Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2)

* * *

F
rom ten thousand feet
, circling SeaTac in our landing pattern, I was disappointed in seeing Seattle again. I should have driven. Up there, it was too pristine, too clean, too . . . quiet. I'd spent the past four years, more or less, being quiet. I was ready to get back into the pulse of life.

Not that the quiet hadn't helped. Four years prior, when I was eighteen, the last thing I wanted to be was Tomasso Bertoli, heir-apparent of Carlo Bertoli, Godfather of all of Seattle and Tacoma. I wanted to be a normal guy, with normal dreams and the expectation that I wouldn't have to risk my life either by getting shot like my uncle, Johnny, or going to jail like my cousin, Vince. Spending ten years in jail worried about dropping the soap? No thanks. Not for me, even if I was protected.

So I took the opportunity to get the hell out of Seattle. In fact, I went country, although my family never really knew to what extent. Going by the name of Tom Bertoli, I couldn't hide my heritage, but I hid just about everything else. Gone were the suits, the designer clothes, and the slick looks that had gotten me plenty of attention and plenty of ass in high school. Instead, I'd worn off-the-shelf jeans and t-shirts. My Alfa Romeo was replaced with a Chevy, and I tried to act like a normal college student.

Well, a normal college student in most ways. I was about fifty miles from the Gulf Coast in Alabama, in a little town that was just outside Mobile, and I grew to appreciate a few things. Fried catfish, for one, dusted in corn flour and then deep fried. I had to work hard to keep the weight off during my first year in college. I'm not one of those skinny poof types—I took after my uncle Johnny and have loved the weights and the powerful look since about the first time I picked up a weight in the house gym. So as good as it was, I had to watch the Southern food.

But the second and best part about being in the South? Southern girls. Say what you want—there are lots of dirt poor areas—but the women are something else. Southern girls know how to treat their men right. They know how to talk, how to move, and how to be feminine in ways that the girls I knew in Seattle didn't. Some of them liked to put on a front about being good girls, but once you got past it, they were down to fuck like it was nobody's business. The hardest part was getting the snaps on their shorts undone.

But starting in my junior year, things just went weird for me. Maybe it was that I got bored. Classes were easy, and finding new challenges in the women department was getting harder and harder. I mean, I'd picked up a pretty good list of accomplishments, but it was just too easy, and I stopped wanting to be in the South any longer.

Whatever the reason, during my last semester in college, I felt an itch inside me, a desire to go back to Seattle. I'd left because I didn't want to be Tomasso Bertoli, crown prince of the Bertoli family, and I knew I still didn't . . . at least to a degree. I didn't want to be handed a position merely due to my last name. What I wanted was to earn my place, to work my way up. If I were to take over when my father was ready to retire, then I'd do it because I was ready to handle the position. If I couldn't, then I'd happily pass it on to Adriana or Daniel if they wanted it, or to my little brother, Angelo.

My thoughts raced in my mind as the Delta 737 circled SeaTac. The city was just too damn sleepy and sterile up in the air. I should have driven.

Thankfully, I was met at the gate by one of my favorite members of the Bertoli family, Pietro Marconi's son, Jake. Instead of going to college, Jake signed up for a three-year hitch with the Army, figuring that he'd pick up all the training he needed to become better at following in his father's footsteps by working a little bit for the government. He'd gotten out a few months before I graduated, and he looked healthy and happy. "Tommy, it's good to see you."

"Actually, Jake, you can call me Tomasso now," I said with a smile, exchanging brotherly hugs with my friend. "I think I got all the ‘Tommy’ out of me down South. You ever get to Alabama?"

"Can't say that I did," Jake replied. Unlike his father, who looked like he was Italian, Jake always had a bit of a California surfer vibe to him, but who knew where in his DNA the dark dirty-blond came from? His mother, Carla Marconi, had coal black hair like her husband. “The best I could manage was doing infantry school over at Fort Benning, Georgia. Then they stuck me in fucking Korea for the rest of the time."

"Which is probably why if I visited Korea right now, I'd find a ton of little half-Korean, half-Italian kids running around," I joked back. "Seoul's going to need a new Little Italy."

Jake laughed, patting me on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Tomasso. You seem different though—more serious than you were, a more focused look about you.”

"We can talk in the car. What did you drive?" I asked as Jake reached for my bag. "No, I got it."

Jake's hand stopped a few inches from the handle. "Really?"

I nodded. "Really. Jake, before I left, I didn't want to be the prince. I still don't. I don't want that handed to me. So I'm going to earn it. That starts with little things like being able to carry my own bags."

He nodded, and I grabbed my suitcase and duffel bag, following him out to the parking lot. "As to your question, I figured you'd be looking for a good ride, so I brought the Cali."

The Ferrari California was one of my favorite cars in the lineup owned by my father, and I whistled as I saw the sleek lines and blue-gray paint job. "Still sexy as fuck," I said, holding my hand out. "Keys."

Jake chuckled and held them out. "I thought you said that you wanted to earn it."

"Hey, the car's still in my father's name," I said with a laugh. "Besides, I spent four years driving a Chevy. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?" Jake said, tossing me the keys and climbing into the passenger seat.

"Tell me you have absolutely no country or southern hip-hop on the sound system. I think I've had my fill of that over the last couple of years,” I said, climbing into the driver's seat. I'd forgotten how ironically luxurious a firm foam seat felt. I'd gotten too used to soft foam that just mushed out like a fucking pillow under your ass. The Ferrari, though, grabbed your legs, ass and back and told you to sit the fuck down right
here
. The growl of the engine as I started it up sent a shot of adrenaline down my spine, and I grinned as I flipped the switch to retract the hardtop convertible roof.

"If you drive the way I think you will, it won't matter, will it?" Jake said. "Just remember to try and keep it at ground level, okay?"

Actually, I cruised, enjoying the feeling of the sports car as I drove north along the Interstate toward the Bertoli mansion. "So how's life for you now?"

"Not bad," Jake said. "You know the Don's got me working at the pizza joint?"

"No shit?" I said with a laugh. Bertoli's Pizza was just one of my family's legitimate businesses. No Mafia family can go for long without having some legitimate business to filter all the profits of their other enterprises, and Bertoli's Pizza was a Seattle institution. We'd even catered the summer barbecue for the police union three years running for free. "What's he got you doing? Deliveries?"

Jake laughed and shook his head. "Nah, learning how to actually do business. He's got me working the books in the office and stuff. He told me that the Army took care of the violent side of things, and they taught me about how to organize. Now, it’s time to put the finishing touches on me—his own words. So I've spent six months working in the back offices, doing orders for tomato sauce, cheese, flour, shit like that after I got reacquainted with Seattle. Worst part of it all is, I haven't even seen a slice of pizza the whole damn time. But what about you? You leave a bunch of heartbroken girls back in Alabama?"

"Heartbroken? No way. Broken in? Hell yes." It wasn't the total truth, but I couldn't exactly tell Jake the truth. He wouldn't have understood.

He laughed and we continued driving. Reaching the mansion, I stopped in front, getting out to take my bags.

"You go say hi to your father. I'll park the car," Jake said. “And don't worry about the bags, either. You may want to do stuff on your own now, but remember, you're still part of the Bertoli family. There are people to do that sort of stuff around here. Your bags be in your room when you're done talking with the Don."

I nodded and went inside, unconsciously checking my pants and shirt to make sure I looked okay. While Father would understand that I'd flown wearing track pants and a t-shirt, that didn't excuse if I'd shown up looking like a bum. Inside, I saw one of the maids, a nice girl named Jessie who'd been with the house for years. "Jessie?"

"Master Bertoli, welcome home," she said, smiling shyly. Jessie was a few years older than me and had gotten married while I was in college. Still, we'd had a few nights back when we were both single that still left pleasant memories and warmed cold nights. Tiny, trim, and with a bobbed haircut that gave her sort of a pixie vibe, she'd always been a great maid, and she'd let me rock her world once or twice. "How was your flight?"

"Good, but you know I don't like that
Master
stuff. Just Tomasso."

Jessie blushed a little but shook her head. "I can't, sir. At least, not using your first name while working. I suppose you are looking for Mr. Bertoli?"

"Yes, do you know where he is?"

She pointed out toward the back. "I believe he's by the pool. He's on a bit of a fitness kick recently, if you can believe it."

I shook my head. "Really? What caused that?"

She leaned in close, whispering into my ear. "He tried on his tuxedo for Miss Bertoli's wedding to Daniel. Let's just say it didn't fit too well. Since then, he's been on a fitness kick. He wants to make sure things look good for the ceremony."

I chuckled and shook my head. If my father had any weakness in terms of his thinking or actions, it was Adriana. Then again, since I agreed with his sparing of Daniel, I couldn't argue it too much. "Thanks, Jessie. I'll let you get your work done.”

I left and found my father in the family pool. It was three lanes, and while not competition depth, it had let my brother, Angelo, do pretty well for a short, stocky Italian on the high school swim team. Of course, I suspect he joined the swim team only because he got to spend a lot of time around girls in swimsuits.

Father, on the other hand, looked nothing at all like a swimmer or an athlete of any kind. As he went north of fifty years old, his paunch had spread, and his already somewhat weak jawline had receded more and more into his neck. Still, discounting Carlo Bertoli, even if you were his son, was a fool's errand. It was difficult, though, as he had for some reason insisted on wearing Speedos as he did his laps.

Seeing me when he turned, he waved at me and stopped, touching down on the bottom of the pool. Walking his way back from the other end, he pulled his goggles off his head and wiped his face. "Tomasso! It's good to have you home, Son! I didn't expect you in for another two hours. What happened?"

"I was able to catch an earlier connection coming out of Denver," I explained, walking closer to the pool. "It's good to see you, Dad."

He got out of the pool and grabbed a robe off the deck chair he'd been using. Tying the belt, he came and hugged me, the two of us clapping each other on the back. "Oh, my boy, it's good to see you too. Ouch,” he said. “Watch it, you're going to hurt an old man's back!"

I laughed and pounded him once more, then stepped back. "You're not old. You're still in the prime of your life."

He chuckled and shook his head. "When a man starts giving away those he feels are his children, then the prime of his life is over. But I plan on hanging on to what's left as much as I can. Come, let's sit."

I took the other seat, and Dad tapped a control on the table. "Can you bring some beer for me and Tomasso? No, wait—make it two sparkling waters."

He clicked off the intercom and shrugged. "I don't want to look like a fool at Adriana's wedding."

"You won't, I promise. I'm glad to be back in time for that as well."

"So, now that you're back, Tommy, what do you plan to do? To be honest, when you left to go to school four years ago, I wasn't sure I'd see you back other than on holidays."

"Actually, if you don't mind, Tomasso now," I said somberly. "I came back because I think it's time for me to set some ideas I had as a boy aside and become a man."

He crossed his hands over his stomach, a gesture I'd come to know well. He was thinking, and his mind, which was stronger than any muscle any of his men may have had, was working. "You know, Tomasso, coming back is not like you just stepped out for a bit while going to school locally. The boys, the Family—they kind of knew you were unsure about this life. Now you're saying you want back in. How would I justify this to men like your friend, Jake, who only left because I told him to go into the military for a few years? How would that even look to his father?"

I nodded, thinking. "I know. It's one reason why I want to earn my way up. The boys, the Family—they won't respect me if I just came in acting like some sort of heir-apparent. I don't want to be some pampered prince, nor do I think that is what you would want of me. So let me start near the bottom, where you think I can learn and show what I can offer.”

Dad's eyes twinkled, and a small smile broke out on his face. "Is that so? You realize if I do that, I must place you under someone besides myself. I can't be the one to mentor you. That would damage the exact thing you are trying to establish."

"I know," I said, thinking. Suddenly, an idea came to mind. "You know, Jake Marconi was the guy who picked me up at the airport. I take it that you have him in the office to learn from you?"

Dad chuckled and took a sip of his water. "Jake is a good boy, but he is not cut out for the rough part of life. I kept tabs on him in the military through our connections, and while he's trustworthy and a good worker, he's not as sure on the trigger as I need him at this time. He's too sure of his words and his ability to use his charm. Useful tools, but more useful on the legitimate side of our business than the other side. Why?"