Last Man Standing

“Should I call someone?”

“No.”

She reached out and pulled his shirt from his jeans. When she began to unbutton it, he grabbed one of her wrists. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to check out the problem to see what I can do to help.”

He shoved her hand away. “What you can do to help is go back home.”

“You can’t feel your legs, can you?”

He looked down to see that she’d curled her hands around his legs just above his knees and that she was squeezing. He knew that because he could see it, not because he could feel it. “Of course I can feel my legs.”

Her hand moved to his front pocket.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“I’m getting your knife so I can stab you in the leg. I wager a thousand that you won’t feel it go in or out.”

Lucky grabbed her wrist again. “Go sit over there.”

She tucked a black strand of hair behind her ear. “And if I don’t, what will you do? Get up and make me?”

He let go of her wrist and drilled her with a look that normally sent his men running for cover, but it didn’t move her back even an inch.

“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, reached out and resumed unbuttoning his shirt.

This time, as her fingers brushed his bare chest, Lucky closed his eyes and allowed himself the pleasure of actually feeling her hands on him. A minute later he felt cool air on his chest and knew she’d finished the task.

Angry all of a sudden that he’d succumbed to her so easily, he said, “Anxious to get rid of your little problem, are you?”

“My problem?”

“Your virginal status,” he clarified.

“Years ago it would have been considered a gift. But I suppose these days the real gift to the modern man is variety and experience.” She glanced at his legs. “It looks like I’m stuck with my problem, and you’re stuck with yours. I wonder which is worse—inexperience or inadequacy.”

Lucky reached out and grabbed her arms, then jerked her forward onto his body. “My legs are useless at the moment, but everything else is working fine. Am I right?”

Her sweet mouth parted, and she sucked in a breath of air. “Sì, ho capito. Now let me up. You’ve proved you’re still…capable,” she managed.

“If you’re willing to do a little of the work, I could show you just how capable, Elena. We could start working on that experience you lack.”

She squirmed, tried to roll off him, the friction only adding more fuel to his capability. He closed his eyes, hoping that would help take his mind off what her body was doing to him, but her sexy scent filled his nostrils, and the result was another inch.

“Lucky…”

Her voice told him she was aware of what had just occurred. He let go of her, knowing he was making himself suffer needlessly. He had no intention of sleeping with Vito Tandi’s daughter. He might want to, but he wouldn’t. Temptation was a fool’s game, and everybody in Chicago knew Lucky Masado was no fool.

Chapter 4

The rules on sex, dating and men are as follows, Lannie. Don’t ever let your body rule your head. Don’t say yes when you mean no. And never let a man get you cornered or down. Down as in off your feet and on your back. If it happens, Lannie, be prepared to feel the snake come alive. Am I making myself clear, darling? If you feel the snake, you’re in trouble and you must knee the beast and run. Run like hell, Lannie. That is, unless you want to be caught. You’ll want to be caught one day, darling. All women do. But we’ll talk about that when you’re older. For now I’ll ask Romano to teach you some self-defense.

Her mother’s words had been offered to her when she was twelve, and Elena had gotten several more lessons on sex, dating and men in the years that followed. And defense lessons from Romano.

Elena stood between Lucky’s legs, aware that what she’d felt moments ago had been the snake. Her gaze drifted to the front of his jeans. Not thinking too clearly, she asked, “Does this happen often? You know—” her eyes darted to his face “—ah, your back locking up and your legs going limp. I mean, numb.”

She focused on the vivid scar that curled around his hipbone just above his jeans. It had to be the one, she thought. The legendary scar that went on forever. Did it go up or down? If it went up, it likely climbed his back to merge with the scar on his neck.

Accustomed to touching people in her line of work, Elena reached out and ran her finger across the visible five inches of the questionable scar. “I went to school at a medical institute for myofascial therapy. My interest, in the beginning, was just to help my mother with her pain.” When he said nothing, she continued to carefully examine the portion of the scar she could see.

Her professor at the college had told her that her personal experience with her mother had given her compassion, as well as the dedication needed to become an effective therapist.

She asked, “When you lose the feeling in your legs, how long does it last?”

He didn’t answer, which told Elena that he was either being stubborn for pride’s sake, or that the paralysis was still in an inconsistent state.

She continued to study the thick fibrotic tissue, pressing into the scar with her thumb, adding more pressure as she moved it over the scar with immeasurable slowness.

On an intake of breath, he grumbled, “Go ask Blacky for a bottle of Scotch.”

She kept her eyes on her fingers as she examined the scar. “You don’t need more to drink. What you need is—”

“Scotch, Elena.”

His tone was razor sharp and she looked up.

“Two bottles.” When she still hesitated, his nostrils flared. “Now!”

Elena backed away from him and left the room. She found Blacky standing at the end of the red carpet enjoying the show on the catwalk. This time the half-naked woman was a six-foot redhead with breasts the size of Florida grapefruits.

She quickly instructed him to bring two bottles of Scotch to number sixteen, and when she returned to the room, she saw that Lucky had pulled himself up against the headboard.

“Blacky’s on his way with your order,” she said tightly. “What else will you be needing besides a new liver and a breath mint?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Sì. Come here, Elena. Come push one of these pillows behind me so I can sit up straighter. I’m helpless, remember?”

“As helpless as a viper, you mean.”

His gaze drifted over her, slowly and deliberately. “Come here.”

She did what he asked. Rounded the bed and climbed onto the mattress. In the process of shoving a pillow behind him, a hard rap sounded at the door. It was the only warning they got before the door opened.

Elena looked up expecting to see Blacky, then gasped when Moody Trafano walked into the room wearing his lizard’s grin and carrying Lucky’s two bottles of Scotch.

This just wasn’t his night, Lucky decided as Moody Trafano kick the door shut. “Where’s Blacky?” he inquired, knowing the answer before he asked the question.

“Taking a nap in number five.” Moody’s gaze locked on Elena. “You should have been nicer to me at the bar, doll.”

Lucky tried to move his legs, but even as he worked at the hopeless cause, he saw Moody’s grin grow wide. The bastard had already guessed why he was still sprawled on the bed, instead of on his feet.

“I thought it was all talk, you becoming a cripple. Guess there’s a reason for you drinking a case of Scotch a day, after all.” Moody’s smile shifted to Elena where she sat on her knees on the bed. “You scared yet, doll? You should be. I don’t like mouthy women unless they’re on their knees.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“You don’t want to do this, Trafano,” Lucky warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you touch her. Kill you slow. Capiche?”

“Maybe I’ll just have to kill you first.” Moody set one of the bottles of Scotch on the table. Opened the other one. Motioning to Elena, he said, “Unbutton your sweater and come here. I want to look at you.”

Instead of doing as she was told, Elena rebuttoned the top two buttons on her sweater.

“What’s the matter? Not as mouthy without a knife, doll?” Moody tipped up the bottle, took several swallows. “It’s too late for regrets, sweet milk. You should have given me the respect I deserve.”

“You don’t know what the word means,” Elena replied.

Moody raised the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he set the bottle on the table. Then he pulled his dark green sweater off over his head to reveal a clean-shaven muscular chest. He flexed his biceps. “Come on now, doll. We both know you’re not shy, so bring that sweet ass of yours over here.”

Reaching for the bottle, Moody pulled a chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Taking a seat on it, he tipped his head back and chugged more liquor.

“Don’t get off the bed, Elena,” Lucky whispered. “Stay where you are.”

“And that’s going to help us in what way?” She whispered back. “Maybe if I pretend to like him, I can—”

Lucky gripped her wrist. “Don’t leave my side.”

“You can’t move, remember?” She twisted her wrist free.

“Do as I say, Elena.”

“Give me your knife,” she suddenly suggested. “The Hibben, not the Haug. I’ve never liked how that style handle fits my hand.”

Her words brought his head around, his eyes searching hers. “How do you know what I’m carrying or the difference between…”

His thought process shifted when he felt her hand on his hip. Remembering how quickly she’d stolen his knife at the bar, Lucky covered her hand with his, then curled his fingers around hers and slowly squeezed. If he wanted to, he could break her fingers one by one. “I’ll handle this,” he mouthed at her.

She mouthed back, “Without legs? I don’t think so.”

Moody finally came up for air after he’d drained half the bottle. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.”

He licked his thin lips, studied the last two inches in the bottle. As he tipped his head back to drain what was left, Lucky slid his hand to the front of his jeans and unzipped himself.

“What are you doing?” Elena whispered.

“Handling it,” was Lucky’s answer as he slid his hand into the opening to palm the .22 tucked next to his groin. Then, easing the weapon out through his open fly, he aimed it at Moody Trafano’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Elena fidgeted in the back seat of a cold taxicab. The aging Buick sat idling nosily under a lamppost behind the Shedd.

Thirty minutes ago she’d been escorted out the back entrance into the alley by Blacky—who was wearing an angry purple welt on his forehead. There, he had placed her in the cab and told her to sit tight.

The image of Lucky’s hand going into his jeans by way of his zipper and coming out with a gun flashed behind Elena’s eyes. What followed was Moody Trafano screaming in pain as he toppled off the chair clutching his shattered knee.

She’d never witnessed a man being shot before. The blast had made her ears ring and she’d felt physically sick. Dazed, she’d been unable to move as the door had flown open seconds later and a man brandishing a .38 had charged inside demanding, “Dammit, Lucky, what the hell’s going on in here?”

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