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 leaned forward, his gaze imprisoning hers. “And tell me again, just for the record. What is your relationship with Vincent Martino? Do you consider him family? By choice, not blood?”
Sasha could almost hear the accusation in his tone, but she shrugged it off. “My relationship with him? When I was a kid, he used to slip me a cannoli every once in a while when my mother wasn’t looking. I loved him for that.”
Winston grinned. “Slipped you a cannoli? Is that as dirty as it sounds?”
Sasha stared at him, speechless for a moment. Then she burst into laughter. “That does it. You’re officially a pervert. But that’s better than Jeff, because he’s officially an ingrate.” Grabbing her purse, she headed for the door, adding over her shoulder, “Nice working with you, fellas. I’m outta here.”
Chapter 2
Exhausted, Sasha would have crashed into bed within minutes of arriving home, but she was anxious to follow up on a news story that had been taunting her all week despite her need to focus on preparation for the wedding op. Now that she had been debriefed, she could stop tuning out the rest of the world, beginning with the fate of two kidnapped girls.
Her favorite twenty-four-hour news channel was rerunning a video of Representative Bryan Ellis of Arizona, who pleaded into the TV camera for the return of the two teenagers. According to Ellis, both victims had been students at a prestigious Arizona prep school for girls.
Athena Academy.
Thirsty for information about the status of her fellow Athenians, Sasha fired up her laptop to check AA.gov, but the alumni Web site was strangely silent about the fate of the girls. It simply parroted what Ellis had already told the media: that the abduction had been bold and well planned, the families had been notified and the whole country was praying for the safe return of the students.
“Bullshit,” Sasha muttered. “There’s a lot more than praying going on. We have women in the FBI, the CIA, NSA—you name it. These creeps are gonna wish they’d never been born when they come face-to-face with pure, unadulterated Athena force.”
Every fiber of her being wanted to call the school and offer to help, but it was the middle of the night. Plus, she knew that the Athena Academy had alumni much more experienced than she to tap. After all, Sasha’s function with the FBI was to be a glorified snitch. An asset, not an agent. It made sense, given the nature of her work, but still it rankled her, even on a good day. And on a bad night like this, it truly frustrated her.
As if they’re going to ask a Mafia princess for help on something like this? she mocked herself.
Immediately, she tensed. That was Jeff Crossman’s viewpoint, not her own. Apparently he had really gotten under her skin with his doubts about her reliability. And while she knew it wasn’t totally his doing—she had her own internal conflicts, especially in regard to her father—she still cursed Jeff for daring to speak them out loud so often.
Sleep, or even resting under the covers, was out of the question. She would stay up all night if necessary, monitoring the TV and the Web site until she was sure the students were safe.
Twisting her hair into a knot that barely fit inside a plastic cap, she took a quick shower and slipped into a long, silky blue robe. Then she curled up on the couch with a glass of Pinot Grigio, her laptop and the remote control, determined to hunker down indefinitely.
She had just taken the first sip of her drink when someone knocked on the door to her condominium. It was an odd occurrence for multiple reasons. She rarely had visitors. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night. And her building had excellent security, which meant she should have gotten a phone call from the front desk announcing any guest who sought admittance.
Sliding to her feet, Sasha considered her options carefully. There was the pistol in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. Or a call to the front desk. Or…
Forget those screwups at the desk. Just call 9-1-1!
But that seemed imprudent, given the nagging sensation in the back of her tired brain that her visitor was probably Carmine Martino, determined to collect on his bet.
Which led her to her final option—one she didn’t usually consider. She could simply kick the crap out of any assailant. Wasn’t that the most