For the greater good.
In the line of duty.
Mission-critical action required.
Ronnie had repeated these important operational reminders to herself last night to gear up for what had needed to be done to avoid being booted from Gaetano’s villa before she completed her mission.
Failure is not an option. Ha, there was another good one—and it was the truth. Because no way was she going to let three months’ worth of massaging Signor Hairy Back go to waste. Or forsake the estimated six people every hour who were diagnosed with leukemia. Or trudge back to her agency with her head down, looking the very image of everything her bosses had suspected when she talked them into letting her take on this job: that she was primarily a woman with a valuable psychic ability, but not a hard-core operator.
These were all excellent reasons to do anything to keep the mission from folding. And so she had. She’d opted for the surefire method—based on the strong assumption that Antonio was about the same as the oversexed Carmelo—and it worked. She was okay with her choice. And, anyway, her body was the only thing she’d surrendered. Not her mind, or her soul, or her self—not anything that mattered. She’d shut it all down.
Until she hadn’t.
Until the warm contact with Antonio had opened her up to feeling things—surprisingly wonderful things. Such wonderfulness that toward the end she’d nearly climaxed like Krakatoa, only barely stopping herself from giving him the satisfaction.
Although now she was thinking, why hadn’t she? There was good in Antonio. She hadn’t been able to Extract the proof of that out of him—who could ask questions in the middle of such a wild coupling?—but something inside her had picked up on a different man lurking underneath the goon enforcer. And the man was no Carmelo, that was for certain—far, even, from being an asshole.
So who, exactly, was he?
Not knowing the answer wasn’t good—being perplexed while working undercover within a Mafia household was not a safe state to be in.
She needed to find out who Antonio was. Right now.
Time for an Extraction.
Marching downstairs, she strode directly into the kitchen, where the goons ate their breakfast at a small, four-person table there. Since the female staff usually ate theirs in a screened-in porch off the pantry, Ronnie’s unprecedented arrival in the kitchen was met with all-around surprise from the three men present: Carmelo, Nunzio, the chauffeur, and—good—Antonio.
When she sat in the one empty chair across from Carmelo, he blinked at her.
Nunzio’s brows soared.
The chauffeur had an oval face with pepper-grain zits littering his jawline and narrow eyes that were always whizzing everywhere like he was constantly on the lookout for trouble. Which he probably was, considering.
He was boffing Sofia, the upstairs chambermaid, but while Sofia might think the relationship was exclusive, Nunzio was definitely not of the same mind, as evidenced by his regular visits to the mainland whorehouse with Carmelo. And the lazy regard he was giving Ronnie now.
Antonio, seated on her left, glanced over at her. His eyes lowered to her chin. Was he noticing the whisker burn there? His eyes jerked away. She’d say that was a solid yes.
“Buenos días,” she greeted the men.
Carmelo, recovering first, offered up his standard pervy leer. “Buongiorno, bella.”
This was how they communicated. She spoke in Spanish, they answered in Italian, probably not wanting to sound like kindergartners, either, even though she’d guess their true education level wasn’t much higher.
Except for Antonio, the so-called enforcer. He spoke perfect Spanish and used intelligent vocabulary.
His current body language reeked of what’s she up to? He’d no doubt expected to find a cowering, embarrassed, morning-after female, which was an assumption Ronnie had encouraged with last night’s scared-and-defenseless-woman act. She’d played frightened when Antonio caught her in the den to earn his sympathy, although the scene hadn’t been too difficult to pull off because, ahem, she had been frightened. At first, when a scowling Antonio bore down on her. God help anyone who challenged Cuntrera’s enforcer for real.
This morning, however, she was a woman who was wholly comfortable with the decision she’d made—for the greater good and in the line of duty and all that.
She smiled around the table, especially at Antonio. She needed to get him talking if she was going to Extract who he really was. But what questions to ask? Go with sports again.
“Yesterday I was discussing an old football injury with Mr. Cuntrera,” she said, “and I was struck by what a demanding sport it is. Did any of you play?”
There was a momentary pause, a sort of why’s-she-being-nice-to-us? hesitation. Even Giovanna, the cook, cast Ronnie a questioning glance as she deposited a basket of brioche, deep-friend ciambella, and twist-shaped treccine—all Sicilian pastries—in the middle of the table. She then returned to the stove to continue preparing the typical, heartier breakfast of Venezuela and Colombia: pericos, which were scrambled eggs with scallions and tomatoes, served on an arepa, or a corncake.
Carmelo, always the first to recover, puffed himself up. “Absolutely. An Italian man breathes football.” And then he had to add, “The same as he breathes sex.” He stuck the tip of his tongue out at her and wiggled it.
She stopped herself—only barely—from reaching across the table and bonking him under the chin with her fist. Snap! His teeth would briskly nip off his tongue, and serves you right.
She turned pleasantly toward the chauffeur. “Nunzio?”
Nunzio’s eyes clicked left and right then he shrugged. “’Course. It’s like Carmelo said.” The cook placed a plate of arepa and pericos in front of him, and he picked up the food like a taco. “Plus rugby.”
Nodding, she plucked a treccine out of the basket then turned to look at Antonio.
He stared straight ahead and sipped his cappuccino…although how he managed to get coffee past such stiff lips, she didn’t know.
Giovanna passed out two more breakfast plates.
“Antonio?” Under the table, Ronnie pressed her knee against his.
He froze in the act of picking up a fork. His eyebrows twitched.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall inside his brain right now. Her best guess would be that he was wondering if she was hitting on him. A misinterpretation she was, unfortunately, all too used to enduring. Due to the touching required for Truth Extractions, men often thought she was trying to seduce them when she wasn’t.
Antonio forked pericos off the top of the arepa and put the bite in his mouth.
“Did you play football?”
Antonio chewed.
“You have a runner’s legs.” She encouraged him along with a pulse of energy from her knee. Who are you?
“I played.”
The moment Antonio answered, the sides of his eyes pinched.
Oh, crud. He can tell.
Most people didn’t know when she was Extracting information from them. It was a rare few who could feel certain words being compelled off the tongue that might not otherwise have been spoken. And such conscious awareness made an Extraction unpredictable—tempers could flare in the middle, accusations of one sort or another might be slung about.
She needed to move this along quickly. What was the key question? Name of his team. “In school?” she asked him.
Antonio took another bite of food and chewed with enough force to put his fillings in jeopardy.
Carefully, she sent him a pulse. Are you really Mafia?
“No.” The short syllable came out even more truncated than it should have, and Antonio’s upper lip jerked. “For a club.”
Her heart hammered against the muscles surrounding her chest. “Ah.” She tore off a piece of treccine.
Carmelo cast a curious glance between her and Antonio.
Antonio pulled away from her knee, but there wasn’t a lot of room under the table. He couldn’t go far.
“What was the name of your team?” She chased after his knee, pressed against it once more, and hit him with another soft pulse. What’s your real job?
“The Phoenix Suns.”
Phoenix—She gasped. You’ve got to be kidding me?! She banged up from her chair, heat flooding her cheeks.
Nunzio went bolt upright in his seat, while Antonio set down his fork with precise care and lounged back, staring up at her with the what’s she up to? expression on his face again. This time his body also vibrated with a dangerous readiness.
She sucked in two swift inhalations and pulled herself together. Everyone in the kitchen was watching the two of them with avid fascination, which wasn’t good. How could she be so careless with her reactions? It was totally unprofessional. The only excuse she had was that Antonio’s true identity was completely tipping her on her head. Although on the good side of matters, at least now she knew what to do…
She had to kick his butt off this island and out of her mission.