Last Man Standing. Wendy Rosnau
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“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.
Martin glanced at his Rolex. “I’m going to get kicked out of here soon. Before I go, I have a few more questions about your part in Stud Williams’s breakout.”
“I told you I had no part in that. Unfortunately. If Sophia had involved me, we wouldn’t be in here.”
“About these witnesses, Vince…”
“Make ’em disappear, Martin.” When the lawyer just sat there, Vincent came forward and slammed his fist down on the cheap wooden table, his slicked-back gray hair falling forward over his bushy black eyebrows. “Sophia’s only crime, Martin, was loving a man who deceived her. I had a deal with Frank Masado. His son was supposed to marry my daughter. But Joey rejected her. What’s she gonna do, Martin? Turn the other cheek? She’s a D’Lano. We’ve earned the right to demand respect.”
“The court doesn’t care about your sour deal with Frank Masado, Vince. A crime was committed.”
Vincent glared at his lawyer, who continued to sit calmly in his silk suit and spin his diamond ring on his index finger. “I won’t be screwed over by this country’s dumb-ass judicial system.”
With the agility of a man of twenty-five, instead of sixty, Vincent D’Lano grabbed Martin by his suit lapels and lifted him to his feet. Turning his index finger into a toy gun, he pressed it to Martin’s temple and knocked off four shots. When he let go of him and stepped back, the lawyer wilted back onto the chair, his complexion turning as white as his shirt.
Pleased, Vincent said, “You know I don’t make idle threats, Martin. Get me and my daughter out of this stinkhole, or your wife will be looking all over the city for pieces of you to bury for the next ten years.” He patted Martin’s pale cheek. “Crooked lawyers are a dime a dozen. Don’t disappoint me, Martin, or I’ll kill ya. I’ll kill ya dead.”
The exotic dancer was performing for Lucky as if he was the only customer seated at the bar. Melody was her name, and like all the other girls who entertained at the Shedd, the diva had enough curves and sexy bump-and-grind moves to give every man bellied up to the bar tight jeans and a fantasy to take home.
The catwalk where the dancers played tease-and-tickle with the customers ran between a double-sided bar, which allowed the bartenders to easily handle the crowd. Melody, who had been working Lucky for a long twenty minutes, finally gave up and wiggled her curves toward Moody Trafano a half-dozen barstools away. She bent over and shook her full breasts in Moody’s grinning face, her efforts rewarded when he slid a twenty-dollar bill into her cleavage.