Charade

“Who is this?” a gruff male voice answered.

“This is Sasha Bracciali. Don’t talk, just listen.”

The man was apparently good at taking instructions, because his only reply was soft, steady breathing. Encouraged, Sasha hid the cell phone among the blossoms, then returned to the living room, where Carmine was waiting for her with two glasses of red wine.

Setting the vase on the sideboard, Sasha insisted in a firm voice, “I don’t want any trouble, Carmine. You need to go home and sleep it off before you do something we’ll all regret.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” he retorted, slamming the glasses down, then stepping to within inches of her. “We can do this friendly, or we can just do it. It’s you’re choice. Either way, you’re gonna thank me for it.”

“My father would be furious if he knew you were doing this. Your father, too.”

“Fuck ‘em both. And you. Literally in your case,” he added with a grin, reaching for her neck with one hand while his other began unbuckling his belt.

But the sound of a phone, ringing from inside his jacket, stopped him, at least momentarily. “Fuck! Who the fuck…?” He pulled out the phone and scowled at the display. Then he grimaced. “I gotta take this. Don’t go away.” Flipping it open, he asked carefully, “Pop? Is everything okay?”

Sasha watched as his eyes widened with obvious fear. “Sure, Pop. I was just—yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m going. Fuck… Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

Sasha backed away, trying not to let Carmine see how entertained she was by his transformation. Not that she blamed him. She had heard some fairly gruesome stories about Antonio Martino’s temper, and she imagined Carmine had felt the sting of his displeasure more than once in his twenty-nine years.

“You bitch,” Carmine whispered, his face purple with anger. “I can’t believe you had the fucking nerve to call him.”

“Shh…” She put her finger to her lips, then inclined her head toward the roses. “He’s still listening. You’d better go, Carmine. We’ll just chalk this up to all the excitement over the wedding, and a little too much Chianti. Okay?”

“Bitch,” he repeated, but fear had returned to his voice. And while he clearly wanted to threaten her—or worse—he settled for flipping her off, Martino-style. Then he stormed out of the condo, slamming the door behind himself.

Sasha retrieved the phone and held it to her ear as she walked over to re-secure the dead bolt. “Zio Antonio? Multo grazie. I know he wouldn’t have hurt me, but I was still scared.”

“I’m very disappointed in my son,” Antonio assured her solemnly. “First he ruins Gianna’s wedding day, then he dares threaten an angel like you. And after I spoke with him this very evening about the need to treat you with respect. Can you forgive us?”

“I’m just so grateful for the rescue.”

“Anytime. Any place. I hope you know that, Sasha.” The don paused, then said bluntly, “Your father will be very angry about this. And with good reason.”

“Except he won’t ever know,” Sasha promised. “It’s not like I talk to him these days. And even if I did, you took care of everything. So why bother?”

“You’re a good girl,” Antonio told her in a husky voice. “And my son is a fool. Sleep well, cara mia. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“I won’t,” Sasha assured him softly, genuinely grateful for his solicitude. “Ciao, zio.”

Aware of the fact that Allison Gracelyn worked in Washington D.C., Sasha half expected the Athena Academy limousine to take her to O’Hare Airport so that she could meet with the board member on the East Coast. And if not, then to Arizona, where the Gracelyn family lived, and where the school itself was located.

But to her surprise, the driver took her to the nearby Grand Union Hotel and instructed her to go directly to Room 2003. And so after a quick stop in the restroom to check her appearance—Allison was something of a heroine to her after all—Sasha made her way to the twentieth floor.

Allison answered the door right away, greeting Sasha with warm enthusiasm. “Come in. It’s great seeing you again.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“You make an indelible impression,” Allison assured her. “We met at the welcoming reception when you first came to our school, and then again at your graduation. Correct?”

Sasha felt a surge of pride that this lovely, accomplished woman would remember such details. Of course, it was probably all in a file somewhere. And Allison undoubtedly attended all the initiations and graduations—

“At the initiation, you and I spoke about the portrayal of Italian-Americans in movies and on television. But at your graduation, all you wanted to talk about was your acceptance to the School of Design. Your enthusiasm was contagious. And I hear your success has been electric, as well. We’re all very proud of you.”

Sasha bit her lip. “I’m so flattered you remember all that. Especially considering everything that’s going on.” Daring to grab Allison’s hands in her own, she demanded, “Is there any news?”

“Come and sit with me.” Allison led her to a large table and motioned to one of the overstuffed chairs that surrounded it. Once they had settled in, she explained. “One girl has been rescued. That’s the good news.”

“Oh! That’s such a relief. But…”

“The other girl is unharmed. Unfortunately we were unable to rescue her. Mostly because she didn’t cooperate with us.”

“Why not?”

Allison grimaced. “She wants to investigate from the inside. To learn who masterminded the kidnappings, and for what purpose.”

“Cool kid.”

“I suppose. But she’s driving us crazy in the process.”

“I can imagine.” Sasha took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “I really appreciate getting all this information, especially firsthand like this. But I’ve got to ask. Why are you telling me of all people?”

Allison gave her a confident smile. “Because you—of all people—are the perfect person to help us recover the missing student. Assuming of course, that you’re willing.”

Chapter 3

Tossing his car keys onto his cluttered desk, Jeff Crossman strode to the only window in his sparsely furnished studio apartment, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared through the miniblinds at the neon lights that illuminated the freezing Chicago night.

“Un-effing-believable,” he murmured to himself. “You kissed Big Frankie’s daughter? You must be out of your effing mind.”

He could just imagine what Winston Lowe and Chuck McBride—the younger, less-experienced agents on his Organized Crime team—would say if they heard about this. Those guys had been openly and obnoxiously wild about Sasha Bracciali from the start, to the point where the Special Agent in Charge—namely Jeff—had had to pull rank on them more than once, warning them to cut it out when the compliments started flying too thick and fast.

“You’re an effing hypocrite, Crossman,” he assured himself now, although that characterization wasn’t completely true. He had never denied that she was pretty—okay, smoking hot—but he had been determined his team would treat her with respect. She was, after all, a nice, decent girl trying her best to do what was right.

But he had also seen her as a liability, and now as he stared out into the night, with the haze of their kiss beginning to fade, he focused on other, less sexy parts of their incendiary encounter. In particular, he reminded himself of her accusation: that he had been conducting a vendetta against her.

Those words had shocked him, but didn’t they hold a grain of truth? He had been uncomfortable with the idea of handling her, right from the start. Not because of her social and financial advantages, real or imagined, but because of her motivation. Because to Jeff, motive was everything when it came to evaluating an asset.

He could respect straight, uncomplicated revenge as a motivator. It actually made things simple. And he also appreciated the most common incentive of the garden-variety snitch—cold, hard cash.

In contrast, he didn’t trust an asset whom the Bureau was manipulating into cooperation by threat of imprisonment. Nor was he comfortable with someone whose sole motive contained any other element of fear. It made them too emotional, which in turn led to surprises and complications.

Jeff Crossman didn’t like complications.

Because of your normalness, he reminded himself, but his goofy smile faded quickly. He needed to stop fantasizing about how sexy and vulnerable she had been at her apartment, and start remembering the reason he had gone there in the first place.

To apologize, yes, but also to have a talk—the talk they should have had that first day, when she had walked into Jeff’s downtown office, a tentative smile on her face, her hand outstretched to meet him. She had looked so pretty. So hopeful. So very, very dangerous.

Because as a professional, he had forced himself that day to look past the pretty face, the waist-long wavy hair and dynamite body—to see into her heart, her soul, her brain. And he had seen a needy daughter whose father had devastated her with betrayal and hurt so intense, she now needed to lash out at him—or more precisely, at the world that had created him. The world that had allowed Frankie Bracciali to order a hit on his own beloved wife, Sasha’s mother, because of alleged marital infidelity.

Not that Sasha had been willing to work directly against her father. She had been clear about that from the start, insisting that Frankie Bracciali and his organization were off-limits. She would, however, use her contacts and background to help bring down anyone else.

It had seemed too good to be true. And then she had looked Jeff right in the eye and told him confidently that it wouldn’t make sense to waste time on her father’s dealings in any event, because “these days, ninety-nine percent of Dad’s business is legitimate.”

Those words, more than anything, had confirmed Jeff’s belief that Sasha was a deluded, emotional girl who still loved her father as fiercely as ever. If it came to a choice between Frankie Bracciali and an investigation—and that day was bound to come—pretty little Sasha would choose her father over law and order without a moment’s hesitation.

Jeff didn’t blame her for that. Didn’t judge her for it as a daughter, or as a human being. But in her capacity as an asset, he had believed it made her worthless.

Over the ensuing months she had done a good job. A great job, in fact. But it wasn’t until the Martino wedding that she had conclusively proved Jeff wrong. She had been nothing short of brilliant at that reception, even before she got a shot of Vincent the Butcher’s renovated face with her crazy-ass bra-cam. Just the way she had handled herself—so cool, so professional—had impressed her reluctant handler beyond words.

Anyone else would have been distracted and subverted by waves of nostalgia and confusion, but not Sasha. Despite her clear affection for the bride and her warm history with the Martino family in general, she had been all business. Completely focused on the ultimate goal—finding a way to track down and apprehend Vincent “the Butcher” Martino.

And man, had she delivered.

To Jeff’s discredit, he hadn’t been willing to accept the truth right away. Instead he had struggled with it, weighing her every word, every movement, intent on finding proof that her emotional ties to Antonio Martino—the man she affectionately called “zio Antonio”—provided justification for not fully trusting her. It was only when she had walked out of the debriefing, her head held high, her long legs and pretty ass mocking him with every stride, that he had realized it was time to admit the truth.

He had been wrong. From the start. About everything.

She was an incredible find, an invaluable asset and one-effing-hell of a female.

And for reasons that had made perfect sense at the time, he had felt the need to tell her that. In person. Right away, even though the hour was late and she was probably in bed. He had convinced himself he had to go over there—to her personal residence—and apologize right away.

Now he knew better. Somewhere along the line, his body had taken over, conning his mind into thinking his purpose was to talk, when all the while, he had had a much more basic objective: to act on impulses that had been suppressed and denied for so many months, he hadn’t even remembered they were there until it was too late. Until he was drowning in her eyes. In her silk-clad curves. In her kiss.

Un-effing-believable, Crossman.

“I guess you’ve heard I’ve been working with the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit. But only as an asset, Allison, not an agent,” Sasha explained with an apologetic smile. “I’m flattered—and trust me, I’ll gladly do whatever you ask—but I’m a little confused. There are so many other alumni with more impressive qualifications and relevant experience. Really outstanding women in every sense of the word. So? Why me?”

Allison pursed her lips. “I should probably start at the beginning. But let me just say first, I disagree with your self-assessment. Your qualifications are as impressive as any Athena Academy student, past or present.”

Sasha felt her cheeks redden, and she knew it wasn’t just from embarrassment over the praise. It was also confusion, because whatAllison had just said simply wasn’t true. Athena alumni included daring pilots, skillful spies and computer geniuses. There was simply no way Sasha could compete with them, nor did she want to. She was a dress designer who moonlighted as an FBI informant, and she was perfectly content with that life.

Allison cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s what we have so far in a nutshell. The two students are Teal Arnett, age seventeen, and fifteen-year-old Lena Poole. They each have amazing abilities. Superabilities, in fact. Strength, speed, and in Teal’s case, some talent as a psychic. Coincidentally, both of the girls’mothers were treated at the same fertility clinic before they were born. Thanks to another Athena alumna we know now that their eggs—and those of many other girls—were genetically enhanced by unscrupulous scientists. Anyway—” she paused for a deep breath “—we weren’t aware of the girls’ superabilities when we invited them to attend AthenaAcademy. Believe me, they were more than qualified based on high IQs and athletic accomplishments.”

Sasha knew her eyes were wide with childlike disbelief but she didn’t care. “My God, it’s so amazing. There was nothing on the news about any enhanced abilities. But that’s why the kidnappers targeted these particular students, right? They want to study them. But to what end?”

Allison smiled. “That’s the very reason Teal refused to be rescued, to find that out.

“She managed to get a psychic message to one of our contacts, and we were able to track them from Los Angeles to Colombia.”

“Wow.”

Allison sighed. “Before we could reach them in Colombia, they were moved again. Somehow the kidnappers knew we were going to make the rescue attempt.”

“Because they intercepted Teal’s psychic message?”

“No. Her talent doesn’t work that way. We think they had someone on the inside, at the Academy or perhaps at the NSA.”

“Oh no.”

Allison nodded grimly. “In any case, we were able to get our hands on the other girl, Lena, thank God. But they took Teal to Prague. We had a nearly successful rescue there, and we found out about other girls with genetic enhancements. Unfortunately, they got away with Teal again, but we were able to apprehended a doctor named Jeremy Loschetter who was involved with the scheme. He provided some useful information about the person who organized the original abduction, a blackmailer named Arachne who has an interest in genetic research. We aren’t sure how everything ties together, or whether Arachne is also involved with the group who has Teal now, but we’re exploring all options.”

“‘We’ being the NSA?”

Allison paused again, this time for a sip of water. Then she murmured, “I belong to another, smaller group. Once you’re officially on board, I’ll share all that with you.”

“I’m on board,” Sasha assured her. “I still don’t quite get why you chose me, but it’s too late now. You’re stuck with me till Teal is safe.”

“Good.”

Seeing that Allison was uncomfortable with what had to be said next, Sasha prompted her cheerfully. “How does a Mafia princess with a vendetta against her own father fit into all this?”

Allison’s perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in gentle disapproval. “That’s an odd way to characterize yourself. But you’re correct. Your connection to your father’s organization makes you the perfect woman for this assignment.” She hesitated, then asked, “How much do you know about what’s happening in Kestonia these days?”

“Kestonia?” Sasha grimaced. “They just had a bloody coup, led by a ruthless autocrat named Vlad something-or-other. Oh no! You’re not saying Teal is in that hellhole, are you?”

“I’m afraid so. The men who thwarted our last rescue attempt were Kestonian.”

“Oh no.”

“Access to the area isn’t just restricted. It’s virtually impenetrable. Vlados Zelasko has an iron grip on the borders. On everything, in fact.”

“Why would he want Teal?” Sasha wondered aloud. “Isn’t he busy solidifying his power base? The area has to be unstable and vulnerable. Doesn’t he have enemies to contend with?”

“He killed them all, apparently. As a result, his regime is supremely secure, at least for the moment. His next step, according to his public statements, is to put Kestonia on the map. One way to do that is to involve his country in international trade. Black-market-style trading, mostly.”

“That’s where I come in?” Sasha guessed. “You think Dad might have some way of contacting this guy?”

“Almost certainly. There’s a gathering of various crime lords in Kestonia this week. From all over Europe, and from the U.S., as well. Zelasko will meet with the underworld chieftains, then cap it off with an ostentatious ball to showcase his new regime.”

“Right! I remember reading about that,” Sasha agreed, thinking back to a colorful spread in one of her design magazines. “He wants to prove that Kestonia isn’t drab and standoffish, so he’s inviting dignitaries and royalty from around the world. It should be a fashion bonanza, especially because the guy is so totally photogenic.”

“They say he’s mesmerizing in person,” Alison confirmed.

“Maybe so. But in my experience,” Sasha told her carefully, “Mafia types don’t like that kind of splash. They prefer to keep their lavish parties under the radar.”

“I agree. It’s likely that many of the crime lords won’t attend the actual ball. But still, it’s part of the conference, intended as a signal that Kestonia has become a major world player.”

Sasha rubbed her eyes, suddenly weary. “And in the middle of all this, poor Teal sits in some hideous cell, scared to death?”

“According to her psychic messages, her kidnappers have been careful not to injure her. Still, we can’t rely on that.”

“I agree.” Sasha felt a surge of renewed excitement. “Will Teal be able to send me messages?”

“I’m afraid not. One has to have psychic ability for it to work well. And she is apparently out of range, or perhaps drugged, because our contact hasn’t heard from her since a few days after the last rescue attempt.”

“So she won’t be expecting me. But she’ll be expecting someone to show up, because she knows we won’t let a seventeen-year-old girl handle all this alone.” Sasha grimaced. “In addition to me, how many rescuers are you sending?”

“We sent one already. She failed.” Allison flashed a sheepish smile. “This time it will just be you.”

Sasha drew back in surprise. “I’m pretty sure Dad can wrangle me some sort of entrée into Kestonia. But once I get there—”

“Once you get there, you will use your natural ingenuity and creativity—the things that make you so unique and amazing. You will also use your Athena training. I’m told you’ve kept up with your karate?”

Sasha nodded.

“Zelasko is so suspicious, it borders on paranoia. If he thought for one second that U.S. government agents had infiltrated his domain, he might do something extreme. Maybe even hurt Teal.”

Sasha nodded her agreement quickly. “I just hope I don’t let you down. For Teal’s sake.”

“We have enormous confidence in you, Sasha.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to Dad first thing in the morning. He’ll be so happy to hear from me, he’ll do whatever I ask. Let’s just hope he has the right connections to make this happen without raising Zelasko’s suspicions. Dad’s business is mostly legitimate these days,” she added pensively, “so the connection will have to be made through another family. The Martinos, maybe. They’re our closest friends.”

“Actually, the Martinos appear to be on the periphery for this particular syndicate. But your father’s connection is very direct according to reliable intel.”

Sasha winced. “I see.”

Unbelievable, Dad. What are you doing? Backsliding? Just when our family was really getting out of the crime business at last?

“According to our reports, your father isn’t attending the conference himself. But he’s sending a representative.”

“Probably my cousin Mark. He’s more or less the heir apparent, since Dad’s only child doesn’t want anything to do with the family business.”

Allison pursed her lips. “Would your father be willing to send you, too? Or would he worry about your safety in a strange country?”

“He’ll worry. But if I want to go, he’ll send me. That’s for sure.”

“It would be even better if you went alone—”

“No problem. Dad won’t come, because he can’t leave Illinois, thanks to a court order in a case where he’s a reluctant witness. And my cousin—well, I can handle him. I agree,” she added briskly, “it’s best if I go alone. And soon. Right?”

“Thank you, Sasha. I know you’ll do well.” Allison smiled. “I assume your father will make the transportation arrangements. We can supply you with information and a few toys that might come in handy. Unfortunately, that won’t include communication equipment. You’ll be out of contact with the rest of the world while you’re in Kestonia. And we can’t supply weapons, either—Zelasko’s men will search your luggage and purse, and frisk you, as well. You’ll have to arm yourself with whatever you can find once you get inside Kestonia.”

“The toys you mentioned aren’t weapons?”

Allison laughed. “No. They’re much, much better.”

Sasha bit her lip, wondering how she would get through so complex an operation without Summit’s voice whispering advice and encouragement in her ear. “I’ll need to tell my handler something. Otherwise, he’ll wonder what’s going on if he can’t contact me.”

“Tell him you’re going to spend some time with your father. A week or two. We understand that you just performed well for the Bureau under very stressful conditions. They won’t object to your taking a little time for yourself.”

Sasha frowned. “You’re saying I can’t tell Jeff the truth?”

“Is that a problem?” Allison was clearly surprised. “I had the impression you and he didn’t get along.”

“It’s been tense, but we’ve been making progress, trustwise. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”

“To be frank, we’re controlling access to this information and being even more discreet than usual. We might have a leak.”

“You don’t have to worry about Jeff. He’s the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met. Like a rock, really.”

“Oh?”

“Check out his background. He was a star quarterback until he got a really bad concussion and the doctors warned him not to play anymore. Then the FBI recruited him and he’s been a star there, too. Completely obsessed with honor and justice—” She stopped herself, noting the flicker of concern in Allison’s brown eyes. “I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal about this. I guess because I’m used to having Jeff plan strategy with me. But you’re right—this has nothing to do with him. I’ll handle it the way you suggested.”