“Patience, il mio amico, no one has to get hurt. Capice?”
John glanced at Bella, her hands tightly clasped. “Just tell me where Nonna is.”
“Playin’ bingo.” The man paused. “She made cookies. They’re in the box. Now shut up, Johnny. Last warning,” he said, his voice trailing as he’d begun to climb the stairs.
It wasn’t the accent that was familiar. It was. Shit, he couldn’t remember.
“Admirable that you’re worried about Nonna,” Bella said, coming closer. “But jeez, we’re not exactly sitting pretty here.”
“Yeah, I’m worried about her, but if she knows we’re down here that tells me something, too.”
“She won’t let them kill us?” Bella said hopefully.
John smiled. “Something along those lines.” He peeked in the box. There were amaretti cookies, a loaf of bread, some cheese, two glasses, a knife. Plastic. Interesting that Vince had brought two bottles of wine, though. Probably figured if they got him drunk, he wouldn’t be so apt to kill them both. “Her cookies, that’s another matter. I wouldn’t touch them. Those suckers could take you down in minutes.”
Bella’s lips parted in surprise, and then she smiled. That made a knot deep in his chest unwind. “Are you sure you don’t just want them all to yourself?”
“Sadly, no. They really are terrible. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great cook, even at her age, but a lousy baker.”
He filled a glass with wine, handed it to her and then took the other glass and bottle with him to the couch, hoping she’d follow. A few glasses of the Chianti might just keep her smiling. He hoped so. Not only would it mean she was relaxing, but it was nice. Her face changed with it. She must be good on the stage. A chameleon.
He waited until she sat down, got comfortable and took a sip, or rather a gulp. “You need to know, Sal’s got his problems, but he’s not a killer.”
“He shot you.”
John paused before he poured a small amount into his glass. “He didn’t intend to kill me.”
Bella shook her head, and he knew she didn’t believe him. Why should she? But he’d be damned if he’d tell her the entire humiliating truth. In fact, before she could question him further, he went for the distraction. “Lacarie. That’s what, northern Italian?”
“Yep.”
“That’s it? No story, no family history?”
“My family isn’t like that. My folks are third generation, and they assimilated long ago.”
“They named you Bella. You could have been called something boring like Jessica or Tiffany.”
Her stare turned icy. “My first name is Jessica. I use my middle name because of my job.”
John cleared his throat. “Jessica’s nice. Bella’s better.”
She took the bottle from his hand and refilled her glass.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like not to be steeped in the culture,” he said. “Around here, it’s everything, and has been since the early 1900s.”
“My father is an attorney, Mother volunteers and my sister, Andrea, is a stay-at-home mom. They belong to the country club and they donate to conservative causes. They’re as Italian as their new Mercedes.”
“You weren’t curious about your heritage?”
“I try to catch the fashion highlights from Milan.”
He smiled. “Do me a favor. When you meet Nonna, lie.”
“What, she’ll have me shot for being a bad Italian?”
He shrugged. “Maybe not shot.”
“Well, that’s one of them.”
Sighing, he pretended to take another slug of wine and when he put it down he made sure Bella was looking him in the eyes. “Hand to God, I don’t know what crazy plan they’ve cooked up, but it doesn’t include us being shot.”
From what he could see, Bella wanted to believe him. All she needed was a little more wine and he could relax about her doing something stupid while he came up with a plan.
“We okay now? You feel better?”
“Marginally.”
“We’re gonna get out of this, and you’re gonna be fine. I swear.”
“I believe that you believe it.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “You know what? I’m starving. I’m gonna get something to eat.”
“Good for you.”
“You don’t want any?”
She shook her head. “Eating would divert my attention from drinking.”
He got up, thankful at least that she wasn’t going to inhibit the alcohol with food. The bread would take care of the token sips he was taking in order to keep her drinking. He didn’t want her drunk, though, just less…
When had she taken off her coat? It must have been when she went to the bathroom. He liked that the silky blue dress was a shade or two darker than her eyes. And those legs. Another time, other circumstances, he’d have done something about it.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
He looked up. “No. Just. No.” It was definitely time to put something in his stomach. Maybe then he could figure out what his next move was, and stop thinking about those worried blue eyes.
BELLA SHIFTED THE FORK she’d managed to snatch off the dirty plate so it wasn’t poking her in the butt. She wished she had pockets, but this would have to do. Her gaze never left John in his dark suit and white dress shirt. He certainly had nice hands. Nice shoulders, too. Neither distracted from her certainty that he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
Something was terribly off. That Sal was dumb wasn’t hard to believe, but Vince seemed to be on the ball. That weird door had her concerned. She’d never seen one in a house before. Or anywhere, for that matter. The guns were as real as it got, and being kidnapped wasn’t a joke. Had John lied about being shot? Or about his belief that Sal hadn’t meant to kill him?
The whole plot seemed too far-fetched and weird to be anything but a farce, and yet there was nothing funny about any of it. Black comedies never ended well for everyone, and her role here was a bit player. Expendable. A red shirt on the planet Bronx.
John turned with a hunk of bread and some cheese in his hand. “The morons forgot plates or napkins. But the bread is fresh. You sure now?”
She nodded, trying to see past his handsome features to the man inside. “You married?”
“Nope,” he said, as he joined her back on the couch. “I was engaged once. It didn’t take.”
“The women of Little Italy must be rending their garments. Letting someone like you get away.”
He smiled as if he’d heard that a thousand times. “You’d be surprised.”
“I am. You’re young, handsome and a detective. What’s not to like?”
“Plenty.” He took a manly bite of a hunk of bread slathered with soft white cheese.
“For example…?”
“I haven’t confessed in years,” he said, after he swallowed. “I’m not going to start now.”
“You drink?”
He brought his glass