* * *

From ten thousand feet, circling SeaTac in our landing pattern, I was disappointed in seeing Seattle again. I should have driven. Up there, it was too pristine, too clean, too . . . quiet. I'd spent the past four years, more or less, being quiet. I was ready to get back into the pulse of life.

Not that the quiet hadn't helped. Four years prior, when I was eighteen, the last thing I wanted to be was Tomasso Bertoli, heir apparent of Carlo Bertoli, Godfather of all of Seattle and Tacoma. I wanted to be a normal guy, with normal dreams and the expectation that I wouldn't have to risk my life either from getting shot like my uncle Johnny, or going to jail like my cousin Vince. Spending ten years in jail worried about dropping the soap? No thanks, not for me, even if I was protected.

So I took the opportunity to get the hell out of Seattle. In fact, I went country, although my family never really knew to what extent. Going by the name of Tom Bertoli, I couldn't hide my heritage, but I hid just about everything else. Gone were the suits, the designer clothes, and the slick looks that had gotten me plenty of attention and plenty of ass in high school. Instead, I'd worn off-the-shelf jeans and t-shirts. My Alfa Romeo was replaced with a Chevy, and I tried to act like a normal college student.

Well, a normal college student in most ways. I was about fifty miles from the Gulf Coast in Alabama, in a little town that was just outside Mobile, and I grew to appreciate a few things. Fried catfish for one. Dusted in corn flower and then deep fried, I had to work hard to keep the weight off during my first year in college. I'm not one of those skinny poof types -- I took after my uncle Johnny and have loved the weights and the powerful look since about the first time I picked up a weight in the house gym. So as good as it was, I had to watch the Southern food.

But the second and best part about being in the South? Southern girls. Say what you want -- there's a lot of dirt poor areas -- but the women are something else. Southern girls, they know how to treat their man right. They know how to talk, how to move, and just how to be feminine in ways that the girls I knew in Seattle didn't. Some of them liked to put on a front about being good girls, but once you got past it, they were down to fuck like it was nobody's business. The hardest part was getting the snaps on their shorts undone.

But starting in my junior year, things just went weird for me. Maybe it was that I got bored. Classes were easy, and finding new challenges in the women department was getting harder and harder. I mean, I'd picked up a pretty good list of accomplishments, but it was just too easy and I stopped wanting to be in the South any longer.

Whatever the reason, my last semester in college, I felt an itch inside me, a desire to go back to Seattle. I'd left because I didn't want to be Tomasso Bertoli, crown prince of the Bertoli family, and I knew I still didn't . . . at least to a degree. I didn't want to be handed a position merely due to my last name. What I wanted was to earn my place, to work my way up. If I was to take over when my father was ready to retire, then I'd do it because I was ready to handle the position. If I couldn't, then I'd happily pass it on to Adriana or Daniel if they wanted it, or to my little brother Angelo.

My thoughts raced in my mind as the Delta 737 circled SeaTac. The city was just too damn sleepy and sterile up in the air. I should have driven.

Thankfully, I was met at the gate by one of my favorite members of the Bertoli family, Pietro Marconi's son Jake. Instead of going to college, Jake signed up for a three year hitch with the Army, figuring that he'd pick up all the training he needed to become better at following in his father's footsteps by working a little bit for the government. He'd gotten out a few months before I graduated, and looked healthy and happy. "Tommy, it's good to see you."

"Actually Jake, if you can make it Tomasso now," I said with a smile, exchanging brotherly hugs with my friend. "I think I got all the Tommy out of me down South. You ever get to Alabama?"

"Can't say that I did," Jake replied. Unlike his father, who looked like he was Italian, Jake always had a bit of a California surfer vibe to him, but who knew where in his DNA the dark dirty blond came from. His mother, Carla Marconi, had coal black hair like her husband. “The best I could manage was doing infantry school over at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Then they stuck me in fucking Korea for the rest of the time."

"Which is probably why if I visited Korea right now, I'd find a ton of little half Korean, half Italian kids running around," I joked back. "Seoul's going to need a new Little Italy."

Jake laughed, patting me on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Tomasso. You seem different though, more serious than you were, a more focused look about you.”

"We can talk in the car. What did you drive?" I asked, as Jake reached for my bag. "No, I got it."

Jake's hand stopped, a few inches from the handle. "Really?"

I nodded. "Really. Jake, before I left I didn't want to be the prince. I still don't — I don't want that handed to me. So I'm going to earn it. That starts with little things like being able to carry my own bags."

He nodded, and I grabbed my suitcase and duffel bag, following him out to the parking lot. "As to your question, I figured you'd be looking for a good ride, so I brought the Cali."

The Ferrari California was one of my favorite cars in the lineup owned by my father, and I whistled as I saw the sleek lines and blue-gray paint job. "Still sexy as fuck," I said, holding my hand out. "Keys."

Jake chuckled and held them out. "I thought you said that you wanted to earn it."

"Hey, the car's still in my father's name," I said with a laugh. "Besides, I spent four years driving a Chevy. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?" Jake said, tossing me the keys and climbing into the passenger seat.

"Tell me you have absolutely no country or Southern hip-hop on the sound system. I think I've had my fill of that over the last couple years” I said, climbing into the driver's seat. I'd forgotten how ironically luxurious a firm foam seat felt. I'd gotten too used to soft foam that just mushed out like a fucking pillow under your ass. The Ferrari though, it grabbed your legs, ass and back and told you to sit the fuck down right here. The growl of the engine as I started it up sent a shot of adrenaline down my spine, and I grinned as I flipped the switch to retract the hardtop convertible roof.

"You drive the way I think you will, it won't matter, will it?" Jake said. "Just remember to try and keep it at ground level, okay?"

Actually, I cruised, enjoying the feeling of the sports car as I drove north along the Interstate towards the Bertoli mansion. "So how's life for you now?"

"Not bad," Jake said. "You know the Don's got me working at the Pizza joint?"

"No shit?" I said with a laugh. Bertoli's Pizza was just one of my family's legitimate businesses. No Mafia family can go for long without having some legitimate business to filter all the profits of their other enterprises, and Bertoli's Pizza was a Seattle institution. We'd even catered the summer barbecue for the police union three years running for free. "What's he got you doing, deliveries?"

Jake laughed and shook his head. "Nah, learning how to actually do business. He's got me working the books, in the office and stuff. He told me that the Army took care of the violent side of things, and they taught me about how to organize. Now it was time to put the finishing touches on me, — his own words. So I've spent six months working in the back offices, doing orders for tomato sauce, cheese, flour, shit like that after I got reacquainted with Seattle. Worst part of it all is, I haven't even seen a slice of pizza the whole damn time. But what about you? You leave a bunch of heartbroken girls back in Alabama?"

"Heartbroken? No way. Broken in? Hell yes." It wasn't the total truth, but I couldn't exactly tell Jake the truth, he wouldn't have understood.

He laughed and we continued driving. Reaching the mansion, I stopped in front, getting out to take my bags.

"You go say hi to your father, I'll park the car," Jake said. “And don't worry about the bags, either. You may want to do stuff on your own now, but remember, you're still part of the Bertoli family. There's people to do that sort of stuff around here. Your bags be in your room when you're done talking with the Don."

I nodded and went inside, unconsciously checking my pants and shirt to make sure I looked okay. While Father would understand that I'd flown wearing track pants and a t-shirt, that didn't excuse if I'd shown up looking like a bum. Inside, I saw one of the maids, a nice girl named Jessie who'd been with the house for years. "Jessie?"

"Master Bertoli, welcome home," she said, smiling shyly. Jessie was a few years older than me, and had gotten married while I was in college. Still, we'd had a few nights back when we were both single that still left pleasant memories and warmed cold nights. Tiny, trim, and with a bobbed haircut that gave her sort of a pixie vibe, she'd always been a great maid, and she'd let me rock her world once or twice. "How was your flight?"

"Good, but you know I don't like that Master stuff. Just Tomasso."

Jessie blushed a little, but shook her head. "I can't, sir. At least, not using your first name while working. I suppose you are looking for Mr. Bertoli?"

"Yes, do you know where he is?"

She pointed out toward the back. "I believe he's by the pool. He's on a bit of a fitness kick recently, if you can believe it."

I shook my head. "Really, what caused that?"

She leaned in close, whispering into my ear. "He tried on his tuxedo for Miss Bertoli's wedding to Daniel. Let's just say it didn't fit too well. Since then, he's been on a fitness kick. He wants to make sure things look good for the ceremony."

I chuckled and shook my head. If my father had any weakness in terms of his thinking or actions, it was Adriana. Then again, since I agreed with his sparing of Daniel, I couldn't argue it too much. "Thanks, Jessie. I'll let you get your work done.”

I left and found my father in the family pool. It was three lanes, and while not competition depth, had let my brother Angelo do pretty well for a short, stocky Italian on the high school swim team. Of course, I suspect he joined the swim team only because he got to spend a lot of time around girls in swimsuits.

Father, on the other hand, looked nothing at all like a swimmer, or an athlete of any kind. As he went north of fifty years old, his paunch had spread, and his already somewhat weak jawline had receded more and more into his neck. Still, discounting Carlo Bertoli, even if you were his son, was a fool's errand. It was difficult though, as he had for some reason insisted on wearing Speedos as he did his laps.

Seeing me when he turned, he waved at me and stopped, touching down on the bottom of the pool. Walking his way back from the other end, he pulled his goggles off of his head and wiped his face. "Tomasso! It's good to have you home son! I didn't expect you in for another two hours, what happened?"

"I was able to catch an earlier connection coming out of Denver," I explained, walking closet to the pool. "It's good to see you, Dad."

He got out of the pool and grabbed a robe off the deck chair he'd been using. Tying the belt, he came and hugged me, the two of us clapping each other on the back. "Oh my boy, it's good to see you too. Ouch,” he said. “Watch it, you're going to hurt an old man's back!"

I laughed and pounded him once more, then stepped back. "You're not old. You're in the prime of your life still."

He chuckled and shook his head. "When a man starts giving away those he feels are his children, then the prime of his life is over. But I plan on hanging on to what's left as much as I can. Come, let's sit."

I took the other seat, and Dad tapped a control on the table. "Can you bring some beer for me and Tomasso? No, wait, make it two sparkling waters."

He clicked off the intercom and shrugged. "I don't want to look like a fool at Adriana's wedding."

"You won't, I promise. I'm glad to be back in time for that as well."

"So, now that you're back Tommy, what do you plan to do? To be honest, when you left to go to school four years ago, I wasn't sure I'd see you back other than on holidays."

"Actually, if you don't mind, Tomasso now," I said somberly. "I came back because I think it's time for me to set some ideas I had as a boy aside and become a man."

He crossed his hands over his stomach, a gesture I'd come to know well. He was thinking, and his mind, which was stronger than any muscle any of his men may have had, was working. "You know Tomasso, coming back, it's not like you just stepped out for a bit while going to school locally. The boys, the family, they kind of knew you were unsure about this life. Now you're saying you want back in. How would I justify this to men like your friend Jake, who only left because I told him to go into the military for a few years? How would that look to his father even?"

I nodded, thinking. "I know. It's one reason why I want to earn my way up. The boys, the Family, they won't respect me if I just came in acting like some sort of heir-apparent. I don't want to be some pampered prince, nor do I think that is what you would want of me. So let me start near the bottom, where you think I can learn and show what I can offer.”

Dad's eyes twinkled, and a small smile broke out on his face. "Is that so? You realize if I do that, I must place you under someone beside myself. I can't be the one to mentor you. That would damage the exact thing you are trying to establish."

"I know," I said, thinking. Suddenly, an idea came to mind. "You know, Jake Marconi was the guy who picked me up at the airport. I take it that you have him in the office to learn from you?"

Dad chuckled and took a sip of his water. "Jake is a good boy, but he is not cut out for the rough part of life. I kept tabs on him in the military through our connections, and while he's trustworthy and a good worker, he's not as sure on the trigger as I need him at this time. He's too sure of his words and his ability to use his charm. Useful tools, but more useful on the legitimate side of our business than the other side. Why?"

"Well, why not place me under his father Pietro? He's your most trusted lieutenant, he's one of the best men you've ever worked with, and if anyone can teach me what I need to know, he can do it. Also, let's face it, he's not an easy man to work for. How many men have come to you asking to be taken off of his watch?"

Dad laughed, raising his hands in the universal gesture of who knows? "But know this, Tomasso. If I do that, Pietro is going to be your boss, not your father's lieutenant. Can you handle that?"

"Give me a day to get unpacked, get my mind right, and we can talk to Pietro tomorrow," I said, taking a drink. "Would that be okay?"

"Let's talk with him Sunday," Dad replied. "You should take a few more days, get your feet underneath you in Seattle again."

Looking down from ten thousand feet in the United Airlines Boeing, I wished the plane wasn't circling Seattle. While it was summer time in the United States, and the weather was reasonably warm, I missed my native land. July in Brazil was beautiful, and in my hometown of Porto Alegre, the midwinter weather was perfect – Brazil is in the Southern Hemisphere, so July was actually winter. Not too warm, the rainy season wasn't too bad, and the mid-summer cattle were coming in from the pampas. Keep your wagyu, your Angus, and your Aussie. I'll take fresh Brazilian beef from the pampas any day.

Still, as part of my father's businesses, this trip was necessary. The Porto Alege Mendosa family is powerful, but only within our little section of Brazil. Compared to some of the families in Sao Paulo, Brasilia or especially Rio de Janerio, we were nothing but backwoods hicks, rednecks with a little bit of money and a lot of cojones. In order to stay strong, we often had to mix our legal and illegal businesses. Then again, many families in Brazil needed to mix their legal and, technically, illegal businesses. Some of the best of them became politicians.

So I had to come to Seattle. There was a trade show being held over the next two weeks at the Civic Center, and of all the Mendosas, I was the one that not only had the best English, but also had the cleanest record. My father was known as a person of interest by Interpol, and while some of my brothers were not as well known, they barely spoke any English, preferring to leave the boring, nerdy side of education to me and my sisters. Not that it was all I learned, of course.

"Ladies and gentleman, we just got final clearance for landing at Seattle's Seatac airport. For all of us in the flight crew, I'd like to thank you for flying with us today. Y'all have a great time, and see us again," the American pilot said over the intercom in his annoyingly Texas twang. At least my accent does not add syllables to words, or just make them up entirely.

I sighed, and made sure my seat was up fully and my things ready. I looked around at the collection of Americans next to me, and I had to shake my head. None of them knew how to dress. Still, I had to admit that after being in various airplanes for going on eighteen hours with layovers and other delays, I could have switched places with one of them and enjoyed a t-shirt and yoga pants. But I had places to go when I got off the plane in Seattle, and social calls I had to make.

Those social calls, more than anything, irked me the most. You see, the purpose of my visit to Seattle wasn't just the trade show, which would reinforce my family's agricultural connections. We had a chance to make the sort of face-to-face connections that could lead to Mendosa beef being served in many restaurants in the United States, a market worth millions of dollars a year. But more importantly was the connection my father wanted to make with Carlo Bertoli. That was, if anything, more important than the trade show.

Like Seattle, Porto Alegre was a seafaring city, with lots of cargo going in and out of the port every day. That, combined with a very tourist friendly nightlife, left a lot of opportunities for men such as my father to make a living.

But to further our opportunities, we needed allies. The Bertoli family, with a hold on the Port of Seattle, could be a powerful ally. So my first stop in Seattle, even before I checked into my hotel, was the Bertoli mansion.

Thankfully I'd cleared American customs in Dallas, the last stopover I had before flying to Seattle. I'd even had a chance to take a nap on the airplane, so I wasn't too exhausted when I stepped out of the baggage terminal and walked to the shuttle bus that would take me to the car rental counter.

At the counter, the clerk, a cute boy in that overconfident sort of way, tried to flirt with me as I checked out the Lincoln that I'd reserved. "So, uh, you'll be in Seattle for a while?"

I raised an eyebrow at the clerk, who blushed. "Sorry?"

The boy swallowed his nervousness, and tried again. "Just... if you're free any night here when you're in Seattle, I was thinking that....."

"I don't think I will have the free time. But thank you," I said, cutting him off. Still, I was trying to be polite, but I had other things on my mind. I didn't have time for a young man with an overabundant fascination with my backside, though it was one of my best assets. What is that American saying, real women have curves? I have them, and I'm proud of them. We figured that basic truth out in Brazil generations ago.

Driving north toward what the car navigation system was telling me was my destination, I reviewed what I knew about Don Carlo Bertoli. He had taken over the Seattle area after his brother had been gunned down in a hit. In the ensuing struggle, he'd distinguished himself not only for his ruthlessness, but his analytical mind. He'd united the disjointed Bertoli troops under his command quickly, and enacted revenge on the men who'd killed his brother. He'd also taken care of his family, supporting both his sister-in-law and niece as well as his two sons. Widowed now, he ruled Seattle with a deceptively iron fist, in full control of the area.

I knew that Bertoli increased his family's power, and had expanded in both the legitimate and illegal areas of business. He was a man to both respect and be concerned about. I couldn't be anything but honest with the man, but at the same time I couldn't be an open book. If I did, I would certainly give him information he could use against the Mendosas.

I pulled up at the gate to the Bertoli mansion at just before five o'clock, looking up the driveway at the impressive building. I reached over and hit the buzzer button, and a male voice came back on immediately. "May we help you?"

"I'm Luisa Mendosa. I have an appointment to see Don Bertoli?"

I waited a moment, and then the man came back on the intercom. "Please pull up in front of the house. You will be met in the driveway."

The gate buzzed and started swinging back, and I pulled up directly in front of the front door and shut off my engine, getting out with my hands visible, but not extended. I was an expected guest, not a hostage or some other lackey, and I was a Mendosa.

The front door opened, and a man came out. He had the obvious look of an enforcer, but was a bit old for the position. I figured that he was one of the lieutenants. "Miss Mendosa? I'm Pietro Marconi. Don Bertoli is waiting for you inside. If you'd follow me?"

"Of course, Mr. Marconi. Would you like to check my person?"

He stopped and looked back, slightly surprised. "Miss Mendosa, that's not how Mr. Bertoli treats his guests and friends. Your father contacted him saying you would be in town, and he's very happy to receive you as a friend of the family. There's no need for us to treat each other with suspicion, is there?"

I tilted my head, remembering that America operated on different rules than Brazil, and nodded. "My apologies, Mr. Marconi. Please, lead on."

He led me through the house, which I saw had three wings in a reverse open rectangular pattern, quite standard and quite nice. Taking me through the main wing, we exited into a garden, where he led me along a concrete walkway to a small picnic area. "If you would wait here, he'll be out in a moment."

I had just took a seat at the table when a man approached, wearing a fine custom tailored Italian suit that had to have cost a couple of thousand dollars. He was slightly dumpy, but in his eyes burned an intelligence and power that only a fool would ignore. Then again, I'd met many fools in the short twenty-one years of my life to that point. I stood up, offering my hand to shake. "Don Bertoli?"

"Miss Mendosa, it's a pleasure to have you in my home," the Don said, smiling and returning the handshake with vigor and strength. When he did, the steel in his face mellowed slightly. "Was your flight from Brazil reasonable?"

"Reasonable? I'd say that would be a good word," I said with a slight laugh. I noticed that he had an Italian accent, which somewhat surprised me. The family had been in the United States for at least three generations that I knew of, and Carlo Bertoli himself had been born in Seattle. How such a man still sounded like an Italian immigrant was beyond me. "The flight from Rio to Dallas was the longest part, of course. But I was able to fly in one of the new Dreamliners, so it wasn't too bad."

"That's good to hear. Please, relax and have a seat. I'm sure you must be tired."

"Actually sir, I had a good nap on the plane. I woke up just as we crossed into American airspace."

"That's great." the he said smiling. "Well then, it'd be my honor to have you as my family's guest for dinner tonight.”

I was in the house gym, straining inside the press machine Pietro came to the door. "Change of plans."

"What’s up, Pietro?" I asked, letting the handles to the plate loaded machine down slowly. While I wasn't the best fighter in the Bertoli house, that honor probably belonged to Daniel Neiman, nor the strongest, Lorenzo was certainly that, I more than held my own in both arenas. "I was just finishing up before going to do pickups like you ordered."

"The Don wants you to delay the start of your work for tonight," Pietro said. "A visitor from Brazil came to pay respects, and he wants you to have dinner with the family. So it'll be you, your father, Mrs. Bertoli, and Miss Mendosa."

"Mendosa, huh? She cute?" I asked with a grin. I realized I was acting like a spoiled boy and not a Bertoli man, and I stopped. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

He smiled, not choosing to comment. “How quickly can you be ready?"

"I had a few sets left, but I can stop now," I answered. "Give me fifteen minutes?"

“Okay. Suit and tie, of course.” He gave me a nod and walked out. Even though I was supposed to be working for Pietro, I still had to respect my father's wishes.

I finished one more set and went up to my room, where I grabbed a quick shower and changed. I chose my gray suit, mainly because I could use it for both dinner and work later on, and because it was breathable. Seattle may not have been as hot as Alabama, but I wasn't used to wearing suits yet either. Adjusting my tie, I looked in the mirror, and thought I looked pretty damn good, if I could say so myself.

Coming out of my room, I saw Aunt Margaret. ”Hey Squirt," she greeted me, using the nickname that was reserved for her and her only, "you look handsome. Trying to impress a new girl?”

I laughed and gave her a hug. "Hardly. You know Dad wants his men to look the part when on the job. It’s going to take some getting used to, so I figure now’s as good a time as any. What do you think?"

Margaret adjusted my tie, and ran her fingers through my hair. “You look so much like your uncle that I want to cry sometimes," she said with a sad little smile. "It's amazing having you back in the house, even if it is bittersweet. Tell you what, how about you escort me to the dining room tonight?"

I smiled and offered my arm. "I'd be honored. I'm not sure I could have a better looking lady on my arm anyway."

Margaret chuckled and smacked my chest with her left hand while slipping her right arm in mine.

We went downstairs and into the main dining room where the giant twenty-four person table dominated the room.

She was facing away from me when Aunt Margaret and I first came in, but even with her back turned, I was impressed by what I could see of Luisa Mendosa. She was as tall as me, especially in the heels she was wearing which made her legs look miles long — the sort of legs a man wants to run his hands over and then his lips and tongue. Well muscled, they led to an amazing ass that swelled out in all three-dimensions. This wasn’t the backside of just genetics, nor of just hard work, but of the perfect combination of both before narrowing down to a waist that, while not model skinny, still highlighted her hips before flaring out again to a firm, flat back that was covered in long honey-blond hair.

Our footsteps caught the attention of Luisa and Dad, who both turned to see us, and I was left stunned again. Her breasts were full and round, creating the epitome of an hourglass figure that caused a stir within my shorts even at a distance.

Even more beautiful though was her face, with a swan-like neck, a beautifully oval face and full lips that twitched with sensuous promise, a button nose, and round, high cheekbones. Most dramatic of all were her eyes, which were nearly so dark they looked black even as I came closer. For me, a man who'd taken pride in sampling the genetic smorgasbord of lovers, she was the hottest woman I'd ever seen. I cleared my throat and tried to think of something to say. "Sorry for the delay. Are we late?"

Dad shook his head and smiled. "Not at all, Tomasso. Luisa, this is my sister-in-law Margaret Bertoli, and my eldest son, Tomasso. He just graduated, and is now coming home to learn the family business."

"It’s a pleasure to meet you both," Luisa said, her accent sending chills down my neck, which intensified when she shook my hand. This woman was no wilting wallflower, that was for sure. She had a good grip, and her hand, while not callused, was also not the type that got oil massages on a daily basis. This woman knew more than her outer appearance let on. "So what did you study?"

"Business," I replied, putting on a cocky grin. It'd always helped in the past, and I was confident talking about school. I'd done okay, and figured if anything, I could always spout a line of bullshit that would sound impressive. I just hoped that she didn't ask me too much about the family side of things. I was still so new to it that I didn't know enough to talk well. "I went to school at a private school in Alabama. What about you?"

"I studied economics at Brown," Luisa replied with a cool smile. "It was an interesting few years."

"I see. Well, shall we?" I asked, looking at Dad. He nodded, and we went to the head of the giant table, where four places had been laid out. Dad and Aunt Margaret sat side by side at the two spaces at the head, with Luisa on Dad's right while I sat on Aunt Margaret's left.

She was wearing an Armani tailored suit herself, but it didn’t hide her femininity one bit. Raising a glass, she smiled beautifully. "I would like to propose a toast," she said, looking at Dad. "To Carlo Bertoli. May his family be blessed forever."

"To the Mendosa family, who I hope will be friends and allies for all the days to come,” Dad replied before taking a drink of his wine. "I must say Luisa, the stories of Brazilian beauty pale in comparison to the real thing."

"Thank you, Mr. Bertoli, but considering your sister-in-law, I’m hardly one to take compliments," Luisa replied. "Besides, you should see my sisters. I’m far too tall to be considered an ideal beauty."

I coughed slightly, mostly in surprise at her comment. If Luisa thought that her sisters were more beautiful than she, and it sounded like she was being honest and not just giving off false modesty, the family must breed goddesses, not women. My aunt gave me a glance, but overall I hid my reaction well enough, at least I thought. "Luisa, what’s your part of Brazil like?"

"Porto Alegre is the southernmost state capital, so it's cooler than some of the larger cities. Like your Seattle?" she said with an eyebrow. “You'd find the weather much closer to what you probably had at your school in Alabama."

"Tomasso wanted to spread his wings, find his own path. That sometimes requires putting up a little distance," Margaret said, speaking up. The reality, we all knew, was that I was trying to get as far away from Seattle as I could, and the school I went to chose the size of my father's donation over the level of my SAT scores. I'd done a lot more screwing around than studying in high school. "What about Brown? That's quite a distance from Brazil."

"My father wanted at least one of his children to get an international education. As it was, he was lucky in that two of his daughters took him up on his offer. My little sister Anna is currently studying in Australia at the University of Adelaide," Luisa said, taking a sip of wine. Her words were interrupted as Chef wheeled out the first course, a light anchovy salad with a olive oil dressing. "Obrigado."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I said, picking up my fork. "I didn't get what you said."

"Obrigado. It is Portuguese for thank you," Luisa replied, smirking. There was a taunting note to her voice that I didn't like at all. "Don't tell me you only speak English?"

"Spanish and Italian too, thank you very much," I shot back, with more vehemence than I'd expected. This woman, as beautiful as she was, was starting to piss me off — I was used to being the cocky one, and she appeared to be just confident in herself. "I do have more than just my good looks on my side."

"Hmm, if you say so," she said, eating her food. I caught the amused twinkle in Margaret's eyes, and I stewed for a moment before eating some of my salad. Conversation drifted along, with Dad asking Luisa about her family, and how her life in Porto Alegre was. Despite the sting of her earlier words, I was drawn in as she discussed her life.

"My father wants me to stay as far from certain sides of our family business as possible, so I often find myself bored, but doing what I have to. I know what my brothers do, but I've never been to some of the places they've been. Such a shame, too. While discussing cattle exports is interesting, there are better ways to apply my education."

"I'm sure, but I can understand your father's point of view," Dad said. "My niece Adriana, she only recently had to see some of the other sides of our family business. Tomasso here, he's known more since his youth, and while he's just getting started after college, I couldn't be prouder of him. He's his own man — a multitalented one.”

“Oh really? Such as?" Luisa asked, giving me a raised eyebrow.

"Well, I’m sure it’s not exactly what he meant, but I’m a bit of a Judo fanatic. Brown belt currently, should have had my black except that I got started late, spent my high school days mostly wrestling so I missed a couple of years. Did a couple of tournaments in college. I did okay, won a few."

Luisa chuckled and took a bite of her main dish, which Chef had brought out while I was talking. "A nice little past time. I should mention that to my Professor when I get back to Porto Alegre."

"You study martial arts too?" Margaret asked. "Which one?"

“I’m a two stripe brown belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu," Luisa said. "I haven't kept up enough to be a black belt any time soon, but it’s fun. Besides, my dancing is less painful on the body. But I'd be confident against any regular judo black belt."

I bristled and cut at my eggplant with my knife with a bit more force than necessary. “Maybe that could be arranged."

"Only if you’re willing to submit to a woman," Luisa shot back, before setting her fork down. She wiped her mouth, and looked down at her plate. "Don Bertoli, my apologies. I came to foster friendship between our families, not to pick a fight with your son."

Dad looked at me and laughed. “No offense taken Miss Mendosa. Sometimes we all need to learn lessons either through making mistakes, or through having someone remind us that our egos can’t become larger than our accomplishments. Isn't that true, Tomasso?"

I swallowed my frustration and nodded.

Dinner continued, with Aunt Margaret giving me amused looks from time to time as Luisa and I continued to verbally tip-toe around each other, trying to not piss each other off and usually failing miserably. Still, there was something irresistible about her. All through our panna cotta dessert, all I could think of was how I could get the Brazilian beauty in the sack.

After dinner, as Luisa was getting ready to leave and Dad was sipping his espresso, I took my opportunity. Going to the entryway, I hurried the few steps to stop her from opening the door. "Luisa?"

She looked at me, and I could see in her eyes that I'd pissed her off, which made her all the sexier to me. "Yes, Tomasso?"

I took a deep breath and set aside my arrogance for a moment, an act of pure will. I’d cultivated it for years, both as a tool and as a shield. "Listen, I’m sorry about tonight. Tomorrow you have that trade show, right?"

"Yes, at the convention center. Why?" She asked, clutching her purse tightly. I could see in her eyes, she wanted to hit me with it, probably right across the face.

"Let me take you to coffee, say in the afternoon? The show's gotta have a break built in there somewhere, and it's just a cup of coffee. I . . . I'd like to show you that I'm not always such an asshole."

Luisa chuckled and nodded at my admission. "For the sake of our fathers and families, I accept. Here’s my phone number, call me tomorrow afternoon. My break right now is about two in the afternoon until three. Maybe then we can try and make a better start than this. Have a good evening and good luck with your work tonight."

"Thank you," I said, a pleasant buzz going through me as she took out a card from her purse and wrote her number on the back. "And like I said, I'm not always an asshole. You'll see."

"Good night."

The next day was the sort of day that I had least looked forward to about Seattle, the sort of dreary, overcast day where the sky looked like it constantly wanted to rain but didn't. In Brazil, it’s different. When the clouds boil over dark and heavy, you know to get yourself indoors. When they were done raining, the clouds knew enough to go away and the sky is beautiful.

Seattle clouds, on the other hand, seem to enjoy just mingling with each other, turning the entire sky into a sort of slate gray that sucks the life and pleasure out of the entire day. Everything gets washed out into a monotone yech that can only be abated by sleep. No wonder the city was full of hipsters who have to drink coffee constantly to stay awake.

The convention center was a lot of the same, with most of the men wearing dull, drab suits that looked like they were all made in the exact same factory and handed out to American businessmen along with one of three options in tie. Still, as things started, I quickly got into the zone and started to enjoy my work.

The key to my task at the Seattle convention was not to set up a booth, my family didn’t have the presence nor the available manpower to send such an entourage. Instead, my father trusted me to do what I did best, which was use all of my six-foot-two inches (in heels) and thirty-eight inches each of chest and hip to get the attention of the people at the convention, and then use my brains to complete the work and make the connections. We weren't planning on making any immediate sales, but instead to make the sort of introductions and inroads that could lead to future sales. That didn't mean I didn't have sales forms with me, but they were kept in my small folder case.

My immediate target, of course, were the churrascaria chains, the Brazilian barbecue places that could use the fact that my family offered authentic Brazilian beef for export as a selling point to their customers. So my immediate target list of people to talk to included Fogo de Chao, Rumjungle, and Texas de Brazil. But, if the opportunity arose, I'd be happy to talk to any of the chains or even the few supermarkets that were at the convention.

In the morning, I was able to talk to the lead representative from Texas de Brazil, who sounded interested in what my family had to offer. After exchanging information, he talked with me for nearly twenty minutes, and for the most part kept his eyes where they were supposed to be. I was certain that he would actually give our offices in Brazil a call soon in order to get some of our winter cattle, although he stopped short on actually filling out an order form.

Skipping lunch, I used the opportunity to make some of the smaller connections I'd sought for after seeing the big players leave their booths for lunch. However, the little places, the single restaurants or small chains that were looking for anything they could as every penny was precious to them, stayed at their booths or kept circulating, hustling to make deals and connections. It was capitalism and business in its truest form, which to me was both intoxicating and dangerous. If you let yourself become too desperate or too content, you’d fail. On the outside, you have to look confident and unconcerned, but on the inside you’re ready to jump at almost any opportunity that comes your way.

By one-thirty, I was pleasantly tired, and the rumble in my stomach reminded me that I was supposed to have coffee with Tomasso Bertoli. As I finished my last conversation and went to a quieter area of the convention center to check my phone for messages, I thought about him. He was handsome — that was undeniable. He had wide shoulders and a powerfully built body that rippled with muscle even under the suit I'd seen him in. His dark brown hair reminded me of freshly ground coffee in color, and his eyes were a deep hazel amber that certainly let him charm his way into many a woman's bed, I was sure.

Despite being the daughter of a crime lord, I had a bad habit of losing myself when it came to men, including an incident in college where I thought I'd fallen in love with a professor. He'd used me as a 'side piece,' as I came to know the term later, while all the time he stayed with his society wife. I'd been so ashamed that I hadn't even told my father, and since then hadn't seriously considered a man for anything more than to fill a need.

However, Tomasso Bertoli wasn’t a man that I could just play with. He wasn’t a man that I could just use to fill that particular need. Sure, he was sexy, but I needed to maintain at least a polite relationship with him in order to increase the chances of our families working together.

I saw that there was a message on my phone when I pulled it out, and that it was from him. He sent me a message at noon, saying he'd be by the convention center whenever I was ready. I hit the dial button and waited.

"Hello?" Tomasso said when he picked up, and I couldn't help but smile at the sound of his voice, even as I tried to fight it. "Luisa?"

"Yes Tomasso, it’s me. I got your message, are you in the area?"

"Yes, I was just doing a little shopping at a store nearby. Are you on break?" he said, sounding less cocky than he had the night before. "If so, I can meet you in about ten minutes."

"That sounds fine. I'll be in the north side of the building. Can you meet me there?"

"That would be great. I'll see you in less than ten."

He hung up, and I had to admit that his tone of anticipation bled over onto me. I was looking forward to seeing him. I started heading toward the north exit slowly, pausing to check out a few booths and dropping off my business card.

I waited by the north entrance, and was surprised when he walked up. Instead of the slicked back, buttoned down wise guy I'd expected from the day before, he'd gone more casual, with a pair of jeans and a shirt. "Hello."

He stopped, looking at me. "Wow. You look... beautiful. I mean, not that you didn’t last night.”

His honest compliment stirred me, and I couldn't help it, I smiled. "You look much more relaxed than last night. Shall we?"

He nodded, and we started back towards the parking lot. "If you don't mind, there's a little cafe just around the corner," Tomasso said. "I've never been there, but they've got a big picture of apple pie out front, and to be honest, I could use some."

I thought about it, and nodded. “Sounds great. I didn’t have much for lunch other than some samples from the convention."

We walked, my feet only slightly aching as I'd been on my feet all morning in high heels. "This is a part of Seattle I haven't missed the past four years,” Tomasso said looking up at the sky.

I chuckled and agreed. “It’s definitely not something to inspire great works of art. On the other hand, I assume that means you value the good weather days all that much more."

"I suppose," Tomasso said. "To be honest, I don't get as much of a chance to look up at the sky. I've been on the night shift this past week."

"You're out now," I noted. "Is this your day off or something?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "Hardly. Monday's one of my busiest. A lot of the businesses that I’m supposed to pick up from I stop by on Mondays. It does tend to end early, so I used the early start and knowing I was going to be down here to get out and do some shopping."

I nodded in understanding. We made our way to the cafe, where I ordered an espresso along with a small slice of chocolate cake. "So I gather that you are just getting back into the family business," I said, taking a bite. It wasn't too bad. "How’s that working out?”

He sipped at his cappuccino and sighed. "It's been harder than I thought it would be. Not so much the job itself, so far I'm not doing anything a reasonably trained beagle couldn't do. It's the mental stress."

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," I noted, causing him to nod. "You're not the only one who’s in such a position."

"What's it like for you?" he asked, open and honest. His face softened, and I could see the cute guy under there, not the cocky jerk vibe I’d gotten from him the night before. "I mean, you said your father wants you out of the dirty side of things."

“That’s true, but my family has a lot of things that aren’t dirty, but aren’t exactly on the up and up either. Like you, I have a lot of expectations to live up to, and a lot of pressure. Being the oldest daughter, and the one that's supposed to be the leader of all of them — it's a lot to deal with when I haven't even had my twenty-second birthday yet."

Tomasso looked surprise. "You're twenty-one? I thought you were older than me. Not that you look it, just you're mature, you act . . . ah hell, I'm screwing this up — you know what I mean. I'm twenty-two, birthday's next month."

"Me too," I said, chuckling as he tripped over his words. "What day?"

"August seventh," Tomasso said, "and you?"

I laughed hard. "Me too. It seems we are exactly one year apart in age." I sat back, sipping my coffee and enjoying my cake. He also relaxed, enjoying his drink, a sort of companionable silence growing between us. It lasted until I finished my cake, and most of my coffee.

"So, a brown belt, huh?" He commented as he took his last sip and breaking the silence. "What about the rest of your family?"

I nodded. ”My older brother’s also a brown, and one of my younger brothers is a purple. It’s kind of a family thing for my brothers, but I got into it because of a friend. Look, I’m glad we did this, but the afternoon session is starting and I’d like to make another connection before the day is finished. Thank you, Tomasso."

We started back to the convention center, friendlier than I'd expected after the night before, and more than once we laughed as we approached the center. “Do you have some spare time?" I asked as we neared the door. "Your family has business interests in restaurants, food, shipping, things like that, right?”

"Some, but mostly in the pizza industry. My friend Jake would be better suited for something like this. I’m not really involved with that stuff, regardless of my education,” Tomasso said before shaking his head. "But I can at least get some business cards for him I suppose. Besides, I'd have to be an idiot to turn down an offer from a beautiful woman to spend some more time with her. And I’m no idiot."

"I don't know about that," I teased back, not even realizing I was flirting with him until the words were out of my mouth. I shook my head in disbelief and opened the door to the center, when suddenly a man in a hooded sweatshirt collided with us, sending me sprawling to the sidewalk. "Hey! Que porra?"

The man went tumbling down with me, and I yelped as his knee caught me in the thigh. I got a good look at him, and he had the most remarkable face, a scar that ran from his hairline to the middle of his left cheek, nearly bisecting his eye — his left eye was brown, while his right eye was blue. Scrambling to his feet, he took off running. "Puta! Get back here! You can at least apologize!"

Tomasso, who'd also been knocked down, got to his feet and chased the man for a few feet before seeing that I was still on the ground. Coming over, he knelt down next to me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, looking down at my suit, which had a tear in the skirt that pissed me off. "My suit took more damage than I did. He caught me in the thigh with a good knee though."

"Ouch," Tomasso said, offering me his hand. I took it, surprised at how effortlessly he helped me to my feet. Those muscles weren't just beach muscles, I could tell. I took a step and winced, as a high heel that I hadn't realized I'd broken gave way and my ankle twisted, causing me to stumble again. This time though Tomasso caught me, even if he did have to swing me around to stop my momentum. "I think you need some new shoes."

I realized that we were just inches apart, his hands on my waist and back, his expressive, sensuous lips close to mine, and I felt my breath catch for a moment. "Thank y . . .”

My words were cut off as an explosion ripped behind me, the blast throwing both of us to the ground. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, and then the world went black.