Wendy Rosnau - Last Man Standing

“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.

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?”