we’d really be sisters,” Gianna agreed with a tearful smile. Wrapping her arms around Sasha’s waist, the bride insisted, “You were so sweet to come at all. I know it was awkward, but it meant the world to me and that hunky new husband of mine.”
Sasha gave her friend a teasing smile. “You’d better go find him. Last time I checked, he was dancing with Tessie Gallo.”
“What?” Gianna scowled, then said to Dante, “Stay right here, zio. I’ll be back before you leave so you can kiss the bride one last time. Or the widow, depending on what’s going on out there.” Grabbing Sasha’s arm, she added, “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Carmine told her, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Sasha and I have unfinished business. Right, beautiful?”
Sasha arched a disapproving eyebrow in his direction, and was pleased when he winced. Then she took Dante’s hand and smiled sheepishly. “I made such a silly bet with Carmine. He told me you were an old friend of don Martino, and I thought I knew everyone from the old days, so I bet him that I knew you. Is it possible I’m just forgetting? Maybe you met me once, when I was just a baby. I really want to win this bet, so…”
Dante chuckled. “There was one time in particular. You spit up milk all over my brand-new suit. I’d say that binds us for life, wouldn’t you?”
“That doesn’t count!” Carmine bellowed. “Sasha doesn’t remember it, so it doesn’t count.”
Sasha sent an inquiring glance toward his father. “I’ll abide by your decision on this, zio.”
“Fuck that,” Carmine muttered. “I won the bet, and I’m going to collect.”
Antonio Martino’s eyes darkened, but his voice was even when he announced, “My son is the loser here today, in more than one way. Gianna? Show our guest to the door, then go and pay attention to your husband. Sasha, take care. And Carmine?”
The son’s expression had twisted with apprehension. “Yeah, Pop?”
“Apologize to Sasha for trying to take advantage of her. And to your sister, for ruining her wedding day. And then, if you are very, very lucky, I will allow you to apologize to me.”
“So? What do you think the don did to him? Slapped him around, right?” Winston Lowe grinned at Sasha. “Man, I would’ve loved to see that.”
“Yeah, but at least we got to see Carmine Martino cower in fear, thanks to Campie’s brilliant tittie-cam,” said his partner Chuck McBride, the third member of Jeff Crossman’s Organized Crime team.
Sasha bit back a laugh. “Have a little respect. It’s called a bra-cam.”
“Too bad you can’t find a way to have the lens implanted directly into your nipple,” Winston said wistfully. “That way if some hotshot like Carmine ever gets you naked, we could still see the show. Er, I mean, collect the evidence.”
“You guys are so immature.” She glanced toward the special agent in charge, hoping for a nod of agreement. But Jeff Crossman was scowling.
Oh, fine. The honeymoon’s over already? she asked in silent disgust. Even after I got you a photo of Vincenzo Martino’s new face? You’re such an ingrate, Crossman.
Aloud, she murmured, “What’s the problem, Jeff?”
“As if there’s just one?” He exhaled in apparent exasperation. “Fine. Let’s start with that toast of yours.”
“The Sinatra toast?” Winston asked with a wink. “Did you really quote Old Blue Eyes, Campie?”
“Stop calling her that,” Jeff warned him. “If you two clowns want to participate in this debriefing, grow up.”
“Sorry, Jeff,” his men said in unison.
But Sasha could see that their eyes were twinkling, so she threw them a bone by insisting, “I’m fine with ‘Campie.’ But I draw the line at ‘tittie-cam.’”
“That’s right,” Jeff muttered. “Laugh it up. I’m still waiting for an explanation.”
“Of the toast?” Sasha shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve heard my father say.”
“So you didn’t mean it?”
“Pardon?”
“You said they were your family. By choice. Did you mean that or not?”
Sasha stared into her handler’s dark green eyes and wondered if he could possibly understand, even a little, the complex world in which she had been raised. A world where family was everything, and sometimes, everyone was family. And sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes, even your own flesh and blood weren’t.
It was complicated.
And Jeff Crossman was a simple guy. Clean-cut. All-American, both figuratively and Heisman Trophyly. With his six-foot-three athletic frame, his squeaky-clean background, his intact family and grass roots schooling—all of which had spawned a black-and-white view of right and wrong—he viewed Sasha’s world through an amazingly clear lens, when in truth, it needed multiple filters if one really wanted to discover the truth.
Jackass.
She sent a warning glare in the direction of Tweed-ledum and Tweedledee, then told Jeff, “Yes, I meant it. They’re family to me in one sense. But that doesn’t mean I endorse their behavior. And it doesn’t mean I’ll protect them. They’re criminals. The kind of criminals who rob innocent victims of any chance for a normal life. They robbed me of that when they killed my mother. And no one robs Sasha Bracciali and gets away with it.”
She paused for dramatic effect, then assured him, “Go ahead. Put that in your report. I dare you.”
“Did you ever sleep with Carmine Martino?” She drew back, stunned by the question, and before she could stop herself, she answered with a resounding, “No!”
“Sheesh, Jeff. That’s kinda rough, isn’t it?” Winston murmured. “She just fingered Vincent Martino for us. Cut her some slack, will ya?”
Sasha laughed lightly. “My hero. Now if you boys don’t mind, I’m going home. I’ve got a raging headache.”
Jeff held up his hand. “Wait.”
She cleared her throat, wondering if for once this hunky marionette was actually going to apologize to her. “What now?”
He slid a picture of “Dante” across the table to her. “You’re convinced this is Vincent Martino, aka, the Butcher?”
“Absolutely.”
“Based on what?”
“Like I said, I recognized the voice, although I couldn’t swear in court that it was Vincenzo. But he said he was Daddy’s friend. And Antonio’s cousin. And that whole thing about me spitting up on him. And his crush on Mom—ugh. That seemed familiar, too. So all in all? Yes. I think we’ve got our guy.”
Jeff
