Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

Meg was staring at me wide-eyed. I looked down the barrel of the gun, but was suddenly not scared. My anger at being misled by Carlos was burning and bubbling to the surface. There was a headache pricking at my brain from the explosion, the garbage stench, and a smell I was convinced was emitting from taped man, who I swore had been farting for the past six hours straight.

But when I turned back to face the gun, I saw that it was the gorgeous Italian leader.

His face was stern, but I was pretty sure one of his cheeks had twitched in a way that wasn’t quite menacing. Almost as if he were amused.

“I, uh, I think we’re on the same team,” I blurted, my hands still raised.

“Yes.” He turned away.

“Hey,” I called after him. Why? I had no idea. I didn’t know what I was going to say until the words flew straight out of my mouth, circumventing my brain and filter system on the way. “I don’t normally look like this.”

He turned back, and despite his calm face, his milk chocolate eyes seemed to soften the slightest amount; they went from bitter espresso to café latte. “I know.”

More Italian phrases burst from behind the cars. I couldn’t understand all of it, but the tone was frantic. The handsome Italian turned away.

“What’s happening?” I yelled. The Russians and their cars were gone; they must’ve used the bomb as a distraction to get away.

“Man down,” he murmured before sprinting away. I briefly wondered if he knew who I was, or if he thought I was a crazy cookie monster grouch lady living in the dumpster.

The men gathered on the other side of the cars, and I could only see bits and pieces of the ensuing events: flashes of fabric and Mediterranean skin, dark hair in glimpses, gauze being wrapped around an appendage.

They loaded a body into one of the black cars and it whizzed away.

Meg was watching the whole exchange with her mouth open, sitting on the floor. It was as if the bomb had hit her ten minutes later than everyone else, and she was just now going into shock.

“Come on, let’s get him out of here,” I said to Meg, nudging the disgruntled man we’d kidnapped. “The good guys are left. They’ll know what to do with him.”

Meg nodded dumbly, but moved her body as if it weren’t attached to her brain and helped me lug the man’s limbs over the side of the dumpster.

“Hold it, hold it,” I said.

Meg had let go one second too soon, and I couldn’t support the man’s weight all by myself.

“NO, STOP,” I whimpered, crumbling under his mass.

The man toppled to the gravel pavement.

I heaved my own body out from the dumpster and knelt over him. “Sorry, buddy.”

His eyes remained closed, and I wasn’t sure if it was anger, pain, or pure unconsciousness. I hoped the latter, for his sake.

When I glanced up, the Italian leader had rejoined us, his face one shade paler than it’d been moments before. Then again, I’d be white as a psych ward’s walls if I’d seen a shot man.

“Can you take care of him?” I asked. “We don’t really know what to do with him. In fact, he’s been kind of a turd, so if you want to scare him a bit, that’s cool by us.”

The leader pursed his lips, his presence behind me almost unbearable. His crisp, foresty scent – pine trees with a lemon twist was the right amount of fresh and manly, clean yet husky. I wanted to lean back into him and close my eyes, inhale his scent, and float away. And if his lips happened to fall on mine, then so be it.

He leaned over me, his thick bicep grazing my boob. I was a little embarrassed to admit that my nipple maybe hardened on impact.

I felt my mouth drop open as he ripped the tape off the man’s mouth and propped him up against the dumpster. He patted the hostage’s cheek lightly, and then gave him a little slap.

I caught Meg’s eye, and she mimed wiping drool from her face. I could read her mind with amazing clarity: she wouldn’t mind being slapped by this man, preferably on the ass.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “We captured him. You can’t just let him go free.”

“Unless he’s gonna torture this little squirt. That I wanna see,” Meg chimed in, finally finding her voice.

“Eh – Marco, tu come stai, tesoro?” The leader’s voice was deep and confident, smooth and sleek like his movements. I could listen to it all night long… in bed.

I shook myself.
Stop daydreaming about criminals!

“Do you know him?” I asked. It was kind of an obvious question, since ‘tesoro’ was a form of endearment similar to baby, honey or sweet cheeks. Except I guessed this was used in sarcasm.

“Do I know you, eh, Marco?” He stood up, staring down at the taped man. I couldn’t tell if his voice was full of hatred or mild interest.

“How did you trap him?” Those chocolate brown eyes landed on me, and suddenly I couldn’t remember my own name.

“He stared at my tits,” Meg burst in. “So I fried him with my zapper. Wanna see it? Brand new.”

The Italian looked like he might vomit – I suddenly felt clammy and cold. Had I read this all wrong? Had I zapped the wrong man? What if the man in the tape was our friend, and this tall, sex-on-legs piece of man was the enemy?

And then, to my great surprise and relief, the stoic leader let out a bark of laughter.

“Marco, Marco,” he said, bending over and untying the hostage. “Hopefully he’s learned his lessons.”

“I think so,” Meg said. “He won’t be staring at my boobs ever again.”

The leader and I exchanged a quick glance, but neither of us commented.

“He’s one of ours,” the Italian said.

“Oooops.” I winced.

“It’s okay. Nice work – most amateurs can’t capture one of Carlos’ men.”

“What can I say? I guess boobs are good for something.” I blushed as soon as the words leapt off my tongue.

The Italian looked as if he had a good retort, but refrained at the last minute. However, I didn’t miss his eyes darkening or the quick gaze he cast over my own average-sized chest. I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the night air.

“Yeah, plus I was a cop.” Meg whipped out her gun, as if to show it off, but accidentally dropped it, firing a round into the basketball hoop that’d recently held our boy hostage. “Ooops,” she giggled, a sound I didn’t hear often. She bent over to pick it up. “Probably a good thing I’m retired.”

Or fired,
I wanted to correct.

The man raised his eyebrows then yapped to a few of the other guards huddled over by the car. They leapt to attention and helped Marco over to the backseat, where he slowly came to his senses. The first few words I heard from across the room were jibberish. I kind of hoped he had a case of amnesia – I didn’t need Carlos to find out I’d taken down the wrong team.

The leader of the pack pulled his gaze away from Meg and I, marching across the parking lot to the shiny black car.

“Hey!” I called after him. “What’s your name?”

And in the darkness of night, I couldn’t tell if he winked or blinked or neither, the movement happened so quickly.

But the next thing I knew he’d slipped into the car, cruising away in the night air, departing as silently as he’d arrived.

“Damn,” Meg broke the tense silence. “That man is a mysterious mofo. If he weren’t so sneaky I’d get my hands all over him.”

“You and me both,” I said. “You and me both.”

“How we getting home?” Meg asked.

“What do you mean? I drove here…” I trailed off as I noticed a few bullet holes in the tires of my crappy-little-Kia. “Oh, bummer.”

“Clay?” Meg asked.

I nodded, and went to my default solution for any problem.

I called my tech-whiz cousin Clay, who doubled as my roommate. He could move money around the world faster than I could tie my shoes, and he could hack into secure websites with his hands tied to his ankles. This didn’t mean he knew anything about fixing cars, but I figured it should be a simple matter for him to get us a lift.

Indeed, Clay came to our rescue. He called a repair man from car a shop around the corner – a business that specialized in tires, transmissions, and stolen cars – and we were in action. Except the wheels on my crappy-little-Kia were much too small, and Meg and I sat much lower than most of the traffic on the street. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I felt as if I’d finally gotten one of those motorized Barbie Jeeps I’d asked for as a child. Special Edition: Bullet-Riddled Tires.

Honestly though, it wasn’t our fault trouble followed us everywhere.

As we cruised across town to Meg’s bar, I used the time to brainstorm
exactly
what to tell my grandfather that’d convince him to let me keep my job. There was no way I was going back to the laundromat now. Not when I needed four tires replaced.

Chapter 4

I dropped Meg off at her bar, Drink – a divey, little place near Uptown. It was known for its generous pours, interesting clientele and dark corners perfect for quiet discussions.

Meg snapped her gum and waved as she hauled ass inside, just in time for the late night happy hour rush.

A pit lodged in my stomach. I had absolutely zero reasons to procrastinate anymore. I debated going into the bar and sloshing back vodka diets until I couldn’t possibly drive.

But that would be bad.

My phone rang, and I looked down.

Carlos.

I imagined dunking my phone in milk, burying it in the sand, and then sending it to the bottom of Lake Michigan attached to an entire cement truck.

Instead, I answered it.

Because nobody says
no
to Carlos.

“I’m coming,” I said, hanging up the phone as I shifted the car into drive. “Give me twenty minutes.”

I cruised through the streets, but couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to the roads. After nearly clothes-lining a mailbox with my side mirror, I forced myself to pay attention as I skirted the area, jumping on the highway to downtown St. Paul.

Carlos was waiting for me at Marinellos, the best Italian restaurant in town. I threw the car into an illegal parking space and traipsed inside. I kissed Lorenzo – the short, beefy bouncer – on both cheeks and pointed out my car. He’d make sure nothing happened to it.

“Tutto bene?” I asked. My Italian was broken but semi-functional; kind of like my car.

“Si, si. Carlos is upstairs. Except, are you sure you don’t want to shower first?

“You’re not digging my dumpster scent? I think I’m rockin’ it.”

Lorenzo shook his head. “Your grandfather’s upstairs.”

I slipped passed the trays of Gelato calling my name, passed the memories in the form of photos on the walls, and up the darkened staircase to the rooftop deck. At times like this, after hours, the place became a primo meeting place for Carlos’ business meetings. It was either here, or the backroom at the laundromat. I’d never had a one on one business meeting with my grandfather before, but at least here I could hope to be sent home with a leftover panini and a bowl of gelato.

I knocked hesitantly on the door.

“Come.”

Carlos’ voice was ever so slightly accented, though his English was perfect. He spoke Italian and Sicilian Dialect, but it was hardly noticeable to Americans unless one knew to look for it.

I pushed open the door, and my grandfather sat at a table before me. His hair was peppered gray, but handsomely so. He had one leg crossed over the other as he reclined in a large, comfy chair which might as well have his name engraved on it, smoking a personalized, hand rolled cigar.

His dark, intelligent eyes glanced in my direction as if he were as interested in me as a pet rock, his gaze giving away no emotions or clues to his thoughts whatsoever. His impeccable grooming was par for the course, except his hair was slightly ruffled in a way that made me nervous. Carlos’ hair was perfect always.

I gave an awkward nod, then approached him and kissed both cheeks.

Though I normally hated the smell of cigarette smoke, thanks to years of exposure in the strip clubs, Carlos’ cigars always smelled expensive and smooth, easy on the lungs. At times I almost wanted to ask for a puff, but I feared he’d chop my hand off with his pinky nail.

Though not physically intimidating – his legs were thin and pale (though I’d only ever seen them once, in swim trunks, and at Nora’s incessant begging), his stature medium-short and thick, but not particularly muscular, as any one of his guards could bench press him with one hand. However there was never any doubt about who held the power in the room. With a tongue capable of stinging quicker than a scorpion and deadlier than a Black Widow, Carlos could will someone out of this world with a name uttered under his breath.

“Hello, Carlos,” I said. I’d tried out Grandpa, Grandfather, Sir, etc. but nothing had stuck. So I reverted back to his given name. “How are you this evening?”

Carlos inhaled for a long breath, held the smoke in his lungs, and blew it out in lazy rings while sweat slicked my palms and perspiration dripped between my boobs and down my back.

As the last ring drifted towards the moon, Carlos spoke. “I have a man injured, and another who was captured by my granddaughter.”

I looked at my shoes.
Damn, news traveled fast.

“How do you think I am?” he asked.

I managed a small shrug.

“I’m impressed, Lacey,” he said. “Marco was not a bad guard.”

“
Was?
” I gulped. “He’s not dead, is he? I won’t work for you if you ...”

One of Carlos’ eyelids twitched as if annoyed.

“No,” he said finally.

“Good.” I swiped some palm sweat onto my jeans. “And thank you.”

The silence was heavy for another few moments. I realized I’d never really had a one on one meeting with Carlos. Things were much easier when we had my grandmother to distract us with her steel disks of cookies and wine infused dinner chatter.

“I have a proposition to make,” he said. “I’m not a fan of it.”

“Why are you offering it to me, then?”

“Because, we had a deal. And I don’t renege on my word.” Carlos patted out his cigar, flicking the ashes into a freshly cleaned tray. “I don’t want women on my workforce.”

My temper flared. “But Carlos, this is the twenty first century-”