in serious trouble. But at least Joey’s alibi story had given her some breathing room until the police turned over more evidence, evidence that would prove she was innocent.
“I didn’t kill Milo Tandi.”
“I believe you. But then I’m not the one you need to convince. Williams is sure that, like the scarves, the silk lingerie found in Milo’s apartment is yours.”
“Milo Tandi ran an escort service out of that apartment. His name is on several other apartments at the Crown Plaza for that same purpose. That lingerie isn’t mine.”
“Before I arrived at police headquarters did you tell Williams anything I should know about?”
“No. Only that I didn’t kill Milo, and I wanted my lawyer if they had plans to formally charge me. That’s when you showed up.”
Smiling, he asked, “How does Caponelli’s sound?”
Sunni had never been to the quaint Italian restaurant in Little Italy. She’d heard it was one of the best in the city, but she had no wish to dine out with Joey Masado.
“Did I mention I saw Williams outside on my way in? It looks like he’s giving this case top priority. He’s waiting for one of us to make a wrong move. I don’t make wrong moves, Sunni, and you can’t afford to. Can you?”
No, she couldn’t. Detective Williams wasn’t the only one keeping a close eye on her. Three days ago Rambo had moved into the neighborhood with an oversize German shepherd. The tall muscle-machine and his sidekick had been dogging her every move. She would easily admit that Joey Masado was both intimidating and dangerous, but Rambo looked like he ate nails for breakfast and used his dog for target practice.
She had the best reason in the world to pick up the phone and call her father for help, only she couldn’t. Joey Masado thought her father was dead. And she needed him to keep believing it, because if he found out her father was alive and living in New Orleans as the city’s police chief she would lose everything.
Yes, she’d lied about who she was when she’d applied for the lease to open Silks. Frank Masado and his two sons were rumored to be linked with the mob. If that was true, they would never have given her permission to open her shop at Masado Towers—not a police chief’s daughter.
Joey brushed the silk past his nose, then stood and dropped the scarf on the desk. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Show a little skin tonight, Sunni. It’ll help sell us to Williams.”
Rambo joined them for dinner. No, he wasn’t sharing their table, but he was at Caponelli’s not twenty feet away from where Sunni sat at a cozy table for two with Joey Masado.
“How’s the veal?”
Caught with her eyes wandering for the third, or possibly the sixteenth time, Sunni scooped up her wineglass and pressed it to her red-painted lips, her attention back to Joey. Everything she’d heard about the restaurant was true—the food was great, the atmosphere intimate, the lighting soft, the music softer.
“Sunni—” Joey motioned to her plate “—how is it?”
She’d eaten only half of what she’d ordered. She was always careful about the kind of food she ate and the amount. Only food wasn’t what was on her mind at the moment. She’d lost her appetite the minute she’d spied Rambo. “The veal is excellent, but I’m afraid my appetite is a little off tonight.”
Sunni studied Joey Masado. At the Towers he was called the money man. He wore European suits and shoes so shiny they could double as traveling mirrors. She didn’t know much about the Masado men, but Frank looked as intimidating as he was handsome. Joey must have taken after his mother. He was softer in appearance, kinder and actually smiled—not often, but at least he knew how.
Tomas Masado, on the other hand—Joey’s little brother—was Frank with a chip on his shoulder. As handsome as Joey, he wore his street clothes tight, his vivid scars openly, and his attitude a foot out in front of him.
“I love this place.” Joey sampled his wine, savored it, then set the stemmed glass down. “I grew up a few blocks from here. For me this place was always a piece of heaven in the middle of hell.”
When they had arrived at the restaurant an attractive elderly woman had rushed forward to greet them. She was small, Sicilian and had offered Joey a motherly hug. After kissing him first on one cheek and then the other, the woman—obviously the owner of Caponelli’s—had showed them to their table.
Sunni had followed her progress as the woman had headed toward the kitchen, but instead of going inside, she’d stopped short and seated herself across from Rambo.
It was a good thing Sunni had been sitting down when she’d spied him or she would have melted into the floorboards. At that moment her throat had dried up, and forty minutes later she was still having trouble swallowing.
It was as if she’d been dropped smack into the middle of a gangster movie—she was having dinner with a Wise Guy in a restaurant likely owned by Mama Big Guns who knew Rambo personally.
It couldn’t get much worse, Sunni thought, then amended that thought. Over the past few days she had thought long and hard about who this rough-looking muscle-machine might be. Vito Tandi’s hired avenger seemed the most likely. That being entirely possible, she had loaded her .22 automatic and had been sleeping with it under her pillow.
The image of this man—whoever he was—aiming a gun at her head sent Sunni’s gaze over her shoulder once more. As if Rambo came equipped with internal radar, he glanced up and their eyes locked.
In the movies assassins were usually cold-eyed introverts with nasty acne and bad teeth. But Rambo wasn’t the least bit repulsive to look at. Of course, he still could have bad teeth. The words drop-dead-gorgeous came to mind. Dead…yes, that was the appropriate word to use in the same sentence with an assassin. And with her, if she was in fact, his target.
Sunni had all she could do not to leap to her feet and race for the door when Rambo stood and headed toward their table. Heart racing, she watched his long stride eat up the distance while he munched on a piece of garlic bread.
Suddenly it was too late to leap up and go anywhere—he was beside the table. And she was silently choking on her fear.
“You’re looking good, Joe. I guess crime still pays.”
Sunni’s first thought was, no, his teeth are stickpin straight and as sparkling white as pearls. And as for pitted skin—nothing unwanted lined his cheekbones but sun-bronzed smooth skin. Actually, his complexion was a grade or two above average. The second thought she had was that Joey Masado should be offended by Rambo’s brazen comment. But instead, he grinned, then added a bit of fuel of his own. “I see you’re still breathing. That’s amazing for a man in your line of work, Jacky. At least I have bodyguards watching my back. Still carry that Diamondback?”
“And the Hibben.”
That piece of information opened up Joey’s smile and made Sunni’s fear triple. Growing up with a father in law enforcement had taught her more about guns and knives than she’d cared to know. If Rambo carried a Diamondback .38 in his back pocket, and a wicked knife in the other, he was a serious man of action, and she was dead.
While Rambo popped the last of his bread into his mouth, then settled his long-fingered hands on his lean hips, Sunni began to envision how he would do it. Strangulation was quick. Then, too, maybe he didn’t like things quick. Was torture more his style? Did he like things messy? Bloody? Would he use the Hibben? The Diamondback .38?
“You going to introduce me to your pretty lady, Joe?”
His heavy-hitter voice sent a landslide of chills racing the length of Sunni’s spine. She lifted her gaze to his face, still struggling to exist on no air—her lungs had collapsed. Rambo’s eyes were a vivid shade of green, but not the least bit empty or cruel like she’d expected. On the contrary, they were a combination of old wisdom and real-life