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Last Man Standing
Wendy Rosnau
Lucky Masado was already heir to one throne–but he'd had another thrust upon him. And he was in between those two worlds when into his life walked Elena Tandi. The spirited beauty was full of questions, and she was not going to like his answers.Elena knew that Lucky Masado could shed light on who her family really was. But she could not have anticipated the passion she would have for him, a street soldier who was about to embark on a long-anticipated battle. When it was over, there would be only one man standing. Would it be Lucky? And would she be the woman by his side?



His glass had been refilled for the third time when he saw her.
She looked left, then right. When their eyes locked, Lucky watched her slip through the crowd, her shiny black hair moving around her slender shoulders.
She wasn’t dressed to be noticed, but that didn’t stop the men from taking a second look. She had an angel’s face, with a walk that would make a man follow her to hell and back on his knees. He’d been around plenty of beautiful women over the years, but this woman had everything. Too much of everything, he decided, as his gaze focused on her V-neck sweater and the way it was doing a damn fine job of framing her assets.
It occurred to him as he glanced around the room that every guy in the place was anticipating Elena strutting down the catwalk, that she was assumed to be a dancer looking for a job.
Only they both knew she wasn’t there to work the crowd. She was there to work him.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another month of the most exciting romantic reading around, courtesy of Silhouette Intimate Moments. Starting things off with a bang, we have To Love a Thief by ultrapopular Merline Lovelace. This newest CODE NAME: DANGER title takes you back into the supersecret world of the Omega Agency for a dangerous liaison you won’t soon forget.
For military romance, Catherine Mann’s WINGMEN WARRIORS are the ones to turn to. These uniformed heroes and heroines are irresistible, and once you join Darcy Renshaw and Max Keagan for a few Private Maneuvers, you won’t even be trying to resist, anyway. Wendy Rosnau continues her unflashed miniseries THE BROTHERHOOD in Last Man Standing, while Sharon Mignerey’s couple find themselves In Too Deep. Finally, welcome two authors who are new to the line but not to readers. Kristen Robinette makes an unforgettable entrance with In the Arms of a Stranger, and Ana Leigh offers a matchup between The Law and Lady Justice.
I hope you enjoy all six of these terrific novels, and that you’ll come back next month for more of the most electrifying romantic reading around.
Enjoy!


Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor

Last Man Standing
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

WENDY ROSNAU
resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and writing romantic suspense.
Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award.
Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.
To my husband, Jerry,
who continues to stand beside me.
I love you….

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue

Chapter 1
Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi’s estate. Today’s niggle was security.
There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.
Still, he’d been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that’s not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.
The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari—the only extravagant toy he owned—up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.
Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.
Lucky sped through the second set of open gates—another guard giving him a nod—then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily’s legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.
Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone archway. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives—a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds—were laid out on a marble slab inside the archway. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.
His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito’s bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito’s bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman’s backside burned into his forearm.
Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.
Because Lucky knew Palone’s intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door’s six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, “Not this time, Palone. Today, I’m a solo act with your boss.”
The guard’s green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky’s head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. “What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but—”
“It’s all right, Benito,” Vito’s gravelly voice rumbled. “If Frank Masado’s son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn’t that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?”
Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas—mostly people outside the famiglia.
“You wanted to see me.” Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of throat cancer.
“My lawyer made the changes you requested in my will. The papers were delivered this afternoon. They’re ready to be signed.”
Two days ago Lucky had agreed to become Vito Tandi’s son on paper—the heir of Dante Armanno. That is, if certain sections of the will were amended to his specifications.
CEO of Vito’s fortune had never made Lucky’s list of dream jobs. But being born Sicilian and the son of a syndicate player hadn’t been something he could control. Liking who and what you were wasn’t a requirement for doing the job you were trained to do, his father had always told him. Not when he was twenty, and not now at thirty-one.
Vito raised his hand and motioned for Lucky to take a seat in the red velvet chair in front of his desk. Then, with a gratuitous wave, he shooed away his guard. “Benito, tell Summ to bring us something to drink. I believe there will be cause to celebrate. Tell her we’d like—”
“Scotch,” Lucky suggested, shedding his brown leather jacket. He dropped it beside the chair before taking a seat.
“It looks like we need to restock the wine cellar, Benito. I’ve neglected it this past year, and I imagine it’s in sorry shape.” Vito studied Lucky for a moment and finally said, “Your preferences?”
“Macallan, and some good wine.”
“Yes, I’m a wine man myself. Bardolino and soave.” His gaze went back to his bodyguard. “There you have it, Benito. Make arrangements to restock the cellar. And instruct Summ to bring us the best Scotch we have in the house.”
When the door closed, Vito reached for a fat Italian cigar in a carved wooden box. “Cigar?”
Lucky shook his head. “Just the Scotch.”
“The other day when I suggested you move into the estate as soon as possible, I sensed some reluctance. I understand you still live in your father’s old house. After tonight, I suspect, your enemies will double. This would be the safest place for you, huh?”
Lucky said nothing. He wasn’t going to sell the house in town. He and Joey had already discussed what they would do with it, if and when he moved out.
“It’s no secret that money and power is not what drives you,” Vito continued. “If it was, you would have moved out of your old neighborhood long ago. So what will it take to convince you to accept my generosity and live with me at Dante Armanno?”
Never short on words when he had something to say, Lucky said, “An overhaul on security, for starters, and a private meeting with each of your guards.”
Vito’s bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. “My security expenditures are close to a million a year. Are you suggesting that’s not enough?”
“There are things money can’t buy. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
His candid reference to Vito’s failing health and his irreversible fate was duly noted with a sour grunt of displeasure.
“Your house has thirty-eight rooms, nine entrances and 116 windows,” Lucky continued. “Twenty-one of those windows are in need of repairs. You also have a state-of-the-art underground tunnel. By the way, the light is out in the hidden passageway leading to your bedroom. Unless someone has replaced it since this morning.”
“You’ve been busy. Am I to assume no tour will be necessary once you move in?”
“You can assume whatever you want, old man.”
An unexpected rusty chuckle erupted from Vito. Rubbing his swollen hands together, he said, “This is better than I expected. Yes, very good.” He waved his hand again. “Make any changes you feel necessary. Fire and hire. Do whatever it takes to make my home your home.”
Lucky adjusted himself in the chair, wishing the housekeeper would hurry up with the Scotch. His back hurt like a son of a bitch, and lately it was taking a lot more sauce to dull the pain.
“It’s no secret that Carlo Talupa named Moody Trafano as my heir.”
Lucky nodded. “My men tell me he’s been smiling for weeks. He’s also become a regular at the Shedd in anticipation of his takeover.”
“Such a shame for Carlo to die so tragically.” Vito’s words didn’t match his casual shrug. “His unfortunate death puts Moody Trafano out in the cold and now allows me to name my own heir.”
There was still an ongoing investigation into the recent murder of Carlo Talupa. He’d been whacked and left in the back seat of a junked car at a salvage garage. He’d been missing for four days before he’d been found.
The police had no suspects, but Lucky didn’t need to sift through Carlo’s enemy list to know who had fired six bullets into the Chicago mob boss’s head.
“You know Moody Trafano is a man without honor. A greedy moron.” Vito’s lips curled. “Weeks ago I explained this to Carlo, but he wasn’t interested in my measure of his choice. I can only guess that he was honoring some deal he made with Vinnie.”
Moody Trafano was Vincent D’Lano’s bastard son. They were both slippery snakes looking for easy money and a paved road to the top of the syndicate ladder.
“If Carlo was alive, we would not be having this discussion,” Vito conceded. “Moody would be still celebrating his elevated position.”
“Then we can thank fate,” Lucky said blandly, “for Carlo’s timely death.”
Vito puffed on his cigar and the room turned blue with smoke. “Fate. It is a hard word to define, huh?”
Lucky shrugged off the question.
“My father was born in Palermo. When he settled in Detroit, he hoped life would be good, but it was hard for him. I remember going to bed night after night hungry, rubbing my belly. I vowed when I got older and could work, never to be hungry again. I worked two jobs at age fourteen. Sixteen-hour days on the docks bought me food and eventually a home of my own. Respect. Years later I came here and bought the steel mill. I never went hungry after that, and neither did the men I recruited from the waterfront. Hungry men. Good men down on their luck. The harder they worked, the more I fed them. The loyalty of hardworking men…it is a winning combination, huh?”
Lucky agreed, but again said nothing.
“I learned all of my men’s names and the names of their wives and children. I sent groceries to their homes. Bought gifts for their children at Christmas. I no longer visit the mill, but I still know my men by name. I still send food and gifts to their families. I have heard that you also believe in rewarding loyalty this way. That your men follow you out of love, as well as fear. A true mafioso knows that respect and honor is his responsibility, not his choice.
“Some say you enjoy watching a man bleed, Lucky. And it is true you honor the old ways and do what many have no stomach to do. But you are about more than spilling blood. You are feared because you know what it means to be a un’ uomo d’onore. A man of honor. Your loyalty to your brother and Jackson Ward at age fifteen will never be forgotten.”
“I did not know the price I would pay that night, old man. I assure you, I wasn’t thinking about the old ways in that alley. I went only to—”
“Protect your brother and friend from being killed by the local cricca,” Vito finished. “Yes, I know the story. Three against a gang of ten, wasn’t it?” One thick finger pointed to a scar half-hidden on Lucky’s neck by his collar-length black hair. “I am told that the scar on your back stretches four feet in length.”
“An exaggeration,” Lucky disputed, knowing for a fact that the scar fell short by only two inches.
“The story claims they held you down and cut you while your brother and friend were made to watch. Is it true that you shot three of the cricca after the fact, or is that an exaggeration, too?”
That part wasn’t an exaggeration. Lucky, however, wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d caused three mothers to grieve and wail at their sons’ funerals. Still, he had done what he had to do to save his brother and best friend.
The cricca thought they had killed him. Lucky had believed it, too. In what he thought were his last seconds on earth, he’d made one last stand to give Joey and Jackson a chance to survive.
He leaned back and slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans; inside his shorts, past his scarred belly to palm the second .22 he carried—the one responsible for saving all their lives that night in the alley. The gun that now permanently rode snug against him as comfortably as his wallet did in his back pocket.
Lucky pulled the .22 from his jeans and aimed it at Vito. “Only a fool surrenders all his weapons, old man. A dead fool.”
“Grande buono!” Vito shouted, then leaned his head back and roared in laughter until he began to cough. “This is why no one will ever forget that day. Why my men call you the guerriero. The warrior who is unafraid to bleed. It is true. You are the American Armanno.”
Lucky had grown up with the story about how the Cosa Nostra had been born and why the words this thing between us had been chosen as the bond that would forever unite the fathers of Sicily. Dante Armanno had been one of those fathers. A young man in Palermo who had fought like a lion the day the French soldiers had invaded the city and killed his three sons and raped his daughters.
As much as Lucky rejected the idea that he and Vito were a lot alike, they had similar views on family and work ethic. He suspected it was why thirty years ago Vito had paid twice what Dante Armanno was worth—the American estate built in tribute to the legend—when it had gone to auction.
Unable to stay in the chair a minute longer without a drink in his hand, Lucky shoved himself to his feet. He was worth 2.4 million, and yet he wore what he always wore—jeans, leather boots and his seasoned leather jacket, a testimony to where he had been and what he had seen over the years in Chicago.
At the narrow mullioned windows, he returned his gun to his jeans. It had started to snow again. His thoughts briefly returned to the warm Florida sunshine he’d enjoyed a week ago. The sunshine and the sea witch—as he’d come to think of her.
He turned from the window. “Does Vincent D’Lano know that you have decided to replace Moody as your heir?”
“Not yet. But when he finds out—” Vito grinned “—he’ll want to take a meat cleaver to both our necks. Since your brother rejected his daughter Sophia, Vincent has promised to tear down Masado Towers a brick at a time. I wonder what his threat will be once he learns you have stolen his ride to the top of the famiglia.”
“I have heard there are witnesses who are saying Vinnie masterminded my sister-in-law’s kidnapping. If that’s true, he’ll be sitting in jail a long time.” Lucky asked, “When you agreed that Moody would become your heir, did you ever speak to Vinnie about it? Or was it all arranged through Carlo?”
“Vincent came with Carlo once to gloat. But I never spoke to him or agreed to anything. Because I have no heir, Carlo decided I should turn over everything to his man of choice. A few weeks later in a letter, he warned me that if I took too long to die, he would have me carted off to a nursing home. It’s true Vinnie will want what Carlo promised him, but it’s not what I promised him.”
“And if the changes in the will aren’t what I requested and I decide to withdraw?” Lucky asked.
Vito pulled the will from his drawer. “It is done. My lawyer thinks a secret trust fund is suspect and I should demand to know whose name is on it, but I don’t intend to.”
Good, Lucky thought, because he had no intention of explaining his actions to anyone.
“I want the American Armanno as my heir. That is all I care about. That my men will be taken care of for their years of loyalty. I’m restocking the wine cellar with Macallan,” Vito reminded him. “I’ve asked Summ to remove my things from the master bedroom so you can take control even before I die. I’m stepping down the minute your signature is on the papers. Tonight you will become CEO of Tandi Inc. and sole owner of Dante Armanno.”
“I don’t want your bed, old man.”
“Since you have toured my house on your own, you’re aware that the master bedroom has a warm-water pool. It will be of use to you when you start your recovery.”
“My recovery?” Lucky’s black eyebrows arched.
“I’ve had a discussion with your doctor. He’s concerned about your continued delays in having the back surgery he recommended. He is afraid there may already be permanent nerve damage. As I said, I want the America Armanno as my heir, the toughest soldato in the city. But I wonder if that were tested today, if we would find it true.”
Lucky never made promises he couldn’t keep or claims that weren’t within his power to guarantee. In truth, he knew he wasn’t a hundred percent. Hadn’t been for months.
“If your memory fails you, I will refresh it. Days ago I offered my assistance to you and your brother. Joey was able to rescue his wife from that bastard, Stud Williams, because of my generosity. For this you agreed to repay me with a favor of my choice. I have made my choice. You as my son. At least on paper.”
A soft knock at the door sent Lucky back to the chair, licking his lips.
“Come in, Summ,” Vito said. “I believe you met my housekeeper days ago.”
When the door opened, a small Japanese woman entered the study with a bright blue parrot riding on her shoulder. Anxious for his requested Scotch, Lucky was disappointed to see the woman carrying a teapot and two stone cups on a bamboo tray.
“It looks like the wax in your ears is again causing you a hearing problem, Summ,” Vito grumbled. “We ordered Scotch, not tea.”
“Hear fine. Drink Matcha tonight.” Her gaze found Lucky. “Tea in honor of wise decision to become wakai shujin.”
“What did she call me?”
“Young master,” Vito explained.
“Gwaak! Shoot the moron. Drop and roll! Gwaak!”
Lucky ducked as the parrot lifted off the woman’s shoulder and sailed to a perch in the corner of the room.
“That would be Chansu,” Vito explained. “He’s part of Summ’s ancestral family. A reincarnate, if you believe in that sort of thing. He and Summ come with the house.”
The housekeeper placed the tray on the desk. She was a petite woman, dressed in green silk pants and a high-collared tunic to match. She looked mid-thirties, though Lucky knew she was older. For years there was talk that Vito had an Asian mistress.
She moved her long black plaited braid off her shoulder. Poured the tea. “Matcha good.” Her eyes locked on Lucky. “You like.”
No, he wouldn’t, Lucky thought. Not if it tasted anything like it smelled. It reminded him of the stench that always clung to his neighbor’s dog after he came back from a sewer run chasing rats.
Any minute he was sure Vito would set the housekeeper straight and send her out the door for the ordered Scotch. To his disappointment, it never happened.
While the woman poured the tea, Vito said, “I took the liberty of informing Summ about your medical problems. It looks like she’s decided to aid your recovery in her own way. As you’ve already noticed, the tea smells like—”
“Roadkill,” Lucky acknowledged.
Vito chuckled. “It tastes no better. But if you can get it down, it will ease your pain. Two years ago my doctors sent me home to die. They told me my throat cancer was too advanced. The next day Summ started brewing the Matcha.” He accepted the cup of tea from his housekeeper. “After you sign the papers, we’ll toast your future as the new master of Dante Armanno. Then, I’ll tell you a story about your father. A story about the old days when Frank and I first became friends. Before he stole my wife and became my enemy.”

The sheer curtains moved and Elena glanced at the open door leading to the veranda. A balmy breeze filtered in off the ocean, the surf making that familiar rushing noise her mother, Grace, loved so much, the one she claimed eased her pain and lulled her to sleep at night.
“What is it, Lannie? Have I been moaning again?”
Elena had been standing next to the white wicker bed for a long five minutes watching her mother sleep. “No, Madre,” she said softly, leaning down to gently kiss Grace’s forehead. “I just came to check on you.”
Grace tried to raise her hand, but the attempt was met with an exhausted sigh.
“It’s all right.” Elena rescued her mother’s hand and gently squeezed. “Everything is fine.”
Four weeks ago Grace had suffered another stroke. It was the second in a year, the fifth in the past ten. The numerous strokes, the doctor explained, were caused from the accident her mother had incurred before Elena was born more than twenty years ago.
The accident had destroyed her mother’s memory, along with her beauty. Elena couldn’t remember a time during her childhood when Grace wasn’t dealing with an excruciating headache or sleeping off the effects of a sedative to battle the daily pain she lived with.
“Your father brought me a new silk scarf. Ann helped me put it on. She doesn’t do as nice a job as you do, Lannie, but she’s getting the hang of it.”
Ann was Grace’s new live-in nurse. Elena eyed the lavender silk turban on her mother’s head. “It matches your nightgown perfectly. From what I can see, I agree. Ann’s attempt looks like she’s improving. You look stunning.”
Grace’s eyes lit up. She loved compliments, even though she knew the scar that cut deep into her cheek had destroyed any chance of her being truly beautiful ever again. Still, the silk turbans she wore and the soft lingerie that draped her fifty-seven-year-old body salvaged a degree of her dignity.
Over the years Frank had gotten into a routine of sending monthly gifts in the mail when he was away. Grace’s favorite had been the colorful silk scarves. To make them more usable, Elena had come up with the idea to fashion them into turbans to cover the numerous scars on her mother’s head. Grace had loved the idea, and they’d had fun buying matching nightgowns and silk pant outfits to match the scarves.
“Your father retired from his job. Did he tell you?”
“He told me.”
“I’m so happy.”
In many ways Grace lived in a child’s fairy tale. She had no idea where Frank had spent his time for the past twenty-four years, and Elena hadn’t known, either. Until a few weeks ago.
“Rub my leg, would you, Lannie? It always feels so good. You have such magic in your hands.”
Elena reached for a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at Grace’s mouth. One of the strokes had paralyzed her right side, and she rarely knew when she was drooling.
The muscles in her right leg had atrophied, as well. Despite Elena’s concentrated efforts to slow the process down with massage therapy, the leg was shrinking.
She slid the hem up on her mother’s nightgown and began to massage the shriveled limb.
“I’m glad you suggested that Frank learn how to do this for me. He’s getting very good. He says he’s going to take over the job so you can have more free time. Would you like that, Lannie? You could take a vacation with some of your friends.”
“Maybe a short trip,” Elena agreed, knowing she would be taking one very soon. But she wouldn’t be going with friends.
“Guess what, Lannie? Frank says he’s going to take me out in the boat. And guess what else? He says we can go every day if I get stronger.”
“Then you need to eat,” Elena reminded her.
“Guess what else? Frank says…”
Grace fell asleep with Frank’s name on her lips. Twenty minutes later Elena left the room by way of the open door that led onto the sprawling oceanside villa’s veranda. As she headed for the long stairway, Frank’s voice stopped her.
“Elena.”
She turned to find him standing in the shadows.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“It’s late.”
“I’ll take one of the dogs with me.” When that didn’t seem to appease him, she added, “I’ll ask Romano to accompany me.”
“You’ve been very distant since I told you about Chicago and…my other life.”
For years Elena had never questioned her father’s extensive traveling or the guards that patrolled their oceanside estate. She had believed that he was what he had claimed to be—a corporate salesman—and that the guards were just a cautionary measure because he was away so much. Days ago he’d revealed that he’d been living a double life, and that his true identity was not Frank Palazzo, but Frank Masado. His occupation: a capo in the Chicago Italian mafia.
Chin raised, Elena asked, “If Mother could remember her life before the accident, would she want to return to Chicago?”
The question brought Frank out of the shadows. He wore a white linen shirt and black pants, and with the black patch covering his right eye, he looked very much like the mobster he claimed to be.
“You said you were born in Chicago. Did my mother grow up there, too? Is that where you met her?”
“Your mother was born in Detroit. She had one brother. He, along with her parents, died in a car accident when she was twenty. But none of that is important now. It happened a long time ago.”
“Mother’s thrilled you’ve retired. Retired from your salesman position, that is. How long do you intend to keep that lie going?”
“There is no reason to tell her differently. I am retired, Elena. I can’t go back to Chicago. I’m dead as far as the organization knows. Dead and buried at Rose-wood Cemetery. For years I wanted to be here with you and your mother, but I didn’t know how to make that happen. Not until my sons came up with a plan to fake my death.”
“Oh, yes, my mystery brothers.”
“I know that was a shock, Elena, learning that I had another family, but my life was not my own for many years. I did what I had to do to keep my family from being destroyed. Both families. My sons, and you and your mother.”
Elena had been stunned when she’d first learned that Frank’s other life included two adult sons, who were also a part of the mafia. On top of that, Frank had told her that there had been a contract put out on him.
“For your mother’s sake, Elena, you must try to understand the situation. Accept it and forget it.”
“I’m trying to understand. I just need more information for that to happen.”
“Staging my death was a genius idea. I owe Joey and Lucky a great debt for finding me a way out. My sons were right. There was only one way out for me. I had to die in order to live.”
Elena studied the man who, for twenty-four years, had allowed her to call him Father and believe it was true. She gazed at his ruggedly handsome face, then the black eye patch, and suddenly another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Rocked by the significance of her revelation, she brought her hand to her throat.
“What is it, Elena? What’s wrong?”
“Your eye… Since I was little you’ve worn that patch. Oh, God! Is that it? Did someone in the organization do that to you? Did they hurt my mother, too?”
For years she had silently questioned her mother’s so-called accident. By the look on Frank’s face, she had been right to be suspicious.
“Mother didn’t have an accident, did she? That’s why you brought her here, isn’t it? The reason for the guards? Why you became two people? You said it’s complicated. Why is that? Is Mother supposed to be dead, too? And me? What kind of complication am I?”
She saw him stiffen, saw that he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his big hands. He shifted his body, which put his face in shadow again. “I’ve told you what you need to know. What’s important for you to know, Elena. The rest will only make you—”
“What? Afraid? Ask more questions? Questions like, who am I?”
He turned quickly. “You are Elena Donata Palazzo. My daughter. A beautiful young woman with a bright future ahead of her.”
Elena played along. “And in this bright future will I have children?”
“Of course, if you wish.”
“So if I have children, are you suggesting that I lie to them as you are lying to me right now?”
She watched his jaw clench.
“In other words, Frank,” she went on, “who should I name when I tell my children who their grandfather is? You, the only father I have ever known? Or my real father, the man whose blood runs through my veins?”
His mouth moved, but no words came out. As if he was paralyzed both in mind and body, he just stood there looking angry and formidable.
Only, Elena wasn’t afraid. Frank might look capable of snapping her neck, but he had never shown an ounce of violence toward her. He hadn’t even swatted her butt as a child when she’d deserved it.
“I know you’re not my father,” she said softly. “So don’t try to placate me with another lie. I know my blood is not your blood. Unfortunately the records at the hospital don’t list whose blood it is.”
“Elena—”
“No.” She held up her hand. “No more games.”
“This was never a game.”
Elena studied her father. No, not her father, the man who had posed as her father for twenty-four years. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Elena, please.”
“You know, don’t you?” Against her best attempt to keep her emotions in check, Elena fought tears. “Tell me the truth! Do you know him?”
“Yes. I know him.”
“But you’re not going to tell me his name, are you? If you never wanted to play this game, end it now.”
He shook his head. “Non posso.”
“You can’t, or won’t?”
“He doesn’t know you exist. He can never know.”
Tears on her cheeks, Elena started down the stairs.
“Elena!”
She didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Frank followed her. “I was there the day you were born,” he called out. “You are my daughter. Maybe not by blood, but I have loved you the same as I love my sons. Will forever love you as my daughter.”
Elena spun back around, the ocean breeze swirling her white skirt about her shapely calves. Tossing her midnight-black hair out of her eyes, she said, “You should have told me years ago, Papa. I would have found a way to understand. You should have trusted me enough. Loved me enough!”
“Maybe you would have understood. Your real father would not have. And if your curiosity had led you to him…” He shook his head. “You’re right, your mother is also dead in Chicago, as I am. That is what has kept her safe for twenty-four years. I’m sorry, Elena, but I couldn’t tell you the truth years ago, and I still can’t.”

Chapter 2
After a week in an iron cell, Vincent D’Lano was twice as ornery as his reputation. “Listen, Martin, Carlo Talupa and I were in the middle of a deal worth billions. Do you think I would kill him before that happened?”
“This deal, will it still go through even though he’s dead?”
Vincent shoved his stocky body out of his chair to pace the small room where he and his lawyer were meeting at the Cook County Jail. “Yes. If I can get my ass out of here.”
“Then maybe you decided to kill Carlo and double your take.”
The urge to strangle Martin English sent Vincent’s hands into his pockets. If he killed his lawyer, he’d never get out of jail.
“I want out of this sewer, Martin. I want Sophia out, too. What are you doing about that?”
At fifty-eight, Martin English was not only a veteran lawyer, but had worked for Vincent for fifteen years. Accustomed to his client’s needs, as well as his temper, he said, “I might get you out within a week or ten days, Vince, but Sophia’s going to have to be patient. The police have evidence that she hired two convicts in Joliet to break out Stud Williams. Unless we can make that evidence disappear, she may have to do some time.”
“So get off your skinny ass and make the evidence disappear. Fix it, Martin, or I swear you’ll look back on this year as the nightmare that never ended. Your wife won’t just be crying at your funeral. Capiche?”
“These things take time, Vince. You’ve been named as an accessory to your daughter’s crime. That—”
“You’re not listening, Martin. Make it all go away. There are a dozen ways. Pick one. Do it. I was in the middle of a once-in-a-lifetime deal when this happened. And while I’m in here, Moody’s running my affairs. Unchaperoned. You and I both know my son can’t cross the street without pissing someone off.”
Vincent had been a two-bit hood when he’d first met Carlo Talupa. But he’d been a smart hood, and he’d put too much time into his current plan to let his lawyer screw it up now.
He licked his lips as the image of Vito Tandi’s impressive estate formed in his mind. He had admired Dante Armanno for years, but recently it had become a key element in his future.
Martin glanced at his Rolex. “I’m going to get kicked out of here soon. Before I go, I have a few more questions about your part in Stud Williams’s breakout.”
“I told you I had no part in that. Unfortunately. If Sophia had involved me, we wouldn’t be in here.”
“About these witnesses, Vince…”
“Make ’em disappear, Martin.” When the lawyer just sat there, Vincent came forward and slammed his fist down on the cheap wooden table, his slicked-back gray hair falling forward over his bushy black eyebrows. “Sophia’s only crime, Martin, was loving a man who deceived her. I had a deal with Frank Masado. His son was supposed to marry my daughter. But Joey rejected her. What’s she gonna do, Martin? Turn the other cheek? She’s a D’Lano. We’ve earned the right to demand respect.”
“The court doesn’t care about your sour deal with Frank Masado, Vince. A crime was committed.”
Vincent glared at his lawyer, who continued to sit calmly in his silk suit and spin his diamond ring on his index finger. “I won’t be screwed over by this country’s dumb-ass judicial system.”
With the agility of a man of twenty-five, instead of sixty, Vincent D’Lano grabbed Martin by his suit lapels and lifted him to his feet. Turning his index finger into a toy gun, he pressed it to Martin’s temple and knocked off four shots. When he let go of him and stepped back, the lawyer wilted back onto the chair, his complexion turning as white as his shirt.
Pleased, Vincent said, “You know I don’t make idle threats, Martin. Get me and my daughter out of this stinkhole, or your wife will be looking all over the city for pieces of you to bury for the next ten years.” He patted Martin’s pale cheek. “Crooked lawyers are a dime a dozen. Don’t disappoint me, Martin, or I’ll kill ya. I’ll kill ya dead.”

The exotic dancer was performing for Lucky as if he was the only customer seated at the bar. Melody was her name, and like all the other girls who entertained at the Shedd, the diva had enough curves and sexy bump-and-grind moves to give every man bellied up to the bar tight jeans and a fantasy to take home.
The catwalk where the dancers played tease-and-tickle with the customers ran between a double-sided bar, which allowed the bartenders to easily handle the crowd. Melody, who had been working Lucky for a long twenty minutes, finally gave up and wiggled her curves toward Moody Trafano a half-dozen barstools away. She bent over and shook her full breasts in Moody’s grinning face, her efforts rewarded when he slid a twenty-dollar bill into her cleavage.
It had been two days since Lucky had signed Vito’s papers, making him the new owner of Dante Armanno and CEO of Tandi Inc. The corporation was a conglomerate of various businesses throughout Chicago, and one of those businesses was the Shedd.
Tonight Lucky had come to the exotic bar to check out his property and to meet Jackson Ward. It was after ten, and Jacky was late. His friend hadn’t been too excited about being called out this time of night. Lucky didn’t blame him. Sunni Blais was one beautiful woman, and knowing Jackson the way he did, Jacky most likely had answered his cell phone in a prone position with his lovely fiancée snuggled next to him.
He glanced around the bar. Noted that the loud music and the near-naked dancers were keeping the bar packed and the men drinking. It was funny how fast things changed, Lucky mused. A month ago Milo was strutting through the Shedd playing big shot and now he was dead, and Vito had a new son—on paper, anyway.
He made eye contact with Melody. She smiled and gave him an I-know-how-to-make-you-feel-a-whole-lot-better look. That look reminded Lucky she was a professional off the catwalk, as well as on, and as the new owner of the establishment, getting to know what made each one of his employees tick wouldn’t only be smart, it could be entertaining.
He finished his drink, deciding Melody would have to wait. Jackson would show soon. But maybe afterward he’d see if the dancer was still around.
His glass had been refilled for the third time when he saw her. He wasn’t drunk, so he knew she wasn’t a mirage. Still, he glanced down at the amber liquor in his glass, wondering if someone had slipped him a little surprise. But even as he considered it, his gaze went back to the shadowy entrance where the neon sign over the door was putting a rosy tint in Elena Palazzo’s cheeks.
She looked left, then right. Scanned the bar. When their eyes met and locked, he watched her slip through the crowd, her shiny black hair moving around her slender shoulders.
She wasn’t dressed to be noticed, but that didn’t stop the men from taking a second look. She had an angel’s face, and a walk that would make a man follow her to hell and back on his knees, dragging a dead horse. It was the combination of innocence and that walk that had kick started his own fantasies about her weeks ago.
He’d been around plenty of beautiful women over the years, but Grace’s daughter had it all. Everything. Too much of everything, he decided as his gaze focused on her V-neck white fuzzy sweater and the damn fine job it did of framing her assets.
He raised his glass to his lips, his gaze shifting to where her sweater ended and her pants began. The pants were the color of caramel and rode low on her curvy hips. Low enough for every man to see the shiny gold ring in her navel.
It occurred to him as he glanced around the room that every horny bastard in the place was anticipating Elena taking it all off on the catwalk; that she was assumed to be a dancer looking for a job.
Only they both knew she wasn’t there to work the crowd. She was there to work…him.
She kept walking—no, floating was a better word—toward him, a lightweight black leather jacket tucked under her arm. Six feet away, she licked her full red lips and tossed her head. Two feet from him, she stopped and cleared her throat.
Then it came, the sexiest voice he’d ever heard—the one that had branded him from the moment they’d been formally introduced at Santa Palazzo two weeks ago. “In a bar with a drink in your hand. How original.”
Lucky slid off the barstool, drained his third Scotch, then spun the empty glass back onto the bar. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“You could have called. Both my number and Joey’s are always with…” Lucky glanced around, rephrased what he’d been about to say. Frank was supposed to be dead. He couldn’t very well claim that a dead man had his son’s phone number. “You can reach me day and night at that number.”
“Listen, you…you know why I didn’t call. Here, or someplace private?”
“How did you know where to find me?”
She glanced at the empty glass. “It wasn’t hard. My first stop was the Stardust at Masado Towers. When I didn’t find you there, the bartender mentioned a few places not far from your house. I just happened to see this place—” she glanced at Melody “—and thought it looked like you.” Her eyes found him once more. “You might say fate has dropped me in your lap.”
Elena’s sexy backside appeared in Lucky’s mind, and he would have liked nothing better than her seated on his lap. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he asked, “Was it Jimmy at the Stardust who gave you my home address?”
“I already had your home address. I found it in the black book. Listen, you…” She took a step closer. “I’m not as ingenuo as I look, so let’s stop playing games and get to it.”
“That means what, exactly?”
“It means I didn’t come all this way to count snow-flakes and share a drink with you in some sleazy bar. I’m here for the truth, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”
The bravado she was trying to sell him didn’t match the way her hands nervously rubbed her slender thighs. He liked her hands, her small fingers and tiny unpainted nails. He also liked the fact that she didn’t wear a lot of jewelry or a pound of makeup.
But then, she didn’t need to. She was her mother’s daughter. As beautiful as a midnight star and twice as bright. She was the sea witch, after all.
He shifted in hopes that the pain in his lower back would ease, and that the straining going on inside his jeans didn’t accidentally move the safety off his .22 and blow him to hell and back.
He said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Here, as in here—” she eyed the men staring at her, then glanced at Melody again, who was now on all fours, her backside rolling with the music in a circular motion that had netted her several more green bills tucked into her G-string “—or are you talking about here, as in the big bad city of Chicago, where crime never sleeps?”
Without intending to, Lucky found himself grinning, enjoying her wit as much as her sexy voice. But it was short-lived as Moody Trafano eased off his barstool and started toward them.
Like the other men, Moody had been watching Elena since she’d entered the bar. It was no secret that Trafano had a healthy appetite for pretty women, or that he spent more time on his back at the Shedd than sitting at the bar.
As he closed the distance, Lucky reached out and slid his arm around Elena’s trim waist and hauled her into his space. “We’re getting company,” he whispered. “Be careful what you say. Don’t get that pretty mouth of yours in trouble. Say nothing about who you are or why you’re here.”
Lucky’s nose brushed her silky cheek, noting that her skin felt as soft and smooth as satin. He couldn’t pinpoint her unusual scent, but he didn’t need to name it to know he liked it.
She looked up at him with her catlike gold eyes just as Moody said, “You must be the new dancer we’ve all been expecting. My name’s Moody Trafano, the soon-to-be owner of the Shedd. And you are?”
Elena held Lucky’s gaze for a few seconds longer, then slowly turned around. She’d said she wasn’t naive, but Lucky was sure she’d never dealt with a snake quite as slippery as Moody.
In a single glance Elena took Moody’s measure, but didn’t offer him her name. Good girl, Lucky thought. So far so good.
“You’ve got to be the most beautiful doll in this place,” Moody complimented her. “And there’s plenty here to compete with.” His eyes left Elena’s face to ogle the tanned swell of her breasts, then settled on her flat stomach and the gold ring in her navel. “How long have you been dancing?”
He raised his hand as if he couldn’t control the urge to touch her a moment longer. Like a bulldog protecting his bone, Lucky grabbed Moody’s wrist and squeezed. “I never share, Trafano. I never learned how. Get lost.”
Moody wrenched his arm away. “She’s the Shedd’s property. That means she’s anyone’s fun if you got the bucks to spend, Masado. And I got plenty. Technically she’s mine as soon as old man Tandi dies.”
Lucky would have liked nothing better than to enlighten Moody on his recent deal with Vito and explain to him who actually owned the Shedd. He would have loved to watch Moody crap a brick in front of a full house when he heard he wasn’t going to get a dime of Vito Tandi’s fortune. Instead, he said, “The lady isn’t a dancer, Trafano. Back off and have your fun with someone who likes snake oil.”
“Lady?” Moody snorted. “This place don’t get ladies in it.” Eyes back on Elena, he said, “Sorry, doll, but facts are facts, right? And speaking of facts, a piece of information you’ll appreciate is that Masado, here, is physically challenged. It’s a known fact that drunks can’t keep it up. I’m thinking maybe he can’t even get it up anymore.”
Normally Lucky would have driven the man’s teeth down his throat for the insult, but he didn’t feel like throwing any punches tonight.
Actually he hadn’t felt like it in weeks, which was why he was going to let Moody’s remark go by, instead of stomping on his throat and breaking his windpipe.
“What do you say you let me buy you a drink, sweet milk? I’m sure we can find a quiet place to talk. Better yet, how about taking a walk down the red carpet with me? You might as well get initiated by the best. And around here, I’m the best. The girls call me the Italian Stallion.”
Lucky felt Elena’s hand slide between them, and before he believed she would do it, she had stolen his knife. A half second later the stiletto was touching Moody’s jugular. “I’ve made my choice tonight, Mr. Stallion. Unless you want to be gelded right here, I suggest you trot on back to where you came from.”
Her words sent a roar of laughter around the bar, and the color draining from Moody’s face.
How Elena knew where she could find one of his knives was as much a mystery to Lucky as how she’d learned to wield it with such expertise. And by the look on Moody’s face, he was wondering the same damn thing.
While the crowd continued to laugh and enjoy the show at Moody’s expense, Lucky took hold of Elena’s wrist and confiscated the stiletto. The blade back in his pocket, he stuck her to him like a postage stamp, spun her around and started to usher her toward the back rooms.
Before they reached the privacy of the hallway, Elena tried to wriggle out of his hold, but Lucky only squeezed her closer to him and said, “Basta, Elena. No more. We don’t need another scene.”
“I’m not afraid of that albino lizard,” she spat. “He’s a parassita. A sleazy maiale. A pig who—”
To shut her up, Lucky grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, so that she was dangling at his side. “If you’re not going to shut up,” he said, “I’m going to—”
“The last man who manhandled me, I spit in his face. Let go or I’ll—”
She looked as if she was about to do as she’d warned. He swore, then planted his mouth over hers more to shock her into rethinking that move than anything else. He set her back on her feet a split second later and jerked her into step with him once more. “Walk, Elena, with your mouth shut,” he warned. “Disgracing a man like Trafano in public isn’t smart. Sexy sass a liquored-up man can handle. A woman sticking a knife up his nose he takes personally.”
Lucky glanced over his shoulder to see that Moody hadn’t moved, his angry eyes drilling Elena’s back. His cheeks were no longer pale, but as red as Melody’s spinning red nipple twizzlers.
Elena stopped trying to peel his fingers off her hip. And as he continued to escort her down the back hallway, the one covered in plush red carpet, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“Some place private.”
She looked around, her gaze darting to the many doors lining the hallway. “Aren’t these the rooms where…” She looked at him. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“That’s what I planned. You thinking something else?”
He glanced down and caught her glaring at him, the action drawing his attention to the golden flecks in her brown eyes. Had Frank known she wasn’t his flesh and blood? Lucky wondered. Had he known from the beginning she wasn’t his daughter? He had to have known the minute he’d seen her eyes.
She had her mother’s straight little nose and full lips. Her mother’s silky hair. But her eyes…she had her daddy’s eyes.
Yes, he’d noticed her curvy body seconds before he’d noticed her sexy voice. But way before that, he’d noticed her eyes. The eyes that defied the lies and spoke the truth of who she really was.
“Where did you learn to handle a knife like that?” he asked, hoping conversation would keep his mind off how good she smelled and how much his .22 was cutting into his groin.
“A guard at Santa Palazzo. Romano Montel taught me all kinds of things.”
I’ll just bet he did, Lucky thought, instantly disliking the guard with a vengeance.
The bouncer that patrolled the hall tossed Lucky key number sixteen. “Palone called. He told me the news. Name’s Blacky, boss. You need anything, you just let me know.” The Shedd’s troubleshooter eyed Elena. “You hire a new dancer?”
“No.” Without further explanation, Lucky unlocked room number sixteen, shouldered the door open and spun Vito Tandi’s daughter inside.

Chapter 3
Apart from the sweet odor of Scotch that had trailed him out of the bar, Lucky Masado showed no outward signs that he was drunk. His speech was clear, and he’d walked in a fairly straight line down the hall.
Elena heard the door click shut, and before she turned around, she made a quick assessment of the no-frills room. It had definitely been designed to keep the customer’s minds on what they were paying for. There was a small table and two chairs, and a double bed. Nothing else.
She was well aware that she was in a by-the-hour room and that her lips still tingled from a surprise kiss that wasn’t really a kiss. Why she had taken the time to analyze what did or did not constitute the proper definition of a real kiss made no sense at all.
Yes, she had noticed Lucky Masado at Santa Palazzo; it was impossible to ignore a man whose reputation was as black as his hair. And yes, there was no disputing that he was handsome or that she’d found him interesting to watch. But then, so was a tropical storm, from a distance.
She slowly turned and found him leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore faded jeans and a light-colored shirt beneath a battered brown leather jacket. Pretty much the same clothes she’d seen him wearing when he’d visited Frank at Santa Palazzo two weeks ago, minus the jacket. He was tall, six-two, or maybe three.
He said, “You wanted to talk, Elena. Someplace private. Here we are.”
She backed up until she felt the corner of the bed at her back. “You knew before we met that I wasn’t your sister. How?”
“I flew to Santa Palazzo a little over a month ago on what you might call a witch hunt and ended up discovering you, along with Rhea and Niccolo.”
“By spying on your father?”
“Yes.”
“You invaded our privacy.”
“Yes.”
There was no apology in his husky voice. No regret in his brown eyes. He said, “You take morning walks along the beach. Sometimes as early as 5 a.m. You wear loose-fitting clothing the wind can play with. You take off your…shoes when you walk.”
Elena’s stomach knotted.
“When I discovered Rhea and Niccolo, I suspected the boy was my brother’s son, but I had to be sure. I went to the hospital for proof. While I was there, I checked you out, too. That’s the first I knew Grace was alive. That somehow my father had been able to get her out of Chicago years ago without anyone knowing it. There was a rumor she was pregnant when she disappeared.”
Elena listened carefully to each word. “And what did you do with the information?”
“Nothing. You weren’t going anywhere that I could see, so I concentrated on Rhea and Niccolo. Joey had been searching for Rhea for three years. He had no idea Frank was hiding her in Florida or that she’d had his son. When Frank arrived in Chicago days later, I waited for your name to come up. When it did, Frank threw me a curve by claiming you were our sister. I knew it wasn’t true, but I figured he had a reason for lying, so I kept quiet until I learned what it was. And you, Elena? How long have you known the sister story was a lie?”
“Not long.”
“Not long doesn’t answer my question. When I was at Santa Palazzo and Frank introduced us, you knew then, didn’t you? How long before that?”
“The night you and Joey came and took Nicci, Rhea was extremely upset. She had a right to be, but it was more than that. There were so many things I felt she wanted to say but couldn’t. After she left Santa Palazzo to follow Nicci here, I decided to investigate a few things for myself. Like you, I ended up at the hospital several days later checking records and discovered Frank wasn’t my real father.”
“But you didn’t go straight to him with what you’d learned? Why?”
Elena tossed her coat on the bed. “By then he was here in Chicago. Rhea had lived with us at Santa Palazzo for three years. She and I had grown close. I was concerned about her and Nicci. I wanted things to work out for them, so I decided to table what I knew until things settled down.”
“Frank was home almost a week before we arrived. You had five days to talk to him.”
“And I was going to the night he returned. We sat down to talk and then he started telling me about his double life. About his sons, my half brothers. I knew it was a lie, the brother part, but I just listened.” Elena shrugged. “I guess I was too confused at the time to question him.”
The look Lucky gave her clearly called her a liar. “The truth is, Elena, you didn’t trust him to tell you the truth. So you decided to make plans to find out the truth for yourself.”
“It wasn’t that easy. My mother is very dependent on me. I do things for her that no one else does. In order to leave Santa Palazzo to learn the truth, as you put it, I needed to teach Frank how to do those things. Since he’s now retired, with no plans to ever leave Santa Palazzo, I spent the next week—” Elena paused “—I suppose you could call it, weaning Mother away from me.”
“And he was willing to do these things for her?”
“I’ve never doubted Frank’s love for my mother. Of course he didn’t know I had an ulterior motive for suggesting that he get more involved in Mother’s therapy now that he’s home to stay. Tonight I gave him one more chance to tell me the truth. I told him I knew he wasn’t my father. I asked him to give me my father’s name. He refused, so here I am.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know who your father is.”
Elena arched her delicate black eyebrows. “If you know, then Frank knows.”
“Did I say I knew?”
“Come on, Lucky. Not you, too.”
“Lucky? At Santa Palazzo it was Tomas. Out there—” he motioned to the other side of the door “—it was, ‘Listen, you.’ What broke the ice? My charm in the hallway?”
There was no reason for him to bring up that stupid kiss, so why had he? And as far as his nickname went, she wasn’t sure why she’d used it. But did it really matter? What was in a name?
Everything, she decided. After all, that was one of the reasons she’d come to Chicago.
Elena shoved away from the bed and gave him her back. The way he continued to take her apart with his dark eyes since they’d entered the room was starting to make her feel self-conscious. She had bought her outfit at the airport out of necessity. She hadn’t thought about the weather until she’d gotten off the plane in her white summer skirt and sandals to twenty degrees and snow-flakes.
“You came to talk, Elena. So let’s talk.”
She turned back around and boldly studied him the way he’d been studying her for the past five minutes. He was taller and broader than his brother and father, but leaner.
Still, that wasn’t what she’d noticed first about him—his drinking or his classic Italian nose. Or the visible scars on his hands and neck. What she’d noticed as she’d stepped onto the veranda at Santa Palazzo and laid eyes on Lucky Masado for the very first time was the rebel length of his midnight-black hair and how much of his soul she’d glimpsed in the depths of his brown eyes.
Again she focused on those soulful eyes, then on the way his sleek nose led her gaze straight to his rugged mouth and unshaven jaw. A second later she was appreciating the open V of his collarless muslin shirt and how it showed off his rich Sicilian skin and a smattering of black chest hair.
When she began to examine his beat-up leather jacket and the number of holes in it, she decided that they couldn’t possibly be what they appeared to be or he would be dead, right?
Yes, he was his father’s son. But even Frank, with his eye patch and all his intimidating ways, looked like a pussycat next to his street-soldier son with a rumored scar that ran more than half the length of his body.
Suddenly Elena needed to say it. To demand he give her what she’d come for. “Who is he, Lucky? Who is my father? I want his name.”
“I can’t tell you that, Elena.”
Elena ignored the way her stomach did a slow flip. When he said her name, he dragged it out, reminding her of thick syrup fighting to stay in the bottle.
He angled his head just enough to give her a better view of the vivid scar that ran down the side of his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Was that the one? Elena wondered. Was that the beginning of the rumored scar that had almost killed him?
He unfolded his arms and shrugged off his leather jacket and dropped it on the floor. She watched the way he moved, ran her tongue over her teeth. Remembered the kiss that wasn’t a kiss.
“You could be in danger if certain people in Chicago were to find out your identity, Elena. You’re what is known as a loose end.”
“A complication.”
“Yes. Coming here and stirring things up is no good. Your father’s name was not kept from you to hurt you, but to protect you. You and your mother.”
“That’s what Frank said, but I didn’t—”
“Believe him? This isn’t a game, Elena.”
She stiffened, resenting that word more and more. “I know that. I have no intention of broadcasting my identity to the world. All I want is his name. Give it to me, and I promise I’ll be on the next flight back to Key West.”
“You think his name will be enough?”
“Yes.”
“I think you want the name to be enough.” He shook his head. “We both know it won’t be.”
“I don’t think you know me well enough to say that.”
“What I know is that Frank has successfully kept your mother alive for twenty-four years. Do you want that to change, Elena? Is a name worth jeopardizing her safety?”
“I love my mother. I don’t want to hurt her. I want to understand. I want to know who I am. Why—”
“Why what?”
“Why it was kept from me.”
“You ask for something I can’t give you. Only your mother has a right to tell you who your father is. Or Frank.”
“You know Mother can’t tell me because she can’t remember the past. And Frank won’t. That leaves you.” Frustrated, afraid she’d come all this way for nothing, Elena said, “The saying goes, every man has his price. Since we both know you don’t need money, what do you want for the name?”
“You don’t have anything I want.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Sì. I am sure.”
He shoved away from the wall and moved past her to the bed and picked up her jacket.
“I saw you,” she said, watching him rifle the pockets.
Finding nothing, he tossed the jacket back on the bed, then glanced at her. “Saw me where?”
“Hiding in the shadows outside the house at Santa Palazzo the night before you flew back here with Joey and Rhea. I knew it was you because I smelled the smoke from your cigarette.” And the Scotch, Elena wanted to say, but she didn’t. “And when I went for a walk along the beach, you followed me.”
“Did you intend to swim?” he asked. “You brought a towel, but you never used it.”
“Did you follow me hoping to see what you could see?” she asked boldly.
He smiled and it softened his hard mouth. “Maybe I followed you to protect you from the dark. Or from the ocean monsters who come out after midnight to watch the sea witch swim naked in the moonlight.”
He had admitted to knowing her morning routine. What had made her think he hadn’t followed her after dark, as well—more than once?
That realization sent Elena’s stomach into another slow nervous flip—he’d seen her shed her clothes and swim naked in the moonlight.
“All right,” Elena said softly. “Once more. Right here. I’ll take off my clothes so you can get a closer look. Then afterward…for looking your fill, you’ll give me my father’s name.”
She waited for his answer. Waited, and felt her cheeks come alive with embarrassment over the insane proposition she’d just offered him. She’d never done anything so utterly reckless in her life.
“You think all I want is to look? To see what I can see?”
Those words on his lips, as slow and liquid as her name, tripled the color in Elena’s cheeks before moving down her throat.
He reached out and brushed the back of his hand along her hot cheek. “It’s generous of you to be willing to sacrifice so much for a name, but I’m going to have to pass on your offer.”
When he started past her, Elena panicked and stepped into his path, again nearly knocked over by the sweet smell of liquor. “Okay, more. You can—” her face burned hotly “—touch me.”
His expression never wavered as his gaze slowly traveled over her, seemingly assessing what he would get to touch. His eyes spent time appreciating the exposed swell of her breasts, then drifted to the gold ring in her navel.
Elena bit her lip, afraid he was going to again pass on her offer. Desperation was the only logical reason for the next thing that came out of her mouth. “Okay, everything, then. All of it. You can have—”
With lightning swiftness, he lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the bed. Elena cried out, but that didn’t stop him. The second her back hit the bed, he was straddling her and pinning her hips to the mattress with his stone-hard thighs. “I can have what, Elena? Are you going to spread you legs for me, too?”
The words sounded crude. More embarrassment flooded Elena’s cheeks as she studied his clenched jaw and his angry black eyes. “I want my father’s name,” she whispered in an attempt to explain herself. A place to start, she thought silently.
His gaze settled on her breasts where they were straining the buttons of her sweater. While she struggled to breathe, he said, “I can get what you’re offering any day of the week. Free of charge now that I own this place. And I’m sure the girls here are more experienced.”
His insult fed Elena’s bravado. “They should be,” she reasoned. “I’m not a whore. I’m—”
His eyes lit on her face. “You’re what?”
She clamped her mouth shut, closed her eyes to conceal the emotions storming her body, as well as her mind. She had never had a man on top of her before.
“Come on, Elena,” he coaxed. “What are you? A virgin, maybe? A twenty-four-year-old virgin? No, I don’t think so. Virgins don’t swim naked and they don’t sell their bodies for information.”
She blinked open her eyes to argue the point and found him staring at her with a mocking grin on his face that made her feel cheap and dirty. Overcome with anger, she raised her hand and slapped his face. Hard.
For a moment there was nothing but silence while her handprint turned a vivid shade of red on his cheek, and in that space and time she became acutely aware of the heat growing between them. The sudden tightness drawing her nipples into hard peaks and the weakness in her limbs making her want to fidget.
“Get off me, Lucky. Presente!”
“You’re a virgin?”
“Get off me.”
“Answer me, dammit.”
She heaved her body up to fight his weight. “Get off me!”
“Or what, Elena? What will you do, my hot-tempered little virgin?”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “Get off me or I’ll scream.”
Instead of doing as she asked, he reached out, clamped his hands around her wrists and wrenched her arms over her head. Leaning forward, he said, “They’re used to hearing screaming coming from these back rooms—that’s why the music is so loud. Go ahead, Elena, wear yourself out.”
She didn’t scream, but she renewed her fight, twisting and wriggling while she began to curse him using every filthy word she knew in both English and Italian.
He shifted his body, and she suddenly felt more of him. Too much of him. She saw his jaw tighten. His nostrils flare. She stopped thrashing.
“I thought you were going to scream,” he taunted. “What are you waiting for?”
Above her head, he collected both of her wrists into one hand, then ran the fingers on his free hand down her throat and over the swell of her left breast. She sucked in her breath, shook her head. “No! Lucky, please…”
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Elena. And you’re going to answer them. Say, yes, Lucky, I’m going to answer your questions. All of them.”
His voice was soft, his breath eighty-proof. Could a person get drunk on fumes? Elena wondered. For she had to be drunk; why else would she have made him that stupid offer? Why else was she suddenly feeling like a cat needing to be stroked?
“Elena—”
“Yes, Lucky,” she managed. “I’m going to answer all of your questions.”
“Frank has no idea you’re here, right?”
She swallowed hard, shook her head. “I don’t think so. He shouldn’t discover I’m gone until around seven tomorrow morning.”
He slipped her top button out of its bound buttonhole. “And then?”
“And then he’ll find the note.”
His hands were warm on her flesh, torturously gentle. His fingers moved to the second button. “The note says what?”
Intoxicated, yes—his breath was making her dizzy.
“What’s in the note, Elena?”
She licked her lips, stared at his mouth. “I told him that I went to visit friends in Miami. College friends.”
She felt his sweet breath touch her breasts and knew another button was lost. She tried not to think about it, about what he could see. About the fact that the bra she wore was pale blue and as sheer as fishnet.
“Mother suggested a vacation,” she said. “I told Frank to tell her that I would call in a few days.”
Another button.
Elena heard herself moan when his lips brushed her mouth. Oh, God… “Piacere,” she whispered.
“Please what, Elena?”
She closed her eyes. “Please…no more. Please stop.”
Immediately his hand lifted off the fourth button, and she felt him draw himself upward. Though he remained straddling her, he let go of her wrists. In an ultrasoft voice, he demanded, “Open your eyes.”
She blinked them open, fought to breathe.
“The lesson here, sweet Elena, is that I could take you with or without your consent. I could take…everything. All of it, as you say. I could hurt you. Scar you. Even kill you. Never play a game you can’t win, Elena. And there are damn few you will ever win if you play with me.”
His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, and Elena knew his interest centered on her puckered dark nipples. He stared at her for a few seconds longer, then he began to work the buttons back into the holes.
He was on the second button from the top when he let out a strangled groan—a sound of pure agony that stiffened his body like a knife had been driven into the middle of his back.
Elena watched as he wrenched hard to the right and rolled off her. A second later he was sprawled beside her on his back, his expression fighting an invisible pain.

Lucky recognized the rush of pain and knew what it meant. Flattened out on the bed, he gritted his teeth against the burning sensation racing the length of his spine, and the knowledge of what the outcome would be in a matter of seconds.
Not now, he thought, not the hell now. Not here and not in front of her.
He continued to lie there while the hot pain worked its way into his thighs, then began to melt away, taking with it the feeling in his limbs.
“What is it?”
Sweat beading his forehead, Lucky glanced at Elena. She was sitting up and staring down at him. He would have liked to have been sitting up, too. But without looking like a snake dragging a fifty-pound ball and chain, he wasn’t going to be able to haul his body up.
“What’s happening?” She slid off the bed. “It’s your back, isn’t it? Something happened to your back.”
“What do you know about my back?”
She stepped between his open legs where they hung limp off the bed. “I heard Joey talking to Frank about some kind of surgery you’re supposed to have.”
“You just happened to hear?”
“All right, I was eavesdropping. And why shouldn’t I? In a matter of weeks I learned that my father who isn’t really my father is living a double life. Has two grown sons. And that they all work for the mafia.”
“We don’t work for the mafia, Elena.”
“Sorry. You are the mafia.”
Not liking that definition any better, Lucky checked his watch. The paralysis he’d been experiencing for the past three weeks was erratic. He could be up and moving within ten minutes or down and out for an hour.
“I take it this has happened before. You don’t look too surprised.”
No, he wasn’t surprised. His doctor had warned him that the scar tissue from his old wound had begun to strangle his spinal cord. Internal adhesions—those were the words used—were constricting the blood flow. He’d had a few problems with the scar over the years. But it had gotten a helluva lot worse since Milo’s boys had worked him over a few months ago and he’d wound up in the hospital losing a kidney.
“Should I call someone?”
“No.”
She reached out and pulled his shirt from his jeans. When she began to unbutton it, he grabbed one of her wrists. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to check out the problem to see what I can do to help.”
He shoved her hand away. “What you can do to help is go back home.”
“You can’t feel your legs, can you?”
He looked down to see that she’d curled her hands around his legs just above his knees and that she was squeezing. He knew that because he could see it, not because he could feel it. “Of course I can feel my legs.”
Her hand moved to his front pocket.
“What the hell are you doing now?”
“I’m getting your knife so I can stab you in the leg. I wager a thousand that you won’t feel it go in or out.”
Lucky grabbed her wrist again. “Go sit over there.”
She tucked a black strand of hair behind her ear. “And if I don’t, what will you do? Get up and make me?”
He let go of her wrist and drilled her with a look that normally sent his men running for cover, but it didn’t move her back even an inch.
“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, reached out and resumed unbuttoning his shirt.
This time, as her fingers brushed his bare chest, Lucky closed his eyes and allowed himself the pleasure of actually feeling her hands on him. A minute later he felt cool air on his chest and knew she’d finished the task.
Angry all of a sudden that he’d succumbed to her so easily, he said, “Anxious to get rid of your little problem, are you?”
“My problem?”
“Your virginal status,” he clarified.
“Years ago it would have been considered a gift. But I suppose these days the real gift to the modern man is variety and experience.” She glanced at his legs. “It looks like I’m stuck with my problem, and you’re stuck with yours. I wonder which is worse—inexperience or inadequacy.”
Lucky reached out and grabbed her arms, then jerked her forward onto his body. “My legs are useless at the moment, but everything else is working fine. Am I right?”
Her sweet mouth parted, and she sucked in a breath of air. “Sì, ho capito. Now let me up. You’ve proved you’re still…capable,” she managed.
“If you’re willing to do a little of the work, I could show you just how capable, Elena. We could start working on that experience you lack.”
She squirmed, tried to roll off him, the friction only adding more fuel to his capability. He closed his eyes, hoping that would help take his mind off what her body was doing to him, but her sexy scent filled his nostrils, and the result was another inch.
“Lucky…”
Her voice told him she was aware of what had just occurred. He let go of her, knowing he was making himself suffer needlessly. He had no intention of sleeping with Vito Tandi’s daughter. He might want to, but he wouldn’t. Temptation was a fool’s game, and everybody in Chicago knew Lucky Masado was no fool.

Chapter 4
The rules on sex, dating and men are as follows, Lannie. Don’t ever let your body rule your head. Don’t say yes when you mean no. And never let a man get you cornered or down. Down as in off your feet and on your back. If it happens, Lannie, be prepared to feel the snake come alive. Am I making myself clear, darling? If you feel the snake, you’re in trouble and you must knee the beast and run. Run like hell, Lannie. That is, unless you want to be caught. You’ll want to be caught one day, darling. All women do. But we’ll talk about that when you’re older. For now I’ll ask Romano to teach you some self-defense.
Her mother’s words had been offered to her when she was twelve, and Elena had gotten several more lessons on sex, dating and men in the years that followed. And defense lessons from Romano.
Elena stood between Lucky’s legs, aware that what she’d felt moments ago had been the snake. Her gaze drifted to the front of his jeans. Not thinking too clearly, she asked, “Does this happen often? You know—” her eyes darted to his face “—ah, your back locking up and your legs going limp. I mean, numb.”
She focused on the vivid scar that curled around his hipbone just above his jeans. It had to be the one, she thought. The legendary scar that went on forever. Did it go up or down? If it went up, it likely climbed his back to merge with the scar on his neck.
Accustomed to touching people in her line of work, Elena reached out and ran her finger across the visible five inches of the questionable scar. “I went to school at a medical institute for myofascial therapy. My interest, in the beginning, was just to help my mother with her pain.” When he said nothing, she continued to carefully examine the portion of the scar she could see.
Her professor at the college had told her that her personal experience with her mother had given her compassion, as well as the dedication needed to become an effective therapist.
She asked, “When you lose the feeling in your legs, how long does it last?”
He didn’t answer, which told Elena that he was either being stubborn for pride’s sake, or that the paralysis was still in an inconsistent state.
She continued to study the thick fibrotic tissue, pressing into the scar with her thumb, adding more pressure as she moved it over the scar with immeasurable slowness.
On an intake of breath, he grumbled, “Go ask Blacky for a bottle of Scotch.”
She kept her eyes on her fingers as she examined the scar. “You don’t need more to drink. What you need is—”
“Scotch, Elena.”
His tone was razor sharp and she looked up.
“Two bottles.” When she still hesitated, his nostrils flared. “Now!”
Elena backed away from him and left the room. She found Blacky standing at the end of the red carpet enjoying the show on the catwalk. This time the half-naked woman was a six-foot redhead with breasts the size of Florida grapefruits.
She quickly instructed him to bring two bottles of Scotch to number sixteen, and when she returned to the room, she saw that Lucky had pulled himself up against the headboard.
“Blacky’s on his way with your order,” she said tightly. “What else will you be needing besides a new liver and a breath mint?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Sì. Come here, Elena. Come push one of these pillows behind me so I can sit up straighter. I’m helpless, remember?”
“As helpless as a viper, you mean.”
His gaze drifted over her, slowly and deliberately. “Come here.”
She did what he asked. Rounded the bed and climbed onto the mattress. In the process of shoving a pillow behind him, a hard rap sounded at the door. It was the only warning they got before the door opened.
Elena looked up expecting to see Blacky, then gasped when Moody Trafano walked into the room wearing his lizard’s grin and carrying Lucky’s two bottles of Scotch.

This just wasn’t his night, Lucky decided as Moody Trafano kick the door shut. “Where’s Blacky?” he inquired, knowing the answer before he asked the question.
“Taking a nap in number five.” Moody’s gaze locked on Elena. “You should have been nicer to me at the bar, doll.”
Lucky tried to move his legs, but even as he worked at the hopeless cause, he saw Moody’s grin grow wide. The bastard had already guessed why he was still sprawled on the bed, instead of on his feet.
“I thought it was all talk, you becoming a cripple. Guess there’s a reason for you drinking a case of Scotch a day, after all.” Moody’s smile shifted to Elena where she sat on her knees on the bed. “You scared yet, doll? You should be. I don’t like mouthy women unless they’re on their knees.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“You don’t want to do this, Trafano,” Lucky warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you touch her. Kill you slow. Capiche?”
“Maybe I’ll just have to kill you first.” Moody set one of the bottles of Scotch on the table. Opened the other one. Motioning to Elena, he said, “Unbutton your sweater and come here. I want to look at you.”
Instead of doing as she was told, Elena rebuttoned the top two buttons on her sweater.
“What’s the matter? Not as mouthy without a knife, doll?” Moody tipped up the bottle, took several swallows. “It’s too late for regrets, sweet milk. You should have given me the respect I deserve.”
“You don’t know what the word means,” Elena replied.
Moody raised the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he set the bottle on the table. Then he pulled his dark green sweater off over his head to reveal a clean-shaven muscular chest. He flexed his biceps. “Come on now, doll. We both know you’re not shy, so bring that sweet ass of yours over here.”
Reaching for the bottle, Moody pulled a chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Taking a seat on it, he tipped his head back and chugged more liquor.
“Don’t get off the bed, Elena,” Lucky whispered. “Stay where you are.”
“And that’s going to help us in what way?” She whispered back. “Maybe if I pretend to like him, I can—”
Lucky gripped her wrist. “Don’t leave my side.”
“You can’t move, remember?” She twisted her wrist free.
“Do as I say, Elena.”
“Give me your knife,” she suddenly suggested. “The Hibben, not the Haug. I’ve never liked how that style handle fits my hand.”
Her words brought his head around, his eyes searching hers. “How do you know what I’m carrying or the difference between…”
His thought process shifted when he felt her hand on his hip. Remembering how quickly she’d stolen his knife at the bar, Lucky covered her hand with his, then curled his fingers around hers and slowly squeezed. If he wanted to, he could break her fingers one by one. “I’ll handle this,” he mouthed at her.
She mouthed back, “Without legs? I don’t think so.”
Moody finally came up for air after he’d drained half the bottle. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.”
He licked his thin lips, studied the last two inches in the bottle. As he tipped his head back to drain what was left, Lucky slid his hand to the front of his jeans and unzipped himself.
“What are you doing?” Elena whispered.
“Handling it,” was Lucky’s answer as he slid his hand into the opening to palm the .22 tucked next to his groin. Then, easing the weapon out through his open fly, he aimed it at Moody Trafano’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Elena fidgeted in the back seat of a cold taxicab. The aging Buick sat idling nosily under a lamppost behind the Shedd.
Thirty minutes ago she’d been escorted out the back entrance into the alley by Blacky—who was wearing an angry purple welt on his forehead. There, he had placed her in the cab and told her to sit tight.
The image of Lucky’s hand going into his jeans by way of his zipper and coming out with a gun flashed behind Elena’s eyes. What followed was Moody Trafano screaming in pain as he toppled off the chair clutching his shattered knee.
She’d never witnessed a man being shot before. The blast had made her ears ring and she’d felt physically sick. Dazed, she’d been unable to move as the door had flown open seconds later and a man brandishing a .38 had charged inside demanding, “Dammit, Lucky, what the hell’s going on in here?”

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