Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (14 page)

"Your name Dante Degrassi?" one of them, a suited man who was clearly in the
business
, said. "My associate here saw your name on the monitors at the convention center, and considering where you're from, we're interested."

I looked at the so-called associate, and wondered how long it had taken the man to sound out my name to ensure he had read it correctly. He didn’t look like the sharpest tool in the shed. "Yeah, I'm Dante Degrassi. Who's asking?"

"Peter Malone," the suit said. "My family owns this casino. Would you care to take a walk?"

"As long as we stay in the public areas, sure," I replied. No way was I going to go into any back hallways with this man. "What's this about?"

"Of course," Malone said, pointing toward the front desk area. When we were far enough from the mass of the casino, but still in public areas, he turned back toward me. "Just so there’s no miscommunication, are you connected to the Bertoli family?"

"If you mean do I know the Bertolis, yes," I said, knowing it was useless to lie. "If you're asking if I'm down here to start some shit, and if the Bertolis sent me, then the answer is no. I'm here on personal business."

"Which is?"

"I think Rat-boy is just here to dance, Mr. Malone," the associate said with a sneer. "Ain't that right?"

"You know a lot about a small-time guy from Seattle," I said. "Any particular reason?"

"In our line of work, it pays to know as much about your friends as it does your enemies," Malone said. He looked at his associate with stern eyes and motions with his head. "Mr. Degrassi and I have some talking to do."

The other man gave me a glare and nodded, turning and walking back toward the casino. "Forgive him. He's a good chunk of muscle, but a bit short on manners. Which, by the way, you seem to be too. You didn’t stop by to pay your respects.”

"My apologies, Mr. Malone," I said. "I didn’t realize that your family controlled this hotel. Like I said, I’m just here on personal business.”

"Oh, the Marriott corporation owns the hotel, but my family controls the management for this location," Malone replied. He paused and looked me in the eye. “So just personal?"

"My word," I said. "If you'd like, we can put a call in to Tomasso Bertoli right now. He’ll vouch for me."

Malone nodded. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You seem like a stand-up guy, nothing like your father."

My hands were trembling by my side. I wanted to punch him right in the fucking face. Instead, I forced a smile and shrugged. "Like I said, Mr. Malone, I'm just here for the competition.”

"Well, give my regards to Don Bertoli when you get back to Seattle. If you’re into golf, look me up before you leave. I can get you a good slot at the TPC next door."

I shook my head, not trusting anything else. "Sorry, not my game. Thank you."

I went back up to my room, closing my door behind me. Replays of Carmen's words and Malone's casual jabs about my father flashed through my head the whole time. About ten minutes later, there was a soft knock, which I ignored until it went away. I was still standing in the middle of the room, my hands clenched so tightly at my sides that when I was finally able to uncurl my fists, four bloody half-moons were in my palms.

* * *

W
e weren't just
in the top twenty. We were in first place. And not by a small margin either, but by six points over the second-place couple, a pair from Pasadena. "You ready?"

"Yeah," I said, which had been my answer to almost everything Carmen had asked me all day. It wasn't the hour. This round was taking place in two flights of ten and would be over in fewer than thirty minutes, including scores, with the showcase starting an hour after that. I just couldn't get my fucking mind right. My dad was a touchy subject with me, and I was filled with anger.

The head judge, some poofty looking dude who had apparently been some big shot movie choreographer whose most famous movie was one of those cult favorites among dancers, dramatically reached into the huge copper drum that had not only the dance styles, but the music imprinted on the tickets inside the little plastic balls. "Ladies and gentlemen, the style for the wildcard round is . . . the Viennese Waltz."

There were groans from some of the couples, and I could understand. It’s a fast dance, and with ten couples competing at a time, the chances for screw ups and collisions was high. "I see you all love the idea. Well, this should raise your spirits. The music for this is the full version of Boyz II Men's classic,
I'll Make Love to You
."

It was my turn to stifle a groan. I would’ve preferred fucking Johann Strauss. It wasn't that I didn't like the song. Sure, it had been old when I was figuring out just what making love meant besides cutting out Valentine's cards, but it was a good jam for the romantic at heart. However, the way I was feeling that day, the last thing I wanted to do was hold Carmen close and dance a Viennese waltz to a fucking love song. All I felt like doing was punching someone’s lights out. “We can do it, we can do it," I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath and closing my eyes. "Just dance."

"Dante?" Carmen asked, turning to me. "Are you all right?”

I nodded. "Yeah. Come on, we drew flight two."

There was one advantage to flight two, as I got to listen to the music as first danced, but we had no warm up prior to that. I saw one middle-aged couple, their numbers identifying them as the couple currently in twentieth place and looking like they'd maybe produced a few children to the song, smiling to each other. I could understand them, at least. They were so far out of the top ten that even getting to this round may have been a celebration for them. They were going to dance because they were in love, they were having fun, and they were celebrating.

The four minutes that flight one was dancing, I kept shifting back and forth, unable to make eye contact with Carmen. Finally, I turned to her. "Carmen."

"Yes?"

I took a deep breath. “Sorry about yesterday. My father’s a touchy subject, and I’ve never felt comfortable talking about it."

Carmen blinked, perplexed, then nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry I brought it up. After this, let's talk?"

"Maybe," I said, just as the music wrapped up. We had two minutes to prepare while the judges in attendance scored each couple. The wildcard was based not on the same hundred points as before, but instead on a system like a track meet. The ten couples would be ranked from best to worst in their flight. The top team would get fifty points, on down to the worst team getting ten. So while Carmen and I had a big lead, it wasn't insurmountable, and scores were aggregate, not round by round. "After the dance."

We went out to our indicated spot, Carmen taking my hand. The music started, and I led her into the first step. What I should have been doing was working in tune with Carmen as a team. Instead of me strictly leading, I would use her hand signals as much as she would use mine to guide us around the floor.

That's what should have happened. Instead, I wasn't in time with her, the months of practice dropping away from us until I felt like I was lost. Sure, I was keeping in time to the waltz steps, but I didn't feel fluid, and I certainly didn't feel like the two of us were moving in the spirit of the music. Instead of a man and woman preparing to get it on, I felt like a frustrated junior high schooler who had a stiffy in his pants and didn't know how to deal with it. At the end of the four minutes, I was exhausted, twice having to stop our motion to avoid collisions with other couples. Both times, I should have seen them coming, or read Carmen's hand signals.

"Shit," I muttered to myself when we came off the floor. "I fucked that up."

"It won't be that bad," Carmen said, trying not to sound despondent. I'd fucked it up for her, and we both knew it. "Let's see what the scores are."

Third. Forty points, which when added to our compulsory scores, dropped us to third place. We were lucky the damage wasn't worse, but we were holding onto a podium slot by the skin of our teeth, just one point out of fourth.

"Okay, we survived," Carmen said, putting on a cheerful face. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. We made it so far, and we can nail our showcase. Let's get ready."

I nodded. "All right. I’ll do better.”

"I know you will," Carmen said, stopping. “We've got the whole drive back to Seattle to work out this communication issue between us. Let’s just get through this next hour. I know we can do it."

I nodded, sighing as I headed back to the changing area. The outfit for the showcase was the one I liked least. It was uncomfortable, tight as hell. We were supposed to be going for a Spanish motif, with me being some sort of matador and Carmen being in a dress that riffed off black and red Spanish colors. My jacket was modeled after a matador's short jacket, and while I didn't have the stupid little hat, I still felt strange pulling the nearly skin tight pants on.

"Wow, you're not hiding what you've got," one of the other competitors commented, admiring my pants. "You trying to seduce the judges or something honey?"

I looked at the other man, not enjoying the hunger I saw in his eyes, and shook my head. "Just a costume."

I walked away and found Carmen in the warmup area. "What's wrong now?"

"Just . . . I hate these pants. And I’m pretty sure some guy just hit on me," I said, not able to contain a half-smile despite the fact I still wasn’t in a good mood.

“With those pants, I can believe it.”

I grinned. “All right. Let's go sew up third place."

The announcer called us to the floor, and as I walked out with Carmen, I suddenly saw Peter Malone in the front row of seats, his face bemused as he clapped. My moment of confidence was shaken, and as we took our position, nervousness and anger returned. Carmen and I bowed, and we took our starting position.

The music started, and we started our routine. The mambo was a great choice in hindsight, because Carmen was able to display her beauty to its maximum effect, with the short frilled skirt swirling around her legs, making her seem taller than she was while still keeping enough modesty around her bust to support her and not coming off as slutty. For my part, I was supposed to be portraying the superstar matador, while she was the maiden that was smitten with me. It called for us to be apart for nearly a minute at the start of the song, a risky maneuver as we had to be in perfect synchronization while not touching at all, and even sometimes not facing each other.

At the end of the minute, I turned to face her, supposedly the point in the performance where the matador sees the maiden for the first time, and cursed myself as I'd missed my cue. Carmen was already facing me, and in our practices she was supposed to be facing away. I was slow, and I stepped up my steps, crossing the distance between us a half beat faster than normal, taking her hand and launching into the close in portion. As I danced, I felt part of our unity reforming itself, and I only prayed that it was enough in enough time to salvage my mistake.

The last of Tito Puente's horns faded away, Carmen and I held close together, and I let her go, feeling hopeful. The last three quarters of the dance had gone well, and maybe my mistake wouldn't be noticed. "It's in the judges' hands now," Carmen said, giving me a smile. "I think we did enough."

We sat down and waited with bated breath as the fourth place couple, a brother and sister team from Salt Lake City took the floor again. They were the last couple to dance, and the only drama left in the whole competition. The first and second place teams had nailed their routines, their scores sewing up spots to the nationals easily. Everything came down to the SLC twins. If they nailed a perfect routine, they'd jump up to second. If they did good, they could beat us. If they screwed up, Carmen and I were heading to New York.

I barely breathed for the entire four minutes and ten seconds of their performance, but I could tell by Carmen's body language she was worried. They were good, really good, and when they hit a dance lift that I'd never even thought possible, I knew what was going to happen. "That's it," I said, leaning back. "They got it."

Carmen nodded, tears in her eyes as we watched them finish, walking off the floor and sitting down, waiting for their scores. They hadn't been perfect, but their score was just enough, bumping Carmen and I down to fourth, and knocking us out of the national competition.

I looked at Carmen, who was crying openly. "There'll be others," she said, trying to put on a brave face. "Maybe we can try again next year."

"Yeah," I said, patting her knee. “Next year."

I
slept
most of the way back to Seattle, Dante agreeing that after the disappointment of the competition, there was no real reason to stick around the city. He drove us through the night, with me taking over at dawn to take us the last four hours. We'd actually done better time than going down, mainly because he cruised at a faster speed than before. He also didn't stop for anything but gas, powering through on coffee, so that when we did switch, he crashed hard, dropping off like a rock until we got back to my studio. I woke him up gently, rocking his shoulder. "Hey, we're back."

He awoke with a start, nearly hitting his head on the roof. "Wha . . .?"

"I said we're back," I repeated. I looked at his still bloodshot eyes and patted his knee. "I know it was disappointing, but maybe . . . well, you still need sleep. Can you drive safely?"

Dante thought, then shrugged. "I guess."

I shook my head. "Then you don't need to. Crash on my couch, I'm fine right now. I got eight and half hours last night. No arguments, okay?"

He shrugged again and walked like a zombie into the studio, where he collapsed in a heap on my sofa, snoring within minutes. I watched him, my emotions swirling. I was disappointed for sure with our placement. At the same time, I was angry, both with myself and with him. It was hard to put too much blame on Dante though . . . I distracted him, and I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut.

"I'll get the stuff out of the car,” I said as if he could hear me. He was already off in a dream world.

I went out and got our bags, setting them down on the practice floor and headed back outside, intent on starting the clean out of the car. While I was balling up the last of the candy wrappers and fishing the last soda bottle into the garbage bag I had, my cellphone rang in my pocket. It was Adriana. "Hey, Ade."

"Well, I can tell by the voice it's not what you wanted," Adriana said in my ear. "What happened?"

"Fourth," I replied, "one spot out of nationals. Totally my fault too. I'll tell you when I bring the car back. Listen, do you mind if wait until tonight?”

"Tonight?" Adriana asked, surprised. "I figured it would be tomorrow. Aren't you two in Vegas still?"

"Nope. After the competition, both of us were so bummed that we bugged out, headed back straight away. Dante drove all night, I just got us back maybe an hour ago. I'm cleaning out the car right now."

"Well, okay then," Adriana said. "If you want, bring the car by tonight. Pizza's on me. Luisa’s going to be here.”

"Actually, can we save that for another night? Just, it's part of what I need to talk to you about. Me and my big mouth got us in trouble, and I want to make sure everyone is aware of it before we try any parties or anything like that.”

"All right. Tomorrow night then. See ya then.”

I went back to cleaning out the trash, and after that was done I went inside. I heard rustling in the back and checked on Dante, to see that he was stirring. "How long was I out?"

"Only about an hour," I said, squatting down and sitting on the floor in front of the couch. "It's about one thirty right now. How do you feel?"

"Like I need some water," Dante said, smacking his lips. "The comedown from a caffeine high leaves me wondering how the hell people do other drugs."

I went and got him a bottle of water from my tap, and brought it to him. "Sorry, it's the only water I've got. By the way, I cleaned out the car, so you don't need to."

"Thanks," Dante said, sitting up and drinking some of the water. A sip turned into him draining half the bottle, and he wiped his lips when he was done with the back of his hand. "Thirstier than I thought."

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, smiling for a moment before sobering. "Dante, I think we need to talk."

"I know," he said, setting the bottle down.

"I'm sorry," we both said nearly simultaneously. Dante looked at me in surprise, then tried again. "Seriously. I screwed things up for you, throwing that little mini-tantrum I did before the second round. If I hadn't, we might have had enough points to cruise into the finals."

"I'm sorry too," I said. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I was just excited, and it was like magic when we were out there that first round."

"It was, wasn't it?" He said with a little chuckle. He sighed, and shook his head. “Too bad we couldn’t do that the other two rounds.”

He looked at me intensely. “Do you want to know?" Dante asked quietly. I stopped, nodding my head. "About my father, of course. It's the root of all of my fucked-uppedness. So, do you want to hear about the great rat of the Bertoli family and the son who paid for his
so-called
sins?”

“I do,” I said. “But realize one thing. It’s not going to change what I think about you. I know the man that you are—I’ve seen it, and nothing you or anyone else says is going to change that."

Dante swallowed, then nodded. "Okay. But I still want to tell you. I think someone deserves to know, even if nobody will ever believe me about it."

I shifted around, getting ready to sit fully on the floor, when he shifted over himself, patting the sofa next to him. "This'll take a while. You should be comfortable for it."

I got up and sat down next to him, setting my hand on his knee, but he was already in another world, the world of his memory, where he'd been kept prisoner for far too long. I hoped that maybe, by telling me, he'd be able to leave that prison behind.

"Growing up," Dante began, "I practically worshiped my father. He was cool, he was capable . . . he was the guy that Johnny Bertoli would turn to when the shit hit the fan. The main reason was that Dad was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. Some of the other guys, they were worried about how they looked, if they came off as tough guys or as badasses. Not my Dad. He was badass because he got shit done."

"Sounds like someone I know."

Dante shook his head. "Not like him. I saw him once go forty-eight hours without sleep so he could impersonate a drug addict in order to infiltrate a crack house. He educated himself enough to insinuate himself into almost any position that Johnny Bertoli needed him to go into. He was the expert outside-inside man."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"Johnny got word that there was a cop in town, an FBI agent, to be exact, who maybe was working for some of the Bertoli enemies on the side. The cops and the Bertolis have never had a friendly relationship, but there was one rule that Johnny Bertoli had that was ironclad. The Bertolis don't target the cops unless the cops are working for the competition. The cops in Seattle, they can either be clean, or they can be dirty with the Bertolis, but they’re not allowed to be dirty with other groups. The problem was, it was rumor more than anything else. There was nothing concrete that Johnny could go on."

"So he approached your father," I said.

Dante nodded again. "I was lucky. It was the first time that Johnny Bertoli had actually come to our house instead of the other way around. Of course, at the time, we didn’t know why he was coming to our house, but Dad was so proud anyway. I remember being dressed in my Sunday best when Johnny drove up in the classic Ferrari that he had. He'd come alone, which I guess tipped Dad off to the nature of the visit. 'After you introduce yourself to Don Bertoli, you need to go to your room. Watch some
Yu-Gi-Oh
, and afterward, you and I can play a game.' I remember his words like it was yesterday.”

"But, in any case, after I got to shake hands with Mr. Bertoli, Dad shooed me out. I was too curious though, and instead of going all the way back to my room, I hung out, just in the shadows past the door to the hallway, listening. 'Bobby, I've got a big mission that I can only trust you with,' Johnny told him, the two of them sitting on the couch. 'It's dangerous.'

“His next words I didn’t completely understand at the time, but I swear it’s the truth. ‘I need you to become a rat,' Johnny said, laying out his plan. Basically, Dad was to approach this suspected FBI agent as a potential informant. It was dangerous, but it was effective too. If the guy was truly dirty, then he wouldn't report Dad to the FBI. After all, he was trying to play two sides at the same time. But if he was clean, then Dad was revealing himself to a clean FBI agent, and of course, something would come of it.”

I shivered, knowing the implications. "Your father took the mission."

"He did," Dante said, his voice catching. "Johnny promised him that if it came to light that the FBI agent was dirty, Johnny would protect Dad's rep and reveal the plan, but we also knew that if the agent was clean, it may never happen. After Johnny left, Dad sat on the couch for a while before calling me back in. He knew I was listening.”

"Was he mad?"

Dante shook his head. "The first thing he did was pull me into a hug, which was rare because he was never really the affectionate type, at least not with me. That time he pulled me close, burying his chin in the top of my head before kissing me on the forehead. He made me promise to never repeat what I heard.”

"Of course I agreed, and even though I didn’t say anything, I knew he was in danger.”

Dante fell silent, his breathing catching for a while, and he wiped at his face. "For the next six months, by all outer appearances, Dad went about his normal work. I mean, I was too young to know all the details, but he still left the house to go to work at the same time, and still got home long after I went to sleep. But he was always there in the mornings, and we'd have breakfast together before Mom would take me to school. Still, I could feel that things were changing. For one, his hair started to go gray in spots, and he seemed to drink a little more than he would before. He started keeping a journal, which was strange for him because I knew that in that line work, one doesn't keep written records. One time I snuck a peak, and at the time I couldn't understand most of what was written in there. I figured out, far too late, that it was in a code."

I shivered, trying to imagine the stress that both Dante and his father must have been going through. "What did it say?"

"Most of it was a list of times that he met with the agent, locations, stuff like that. I still don't have it all figured out, but I got enough of it to know what the hell he was into."

"Which was?"

"The agent was working with the Bertoli enemies, specifically the Russians. The same family that supposedly killed Daniel Neiman's parents, in an accident where they thought that his parents were working for the Bertolis. In fact, they just happened to operate a business that Carlo Bertoli happened to frequent a lot, a flower shop that stocked his wife's favorite bouquet."

I swallowed, wondering just how intertwined Dante had been in the whole Bertoli history that I'd learned, and what holes he could fill in on the gaps I didn't know. "So your father learned the truth."

"He did," Dante said thickly. "He was going to reveal it all to Johnny, call in the cavalry, when the agent came to our house. Mom was out, she had a part time job that she kept I think mainly because she hated being just a housewife, and it was just me and Dad. We were watching a late season Sonics game. This was back when they were still in town. We were relaxing, and a knock came at the door. Dad got up to answer it, totally not expecting what was going to happen. I was sitting on the couch when he opened the door, and suddenly, five shots filled the room. Dad was blown back, dead before he even hit the floor, I think. I jumped behind the couch, and I could hear the guy. 'Check for the kid,' a man said to someone. 'They've got a boy.'"

"Jesus, what did you do?" I asked, terrified. "How'd you survive?"

Dante chuckled mirthlessly. "I ran like hell is what I did. It was a summer night, and Dad liked to leave the back door open when it was just the two of us. He'd grilled some burgers for us that night, and the breeze carried in the smell of the mesquite charcoal that he liked to use. So I ran, vaulting the railing of the deck and hauling ass over the fence before they could get to me. Someone yelled after me, but I was a pretty good climber at that age, and I got over the neighbor's fence before anything else happened. That, and we lived in a good neighborhood, one that never expected a mobster to be living among them. The Seattle cops responded in what was probably record time for them. Purely by luck, they had a patrol car in the area when the 911 call came in. It was enough time for the dirty agent to plant a gun on Dad and put a round through it, and the cops bought the story. Me, I knew better than to say anything, and I never even told Mom."

"Why?" I asked, perplexed. "Why not clear your father's name?"

"Because the day before he got shot, my Dad and I went up to the Bertoli mansion. It was the last time I was there before the night you and I met. He and Johnny talked, and it was loud enough that someone could have overheard. They were pretty open by the pool, discussing things. Johnny thought he was safe in his own house. But the very next day, Dad was shot, and a few months after that . . . Johnny was killed too. The dirty agent was transferred out of Seattle to the Los Angeles field office after Dad's shooting, and soon after that, he was found dead too. Everything told me one thing, that the Bertolis had a rat inside their ranks. I never knew who, and I never even knew if the rat ever got cleared out. Even now, who knows? It could be anyone. All it would take would be one overheard word, or one friend talking to another friend."

"Then why go back in a situation like that?” I asked.

"Because my father died without his honor, and come hell or high water, I was going to get my family's honor back," Dante said, his voice trembling with intensity. "But I could barely get a foot in the door. Things just kept going wrong. I think I was just trying
too
hard. So I was stuck in limbo, not respected but unable to do much about it. When Mom died I reached out to the Bertolis, but every step forward seemed to be met by a step back. That was, until I met you. It's why I made a decision."

"What's that?" I asked.

Dante took a deep breath and took my hand. “Meeting you has been the best thing to happen to me in years, and because of you, because you've taught me to let go a little bit, to go with the flow and to be myself more, I've been more successful than ever. Because of that, I'm not going to hide who I am anymore. And I hope we continue the whole dance thing. I promise, next competition, no matter what, we're going to recreate that magic we had, and we're going to so kick so much ass they won't know what hit them."