Last Man Standing Page 2

  “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 sh
e 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.