Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (39 page)

Tony lay on his back and clasped his hand behind his head. His lips drew downward and he looked out the window as if trying to conceal the vulnerability already exposed in his expression. “Oh, they threw me a party all right. A moving party. Accused me of ratting out a member of my father’s family—which I would never do. Called me a traitor and cut me off from everybody I knew. Pop said I couldn't serve two masters, especially when my master was hell bent on pinching him and his family and putting him behind bars,” Tony said. “I was told in so many words that if I ever returned to New York or Jersey, I would never leave. Every day I’m looking over my shoulder thinkin’ somebody might order a hit.”

J.J. gasped. “You don’t mean…”

Tony nodded. “Yep. Two in the back of the head and they’d probably send someone who was once a friend…or even a relative. Tell you what, though, they better hope I don’t see them first.”

“I can't even imagine. I mean, we’ve always been close. Dysfunctional but tight-knit.”

“I realized Pops would be upset, but I never thought...actually I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I got sick of living a life where my father spent more time in the streets and in prison than with us. Swore I would never let it happen to me. The FBI was my escape, my ticket to ensure prison would never take me away from my family or my kids.”

J.J. placed her palm on his chest and rested her cheek against the back of her hand. “You will, Tony. You're a better man than even you realize,” she said of the man who never made her itch except the one time she was now willing to forgive. He had an honesty and goodness to a depth at which no one would ever understand except her. Perhaps grasping his true value is what drew them together.

“And you do?”

“Yes,” J.J. said, nodding her head eagerly. “I do.” 

He wrapped both arms around her and pressed her close. “I gave up my entire existence to live on my own terms,” Tony said. “So the way I figure it—if I could give up so much
to live
on my own terms, then I can sacrifice as much or more
to love
on my own terms...to love you.”

J.J.'s stomach curled into knots, as it had done the last time those words glided across his tongue, penetrated her weakened defenses, and embraced her heart. As his palms caressed her hips, urging her to join him for round two, her stomach rumbled.

“Hungry much?” Tony asked with a chuckle.

J.J.'s cheeks warmed from the embarrassment. “Perhaps it's time to warm up something from the massive buffet you bought. Want something?” J.J. asked playfully with an eyebrow raised.

Tony eyed her with a sexy gaze that said the only food he wanted was the contents of her “cookie jar.”

“Besides that,” J.J. said, tapping his arm playfully.

“A bottle of water.” He sucked his tongue. “I'm dehydrated.”

“I bet you are.” With a wink, J.J. slipped on her robe and headed for the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind her. She held her arms up as if to waltz and then glided across the floor when a knock at the door startled her out of her blissful haze. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. “Gee whiz, Tony! Another surprise?”

“You say something?” Tony called out, his voice muffled.

This time, without fear, she whisked the door open and froze.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Six said in his warm tenor.

There he stood, once more, in all his chocolate glory, a bottle of Grey Goose in one hand and brown paper bag filled to the brim with red and white boxes of Chinese food and chopsticks. The scent of Kung Pao chicken made her stomach growl. The last time Six stood in this hall, she wanted nothing more than for her eternal source of hate and discontent to disappear for good, and not much had changed. His gaze pierced her as if he was using his X-ray vision to see through her robe and invade J.J.'s private places.

J.J. noticed his intense stare and clenched the neckline of her robe shut. “Jesus, Six! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Who's 'at, Babe?” Tony called.

“Someone knocked on the wrong door!” she yelled before returning her voice to a whisper. “You can't just pop up here whenever you feel like it. I'm with someone else now. Whatever you have to say to me can wait until 9 am Monday!” 

The corners of Six's mouth turned down. Although stymied for a moment, he recovered quickly. He always did. “Yes, you will,” he said, sauntering down the hall like a magician with another trick up his sleeve. “I'll give him round one. But the fight isn't over until the final knockout. Until our next encounter.”

She shut the door and leaned her back against it while she gathered her thoughts.

“I'm dying in here,” Tony yelled. “Where's the water?”

“Coming right up,” J.J. said, hopping nervously to the kitchen. “Coming right up.”

Chapter 18

Friday November 6th—Irving Street

9 Days Left…

Santino Castellano glanced at the calendar thumbtacked to the peeling floral wallpaper of his rental.  His time was running out. He found it hard to believe he’d been in D.C. for nearly two months already, but he couldn’t wait to vacate Irving Street and return to Jersey. He’d had enough of living in exile while he repaired the damage caused by his explosive temper. He wanted to learn the truth and settle his business once and for all.

He regretted the fallout for the family, the Bonannos, but he wouldn’t change what he did. From his wallet, he pulled out a picture of Rosa, his childhood sweetheart since first grade; he kissed her forehead to complete his daily ritual. He couldn’t believe she was gone. The victim of a hit and run, her mangled body had been mowed over and left for dead like road kill in the middle of Jersey’s Jackson Street. Only one night before the soul-shaking incident, he’d put the three-carat ring on her finger. He barely finished asking the question before she said yes. Their dream of forever, however, came to an abrupt, bone-crushing end.

After a lingering stare, he pushed the picture back in his wallet; he headed downstairs to grab a beer when his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and recognized the number from the payphone his crew boss Nicky Mumbles used. He was a capo and called Santino once every couple weeks, both to check he was okay and ensure he was on task. After all, Nicky’s ass and reputation were also on the line.

“Hey Santino, how’s tricks?” Nicky asked. When he spoke, he always sounded like he had half a sub sandwich in his mouth. 

“Everything’s good,” he replied, the sound of his voice less certain than he meant it to be.

“You makin’ any progress on your, uhhh,
lesson
?”

“Yeah…yeah. Almost complete. Just a little bit to go,” he lied.  Santino needed to earn quick money. He had a few blood ties in the area and some contacts who dealt blow on the streets to hook him up with some product to distribute.

“Good. Glad to hear it, ‘cause word is our friends are losing patience. And if you don’t finish up school soon, by next Monday to be exact, you might get expelled
if you get my drift
.”

When Santino received the news of Rosa’s death, he hadn’t cried so hard since he was in diapers. His body collapsed in an epileptic tremor and the tears streamed hopelessly down his cheeks. He asked a couple of guys from his crew to find out what they could. Days later, word on the street was that fucking douche bag,
stunad
Cappi Merendino had a shitload of blow in the trunk of his Caddy and left Rosa for dead so he wouldn’t get pinched. Of course, once Santino found out who did it, he whacked him. Cappi took three shots right in the side of his sorry mug, parked inside the truck still damaged from the collision with Rosa. Any man in his position would’ve done the same, which turned out to be his only saving grace when word later got around that Merendino was the nephew of a made man.

Since Cappi was a piece of shit dealing weed and Ecstasy to high schoolers under the table despite the boss’s repeated warnings, Santino’s uncle Sal was able to broker an agreement with the families—financial restitution in exchange for forgiveness. With ten grand on his person, Santino was still fifteen in the hole and trying to dig his way out. His Uncle could’ve easily fronted him the money, but a loan would defeat the lesson’s purpose. So he forced Santino to tough it out.

Santino ran his hand across the back of his neck. “The situation’s handled already. Should be home Tuesday.”

“You sure, now? Cause I don’t wanna hear any bullshit ‘I ain’t got it’ at test time, ya hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Nicky,” he said. “Loud and clear.”

After the brief exchange, he was glad the conversation ended. Truth was he had barely earned two grand since he arrived in D.C. and clearly his time was running out. His contact, a man nicknamed after Santino’s new adopted city, was still days away from connecting him to the gangbanger who would buy his product for the right price. If he didn’t find a way to earn soon, he might be forced to make a choice, one that would save him from the pan, only to land him deeper into the fire. He took a deep breath and descended down the steps to get a drink—a stiff one—to help him forget.

D.C. was as good a place as any to lam it until he could come up with the balance of the money he owed. Mr. O’Leary’s place was clean, cheap, and as long as you paid the rent on time, he was a ghost and minded his own business, just the way Santino liked it. His new roommate, whoever it was he heard creeping around, had better follow the same policy.

• • •

Lana allowed the hot spray to wash over her aching body until the water turned cold. The shower gave her a chance to think, find some clarity. If she had any hope of moving around the city undetected, retrieving the drops containing the money and papers she needed to travel, she needed some help. Preferably someone whose silence could be bought for the right price. She stepped beyond the curtain and nourished her skin with oil. It had begun to harden to a leathery roughness, as the remnants of her heart. She wrapped the towel around her torso and prepared to return to her room for some much-needed rest when hard footsteps tapped up the stairs. She cracked open the door.

She touched her lips and took in the entirety of his tall form as he entered his bedroom. Her eyes roamed from his thick, black, curly hair to his broad shoulders, into the curve in his tight waist and perfect backside, down his sturdy thighs and rather large feet. An appreciative smile edged her lips upward.

“If you take a picture it'll last longer,” the man said, craning his head over his shoulder to glimpse his admirer.

Embarrassed, Lana snatched the door shut and pressed her fingers against her cheeks. Her face warmed to a flush rose color. “I wasn't staring, if that's what you're thinking. Just waiting for you to get inside your room. I'm not dressed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Any excuse will do,” he said. He flipped the light switch, closed the door within a sliver, and peered out.

She found his New York accent as sexy as he.              

“I'm in my room. You can come out now.”

She poked her head out and noticed a fluorescent glow slice through a thin crack. “I can see you, ya know. If you’re gonna pretend you’re not looking at me, you should probably try again with the light
off
.”  

“Hey, one good stalking deserves another.” He pushed the door shut and the latch clicked. Through the door he yelled, “Go ahead. It's closed now.”

Lana tipped across the floor, her towel barely large enough to cover her naked frame. She peered back over her shoulder just in time to see the glow disappear. Then she shook her head and chuckled.

Her thoughts lingered on the stranger in the other room as she slipped into a pink camisole, matching silk pajama pants, and dried her hair. A sense of humor, a little charm, and he was a special kind of hot, but he could serve only one purpose in her life at the moment. For the first time, she needed help and she despised her position of weakness. With Jake barely cold in his grave, she would only flirt with purpose. Her first goal was to find out why he was in a D.C. rooming house and then, most importantly, how he could help her escape from this God forsaken country.

Checking herself in the mirror once more, she hadn't yet gotten used to the new look, which she termed Goth chic. The black strands contrasted starkly against her sun-shy skin. Still she favored the color because the coal-black tint looked as coarse as she felt. Just as she reached to twist the doorknob and introduce herself, there was a knock. She opened the door and hung her hand on her hip.

“You look smart enough to appreciate the value of a cold beer,” he said, carrying two bottles of Heineken. He snapped his head back, blinked, and hungrily eyed her. “Thought I should introduce myself since we're going to be roomies and all. I'm Santino.”

“Santino, huh? You got a last name to go with that?” she asked, grabbing a bottle from his hand and taking a seat on her bed.

“Santino,” he said. “We just met, so you oughta know I follow a strict ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. I don’t ask you about your business, and I don’t tell you mine.”

“Works for me, Santino Santino.” She took a long sip from her bottle to stall until her mother’s name, Katerina, came to mind and crossed her lips. “I'm Katherine Katherine.”

“Katherine?” His brow drew in and his face tightened. “You don't look like a Katherine.”

“Oh, really?” she said. “If not Katherine, then what?”

“I don't know. I expected something a little more exotic. Maybe Lola...or Giselle. Giselle’s good.”

“Giselle. Hmm,” she said, crossing her legs Indian style. “You can call me Giselle. But only if I can call you…” she looked him up and down, “stud muffin.” 

He laughed. “You're funny. No, Katherine and Santino will do fine.”

Lana studied him as he leaned against the wall wearing his tailored slacks. She took particular note of his long-sleeved silk shirt, how the pomade stiffened his perfectly sculptured hair, the gaudy gold chain around his neck, and the pinky ring glimmering on his left finger. “So, what do you do?”       

“For a living?” he replied, clearly hesitant to answer.

She nodded.

He paused before unbuttoning his cuffs at the wrist. He rolled up his sleeves as he considered his response. She’d clearly made him uncomfortable. “I guess you could say . . . I do favors for my family and our associates.”

“Favors? You going for sainthood?” she asked.

“Not even close,” he said with a slight grin.

“Where would I fit in…
in this scenario
?”

He glanced down at his lap. “I could think of a few places where would you fit quite nicely.”

She chuckled. “So what brings you to D.C.?”

“Let's say I owe someone a few favors,” he said. “Twenty-five thousand of them.”

“That’s a lot of favors,” she said, the discomfort looming between them.

“So, what's a nice lady like you doing in a place like this?”

She exposed a flirtatious grin and purred, “What makes you think I'm nice?”

He smiled. “Touché. So what's an evil bitch like you doing in a place like this?”

Her smiled disappeared and she turned away. “My husband died. I lost my job and my house. I needed a place to stay...to take care of some unfinished business before I return home.”

She looked around the room nervously.

“Wow. Don't I feel like a piece of shit? You've been through hell, huh?” he asked. His expression was nervous, uneasy.

“The depths of which you can’t imagine,” she said with a strained chuckle. She waved him over. “You look tired. You should come have a seat. I don't bite...
much
.”

He made his way to the bed and took his rest at a respectful distance. When he drew in a sip of his beer, she glimpsed the artwork on his forearm and leaned forward to examine it more closely. With that she’d gathered all she needed to know about the kind of man he was, the company he kept, and how she could use him. “Nice tattoo.” 

“Yeah,” he said as he pushed up the sleeve to expose the full view. It was small and easy to keep concealed—the picture of a flaming cross with an Italian flag draped around the full length. Beneath, in an old-world cursive script, the words “Morte Prima di Disonore” were written.

“Hmm. Death before dishonor.” Her eyes locked on his. “Where I come from, tattoos can tell you a lot about someone. Where they've been. The kind of company they keep. All sorts of interesting things.”

“Why do I feel naked all of a sudden?” Santino joked.

“Because I see you. Don't worry, though, we're all thieves-in-law, right?” she said with a wink.

He smiled and lifted his bottle to her in toast.

“Do you outsource…your favors, I mean?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Occasionally. Depends on what my customer requires.”

“I suspect you can handle my
all of my needs
…and I’d certainly be willing to make it worth your while.”