Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2) (2 page)

"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 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 and 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 and get your feet underneath you in Seattle again."

L
ooking
down from ten thousand feet in the United Airlines Boeing, I wished the plane weren’t circling Seattle. While it was summertime 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 is 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 Janeiro, 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 gentlemen, 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 fully up 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 per 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. 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 for his analytical mind. He'd quickly united the disjointed Bertoli troops under his command 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 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 taken 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." 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 when 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-blonde 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 when talking about school. I'd done okay, and I 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 speak 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 so. "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 an 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 as 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, only recently had to see some of the other sides of our family business. Tomasso here has 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 multi-talented 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. I should have had my black except that I got started late. I 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 pastime. 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 that 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."

"Goodnight."