EXCERPT
Chapter
One
Vicki
Calvetti dug through the bushes looking for the cat she hadn’t wanted to adopt.
A branch flicked, smacking her cheek as she bent low to grab the orange ball
hiding in the bushes behind her house. The mangy cat rewarded her by scratching
the back of her hand.
“You
chose me, Fuzzball,” she muttered. “It’s too cold to stay outside today.”
Why
did she bother? He’d shown up before the first snow, and she couldn’t turn her
back, so she let him inside for one night only. Two months ago. She was now the
proud owner of more cat toys than a pet store, and the cat still fought when
she tried to protect him from the harsh Colorado winter.
As
she walked him to the back deck, he curled under her coat and started to purr.
Dangit. His sweet temperament was why she bothered. He was a snuggler. Who’d
have thought she would go for a snuggling, purring orange furball? Opening the
door a crack, she set him on the kitchen tile. Before he could run, she slammed
the door closed. Brushing off loose cat hair, she walked around the outside of
the house.
Fuzzball
was a door darter. If she went inside with him, she’d turn around and have to
fight to keep him inside when she left. Easing through the stark branches of a
dormant lilac bush, she pushed into the front yard.
The
quaint gingerbread house across the street caught her eye. A Hansel and Gretel
cottage, it was decked in more trim than a Christmas tree and had more colors
than a rainbow parade. A swing set dominated the winter-dead lawn, surrounded
by toys, bikes, and a crazy old man in a flapping black trench coat.
Holy
hell.
Fear
slithered along her skin like the cold. “Manny.” She whispered his name,
stunned to see the mob hit man out of his native New York. He had never been to
Colorado, at least as far as she knew. His appearance did not bode well.
Legs
braced apart, the killer stood next to the kid’s bike, looking surreal with
blue handlebar streamers whipping against him. Shock froze her in place next to
her little porch. When he didn’t make a move, she let her gaze slide past him
to take in the empty street. Nerves squeezed her heart.
No
witnesses. No collateral damage. It was open season, and she was wearing a
target.
Vicki
had pissed off plenty of people who could afford Manny’s services. The pulse in
her neck felt like a beacon, calling Manny to finish her off. When her gaze
tracked back to him, her great-uncle Manny nodded from behind dark sunglasses.
What
the hell did the nod mean? Prepare to die? Lord, but she hated mobsters,
especially
the ones she was related to. He didn’t cross to her, nor did she rush to give
the old man a hug. They stared across the street waiting for the other to blink
first.
The
winter chill numbed her hands before she moved fully into the front yard. A
shiver twitched in her shoulders. If the man in black wanted her dead, she’d be
dead before the day was through. Being related to him wouldn’t save her. And if
she wasn’t dead, she had bigger problems than a geriatric killer for hire. Her
life was crumbling faster than a day-old muffin at a second-rate coffee shop.
She
crossed in front of her old Victorian home, presenting him her back.
A
spot behind her left ear started to itch as she waited for a bullet that didn’t
come. She turned, her movements unhurried, but inside, her internal
shit-o-meter blared. Not all of the worry had to do with Uncle Manny standing
in the street like an angel of death.
His
presence on such a gray winter day felt like an omen. She tucked her frigid
hands into her pockets and kept walking. A memory tugged at her, a thought she
couldn’t quite grasp, but she knew it was tied to Manny. The faster the wheels
in her head spun, the more her brain started to hurt.
It
had been a pissy morning. The ancient heater in the house barely kept the
temperature above freezing and chose the coldest day of the year to die with a
loud and messy belch. The repair guy couldn’t get to her house until late
afternoon, which meant a wasted and bitter-cold day of waiting—preferably
someplace warmer than her house. She needed coffee, not an unexpected visit
from the world’s worst great-uncle.
Vicki
massaged the tendons climbing the back of her neck. She could obsess on the
morning visit from a hit man—which she couldn’t control—or focus on the joy of
a cold winter day.
Boots
and scarves and lattes, oh my.
She
tripped over the sidewalk cracks leading away from her neighborhood. The hills
were like ski slopes after a snow, the side streets were frustratingly narrow,
parking was a nightmare, and in the summer, tourists clogged the roads like
grease in an artery. Despite or because of those imperfections, she loved
Manitou. The town had a soul, a history beyond a single generation.
The
hills and the winter chill didn’t slow the locals down. A jogger in black
pushed past on the way uphill when Vicki made the turn onto the main
thoroughfare.
A
tickle of awareness skittered up her spine, but it wasn’t the jogger or even
Manny causing her heart to race like a drug runner. A tail followed less than a
block back.
Not
one to give herself away, she maintained a steady pace as she traipsed down the
bumpy sidewalk to the business district. Once past a row of restaurants, she
slowed to look into the shop windows as if she had nothing better to do on a
Friday afternoon.
Knowing
Manny wasn’t behind her should have been a relief. It wasn’t. The man-boy on
the skateboard skidded to a halt when she paused to look at a display of Native
American jewelry. The silver metalwork was distinctive. Any other day and she
might sneak inside to wreak havoc on her credit card, but she was more
interested in the reflection of the pinhead wearing a backward ball cap and
playing it cool on the longboard. Unlike the jogger, this guy didn’t belong.
The
torn jeans and grimy concert T-shirt looked like he bought them off a stoner
from the park several blocks back, but even the ball cap couldn’t disguise the
streamlined haircut. She made him for a Fed the minute he wheeled in behind
her. He was too tame and too clean under the borrowed clothes.
Wind
fluttered the thick fabric of her maxi skirt. She pulled her jacket closed as
she headed to the next shop. The skater paused on the sidewalk, practicing a
kick turn until one of the shop owners shooed him along. The stoner wannabe
complied without so much as a rude hand gesture, which further identified him.
If
the Feds wanted stealth, they’d have to try harder. Victoria Calvetti was the
daughter of one of the most feared mob bosses in history. She’d been able to
pick up a tail before she’d learned to read.
Strange
day for a shadow—not that any day was good for one—but she had thought after
her brother’s death the Feds would leave her in peace. A hitch of guilt jumped
in her chest. Nick’s death six months ago should have caused grief, as he was
her only living brother, but the news of his demise had only brought relief.
Nick Calvetti had been evil from the day he was born. As a mob boss, he had
ruled with fear and an iron fist. He’d tormented his wife. Nearly gotten his
son Eli killed. Manipulated everyone. No one mourned him.
She
didn’t have any connections with what remained of her brother’s business
associates. She was clean, and the Fed surveillance was a slap to her pride.
That the Feds were here the same day as Uncle Manny was one more piece of bad
luck in a day too full of that commodity.
She
crossed the street, temper rising, and ducked into the coffee shop. The Fed
followed her across the street like they were attached with an invisible
string. Anger kicked up inside, warmed her blood on the cool day. When would
they give up? Well, she could get angry and let her Italian blood show, or she
could outclass them. Her father and brother would have opted for the direct
approach, which explained their early demise. They were predictable and violent
men. Vicki preferred a subtle attack.
She
ordered cappuccino and a bagel and chatted with the barista while she waited.
George was a mob refugee like her, but they weren’t friends so much as two
people who had survived the same hell. “Quiet in here today.”
“You’re
running late.” George’s bushy gray brows lifted in silent question. “Most of
the regulars headed out already.”
“I
had a last-minute client,” she said with a shrug.
“If
you had a real job, you’d have a real schedule.”
“I
have a real business.” Vicki flicked a piece of lint from her lapel. “As you
know.”
“Hypnotherapist?”
The old man scoffed, shook his head. “Quackery if you ask me.”
“I
didn’t ask.” She had heard her share of snide remarks. Hypnotism wasn’t
everyone’s cup of tea. It was, however, her pot of coffee and the thing that
got her out of bed every morning. She had a psych degree, but preferred to work
with the brain in an unconventional way. Why anyone thought their opinion
mattered was beyond her. She let the old man’s prejudices slide. He was
old-school, a high-level member of a crime family in Chicago. He’d have thought
the same thing if she were a psychologist. Men like him dealt with a problem by
killing someone or burying it.
He
nodded toward the agent pretending to skateboard out front. “You bring him with
you?”
“I
have no control over them.” She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.
“That ridiculous excuse for a tail showed up at my door this morning.”
“And
you bring him to mine?” The man running the espresso machine had lived
neck-deep in the mob until his son got caught in the cross fire. Dead at
twenty-six. The old man had been living off the grid under the name of George
Something-or-other ever since.
“They’re
not looking for you,” she assured him. She laid a twenty on the counter, shook
off the change. She couldn’t afford to alienate the best barista within walking
distance of her house.
“The
skater isn’t your only problem.” George pulled out a tray and deposited her
cappuccino on it. He’d foamed the milk to look like a question mark. Nice.
Should she test the cup for arsenic? Next to the cup, he placed a sugar bowl
and a spoon, a bagel, and the local newspaper folded in half. He tapped the
paper hard enough to rattle the cup. “The grim reaper came to my house before
sunrise.”
Manny.
Her internal freak-o-meter shot into the red zone. “What did he say?”
George
glanced nervously at the window before stabbing the paper again. “He left you a
message, to which I will add my own. Do not come back to my shop. I am a
peaceful man now. An honest businessman, and I have a grandson to raise. You stay
out of my shop until you make peace with the past.”
Good
Lord, she thought she had. When she’d helped her sister-in-law escape Nick,
Vicki had paid her penance for introducing them in the first place. Helping
Sofia escape had required precision planning. Maybe her tactics weren’t honest,
but she’d controlled the outcome, made it possible for everyone to move on with
Nick dead, but remnants of her former life kept showing up like a bad penny.
She’d done nothing to encourage it, except to be born a Calvetti, which was a
curse worse than any devised in the Grimms’ dark tales.
“George,”
she said with a smile designed to soften men with granite egos. “You know I
can’t live without you.” She laid a gentle touch to his shaking hand.
He
snapped back. “No more. Finish your paper. Drink your coffee. Leave my shop.”
Well,
that went well. Who did George think he was? The things he’d done made Manny
look like a juvenile delinquent, yet George had gotten his second chance.
She
steamed as she sat at a café table with a prime view of the windows. The Fed
was still spinning his skateboard wheels out front. She added three teaspoons
of sugar to the cappuccino and stirred away the foam question mark, a perfect
metaphor for her day. What the heck was happening to her orderly life? She
smeared a thick layer of cream cheese on the bagel before snapping open the
newspaper. A clipping of another article floated to the tabletop. Holding the
newspaper to hide the clipping, she skimmed the article.
Hypnotist
Dead, read the headline.
Fantastic.
The sense of dread she’d felt when she saw Manny settled like a noose around
her neck. August Trimbath, a Fort Collins hypnotherapist, was murdered
Wednesday night, less than thirty-six hours previous.
The
accompanying picture showed a pretty blonde with a vibrant smile that didn’t
seem the least bit familiar. The death of a random hypnotist wouldn’t have
worried her on a normal day. Today was not a normal day. The article was a
warning in a twisted Uncle Manny way. The description in the paper sounded like
the woman had been tortured prior to death, which came in the form of a bullet
to the back of the head. The execution style suggested a professional hit, but
who would want to kill a hypnotist, and what did it have to do with Vicki?
Was
the murderer Manny? She didn’t want to believe him guilty. Torture wasn’t his
style, but maybe he hadn’t set aside enough money for retirement. It wasn’t
like a hit man had a pension plan. But if it was Manny, why send the article?
She couldn’t remember ever meeting the murder victim, even at a convention, but
there had to be a connection.
The
itch behind her left ear intensified until she had an overwhelming urge to rub
her head and ease the ache growing stronger by the minute.
What
had she stumbled into? Manny was sending dead-drop messages, the Feds were
following her, and her intuition was screaming. At the bottom of the article,
Manny had written an address in a spidery scrawl along with a time. Was the
address a place to meet? More likely a trap, but her insatiable need for
information was triggered by the clue, something Manny would know. Information
had protected her time and again when Nick was alive. Her need to protect
herself didn’t die with him. Despite the rush of fear flooding her system like
the coffee she was drinking, her curiosity was aroused.
Given
her morning, going to the address was a bad idea. Didn’t mean a thing.
The
skater was still playing his limited tricks on the sidewalk. George didn’t want
trouble, so he let the skater stalk the front window in peace. The scrape of
the wheels on concrete grated on her already-taut nerves. Her tightly
controlled world was about to implode, and she had no idea who was flipping the
switch to bring it all down.
She
stuffed the article in her jacket pocket, but the rolling thunder of the skater
reminded her the Feds were still watching. The agents assigned were either
blind, dumb, or both.
They had a known hit man in town, whom the skater had
blindly passed, and George the former mobster had lived in town a half dozen
years, yet they were keeping an eye on her? Well, she thought peevishly, so
long as the Feds were paying someone to watch her, they could pay overtime.
The
heated coffee shop was as good a place as any to wait. She flicked through the
paper after she finished her coffee. Not that she cared much about local news,
but all the time the skater spent rolling around the front, the Feds were
paying. After wasting enough time, she ordered a coffee to go and a bag of
bagels. When she stepped into the dim winter sun, the agent unrolled from his
slouch and kicked the board into his hand.
She walked straight toward him. The
look of panic on his clean-shaven face was priceless. His eyes went round and
his thin face bloomed with a boyish blush. He certainly looked young enough to
be a skateboarder.
How
young were they recruiting agents these days? She reached out with a cup of
black coffee. Good manners had him reaching to take the cup from her.
“Let
me help you out here, Slick. I’m on my way to the post office, so if any of
your cohorts are going through my mail, they want to be quick.” She winked and
tossed him the bag of bagels. “See if you can keep up.”
He
caught the bagels, but the board clattered to the sidewalk. She headed uphill
to the post office before he got everything in hand. He followed for a block
before an FBI vehicle disguised as a cable company van picked him up. She blew
them a kiss as they drove past.
Jerks.
She walked off her mad, going faster than her short legs wanted to move. She’d
worked up a full head of steam by the time she hit the post office steps. She
went in, grabbed her mail, but as she turned to leave, a man in a suit stepped
between her and the exit. The panic she’d tried to bank exploded in her blood.
The
man was as wide as the door and had the face of a bulldog. “Miss Victoria
Calvetti?”
He
knew full well who she was. “Yes.” Her voice was steady, but fingernails were
scratching a chalkboard in her nervous system. She shivered, a knee-jerk
reaction to the shock.
The
man pulled a white envelope from his jacket pocket. “You’ve been served.”
She
reached out and took it, much like the Fed had taken her coffee. She was too
stunned to sputter. What the hell?
The
ox in a suit left the small building before Vicki found her voice.
She
stood along the wall of post office boxes and slit the end of the envelope. The
thick wad of papers summoned her—damn, she hated any word that implied she
didn’t have a choice—to testify in an ongoing trial against one or another of
her brother’s associates. The
mother of all headaches twitched behind her eye, but she maintained focus and
kept her visible reaction subdued. She stuffed the summons into her oversize
leather handbag and headed the long way home.
Manitou
was adrift in artists and musicians and hole-in-the-wall bars. Marijuana was as
much a part of the culture as the mineral springs that attracted people from
all over the globe. The old brick buildings housed psychics and tarot readers
and crystal shops. She blended in here. No one cared about one more woman
wearing gypsy skirts and peasant shirts and bangles up and down her arms.
The
last hill to her house climbed straight up a mountain, and she was huffing by
the time she reached her short drive. Manny no longer stood across the street.
Instead, a young man with long, unwashed hair pounded on her door. The ancient
door didn’t give under his abuse.
He
wore a thermal shirt and skinny jeans. An angry wave of energy swirled around
him. He was a client, but they weren’t scheduled to meet, and by the force of his
fists on the old oak, he was not a happy man. She reached into her purse for
her key chain, her secret weapon.
“Aaron,
I didn’t know we were meeting today.”
He
turned, his face mottled red. “What did you do to me?”
“Do?”
She gripped a long metal cylinder in a tight fist.
“Everything
I smoke tastes like dirt.”
She
nearly laughed. “Wasn’t quitting the point?”
“Yes.”
He tromped down the stairs like a scarecrow with sticks for limbs. “Are you
smiling? What did you do to me?”
“Helped
you quit smoking.”
“Fuck
that.” He stood trembling in her yard, throwing a fit and using four-letter
words most often reserved for family holidays.
Usually,
clients were thrilled when hypnosis helped. This guy was a raving lunatic. “Why
don’t you come inside? I’ll make tea and we’ll figure out the problem.” If she
could get him under, she’d help him calm down so he could explain what had him
so upset.
“Stay
away from me.” He yanked at a belt loop, pulling his skinny jeans higher on his
lean hips. “You’re fired.”
The
guy ran down the hill with a vapor of ugly following him. The middle-class kid
with shaggy hair and skinny jeans worried her. Why? Because he’d fired her? She
couldn’t afford to lose a client, but added to Manny, the Feds, the cranky
barista, and the Justice Department summons?
It
was like someone had put a hex on her. The jitters turned to full-blown panic
that stole her breath. No way was all this bad luck a coincidence.
An
ache throbbed at the base of her skull.
She
released the tight grip on the key chain and climbed to her porch with shaky
legs. The solid oak door from the late 1800s couldn’t be blasted open with
dynamite, but when she put the key in the dead bolt, it was already unlocked.
Yep, her day was going to get worse before it got better.
The
living room had been tossed. Carefully stacked mail was strewn on the solid oak
floor. Chairs and dressers were upended. She closed her eyes against the
violation.
“Well,
damn it all to hell,” she muttered under her breath. What was the point in an
FBI tail if someone trashed her house right under their noses? A loud crash
echoed from the back. She whispered a curse. Someone was still in the house.
Tiptoeing, she stepped around the corner to Fuzzball’s bed, but it was empty.
Another crash followed by curses from her bedroom, getting closer, sent her
back across the living room. She grabbed her cell phone off the mahogany
sideboard and tiptoed out the front. She left the door open so Fuzzball could
escape. He was a street cat. He’d be fine. Adrenaline pumped tension through her
blood as she rushed to her car.
Maybe
she should let Manny kill her and put her out of her misery.
Today
wasn’t just a bad day. It was Friday the thirteenth bad.
