt or sweatpants, but upon finding none settled upon my red college sweatshirt and stiffer-than-I’d-like pair of jeans.

I got out of the van and did a few lunges around the outside, a few butt shimmies and high kicks (my definition of high being knee-level). I needed all the flex I could from these pants in the instance I needed to make a fast getaway.

Just as I’d psyched myself up to go inside, I spotted some flannel material in the back of the van. I crawled over the driver’s seat and retrieved a pair of Clay’s boxers. A quick smell test proved there was a sixty percent chance they were clean, a risk I was willing to take. I slipped out of my jeans and tried not to glance at my reflection in the van as I stomped towards Michael’s place. On a good day, I’d draw minimal notice. On a bad day, everyone would wonder why there was a crazy lady stomping down the street in a red sweatshirt with purple and green polka dotted boxers, the outfit complete with a classy pair of fuggs.

As I got closer, I made my steps stealthier and slipped around the side of the house. I peeked in the windows, but the house looked untouched from the night I’d been there. The bed was suspiciously wrinkled in a similar way, the closet door halfway ajar, just as I’d left it and when I poked my head around to peer in the kitchen windows, I gasped out loud.

Each and every one of the cookies remained on the baking pan, completely untouched. He hadn’t even tried one! I huffed and gained more confidence, my anger propelling me to try the kitchen door. It was unlocked.

I refrained from sticking my finger in the cookie dough bowl still on the counter.

“There’s probably bacteria,” I told myself. “Bad idea, Lace.”

“There’s definitely a virus in this kitchen. But it’s not in the cookie dough.” Michael wandered lazily from the main entrance, a gun dangling from his thumb.

Damn. I should’ve called for backup when I had the chance.

As if reading my mind, he grinned. “No one’s rescuing you this time. Where’s your fatso troop of body guards? The gym trainer?”

I clenched my fist, but didn’t move. “You don’t want to kill me.”

“Not particularly. But it’s not a matter of want. It’s a matter of professionalism.” He winked. “And I am the consummate professional – no loose ends. No stone unturned. Sorry, babe. Shouldn’t have gotten in the way.”

“What about the idea you had before?” I squirmed, grasping at straws to save time. I took a step closer to the stove and rested my hand on the edge, bending over slightly to steady myself.

“Feeling woozy?” Michael nodded at the stove. “Could be the fumes. I had no idea the effect making cookie dough with this stuff had. Could be a new product on the market.”

“What could?” I asked.

“Answer me this honestly. How big of an idiot are you?”

I straightened a bit and lost my cool. “NOBODY EVER TOLD ME WHAT ‘THE GOOD STUFF WAS.’”

Michael watched me.

“Well?” I asked. “If you’re going to shoot me, could you at least please tell me what you’re killing me over?”

He shook his head back and forth slowly, a slow grin creeping over his face. “You really are
that
naïve. Honey, this isn’t the business for you.”

“I found that one out the hard way.” I rolled my eyes.

“You have been searching for fifteen million dollar’s worth of powder.”

My jaw nearly bumped the stove in my shock. “Excuse me?”

“You see that there batch of ‘cookies’ you made?”

I stared weakly at the suddenly menacing looking pail.

He picked up a cookie. “This burnt, shitty block of rock is the most expensive biscotti in the world – to the tune of twenty thousand dollars.”

I tried to suck in air, but nothing was coming in or going out.

“This ‘batch’ you cooked up for me – that was about a million bucks worth of baking you did.” Michael shook his head again. “I thought you’d figured me out, but I just couldn’t figure out how. I thought I’d been beaten.”

Michael walked close to me and bent over. “But then I remembered that never happens. Because I’m the best.”

I gagged, bent in half.

He frowned at me. “Oh, babe, don’t give me that. The way you were coming onto me the other night, I know you agree.”

Michael winked, and I wished I had something to throw up, but unfortunately I’d never gotten around to eating that meatball earlier, and the popcorn must’ve already digested. That’s one of those things that goes straight through me – kind of, well, kind of like corn.

“How about this – do you want to try one of your fucking cookies before I kill you? I know you like to eat.” He eyed me up and down. “You won’t even have to worry about going to the gym this time.”

“I’m good.” I croaked, slowly trying to pull my body back into the semblance of a standing human being. “But you look hungry.”

Before he could wrap his fingers around his gun, I took advantage of his surprise, picking up the monstrous, million dollar batch of cookies. I dumped the bowl straight over his head.

Crack-steeped dough slid down his face, and he brought his hands to his eyes, growling in pain and frustration. But as he tried to paw at his face, the large bowl was in his way, and he wouldn’t let go of the gun to pull it off his skull. I grabbed the nearest metal spoon and clanked him right on top of the noggin with it, a large THUNK reverberating from the clash of metal on metal. A shot rang out as Michael pressed the trigger wildly, and a bullet pierced the stove a few feet from my hip – aka too close for comfort.

I tried to slowly back out of the room, but Michael managed to thrust his head backwards and the bucket sailed across the room and clanged into the knife rack. He stared at me, looking like a contorted, sludgier version of the Sandman. I ducked as he shot again. I slithered out of the room, finding the floor slick with goop that’d been flung room-wide in Michael’s dance of rage.

A foot landed next to my head, and I knew it was over. I rolled over and looked up, ready to face my cookie covered fate.

“Doll.” Anthony stared down at me, then fired his gun once and Michael sank to the floor.

I stood up to thank Anthony, but he’d only shot Michael in the knee – my body guard moved forward and I shut my eyes assuming he’d finish the job. However when I opened my eyes again, both of them were gone. They’d simply disappeared. I looked out the window, but saw nothing.

I shrugged. Fine by me. I wouldn’t want to be alone with an angry Anthony carrying a gun. Instead I skated across the floor slick with sugar and miscellaneous substances, trying to avoid the rivers of red that flowed between the mounds of dough. I looked under the cupboard and sure enough, the stash was untouched (except for the four cups I’d removed to bake with). I hauled it out into a hefty moving box I nicked from the living room and toted it to the car.

The noise must’ve drawn the neighbors’ attention because I could feel more than a few pairs of eyes watching me as I made the three block trek in my boxers, sweats and Uggs carrying a box spattered with hardened cookie dough.