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Last Man Standing
By Wendy Rosnau Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Copyright © 2003 Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
All right reserved. ISBN: 0373272979
Chapter One
Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi's estate. Today's niggle was security.
There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.
Still, he'd been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that's not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.
The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari - the only extravagant toy he owned - up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.
Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.
Lucky sped through the second set of open gates - another guard giving him a nod - then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily's legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.
Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone arch-way. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives - a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds - were laid out on a marble slab inside the arch-way. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.
His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito's bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito's bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman's backside burned into his forearm.
Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.
Because Lucky knew Palone's intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door's six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, "Not this time, Palone. Today, I'm a solo act with your boss."
The guard's green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky's head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. "What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but -"
"It's all right, Benito," Vito's gravelly voice rumbled. "If Frank Masado's son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn't that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?"
Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas - mostly people outside the famiglia.
"You wanted to see me." Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of throat cancer.
"My lawyer made the changes you requested in my will. The papers were delivered this afternoon. They're ready to be signed."
Two days ago Lucky had agreed to become Vito Tandi's son on paper - the heir of Dante Armanno. That is, if certain sections of the will were amended to his specifications.
CEO of Vito's fortune had never made Lucky's list of dream jobs. But being born Sicilian and the son of a syndicate player hadn't been something he could control. Liking who and what you were wasn't a requirement for doing the job you were trained to do, his father had always told him. Not when he was twenty, and not now at thirty-one.
Vito raised his hand and motioned for Lucky to take a seat in the red velvet chair in front of his desk. Then, with a gratuitous wave, he shooed away his guard. "Benito, tell Summ to bring us something to drink. I believe there will be cause to celebrate. Tell her we'd like -"
"Scotch," Lucky suggested, shedding his brown leather jacket. He dropped it beside the chair before taking a seat.
"It looks like we need to restock the wine cellar, Benito. I've neglected it this past year, and I imagine it's in sorry shape." Vito studied Lucky for a moment and finally said, "Your preferences?"
"Macallan, and some good wine."
"Yes, I'm a wine man myself. Bardolino and soave." His gaze went back to his bodyguard. "There you have it, Benito. Make arrangements to restock the cellar. And instruct Summ to bring us the best Scotch we have in the house."
When the door closed, Vito reached for a fat Italian cigar in a carved wooden box. "Cigar?"
Lucky shook his head. "Just the Scotch."
"The other day when I suggested you move into the estate as soon as possible, I sensed some reluctance. I understand you still live in your father's old house. After tonight, I suspect, your enemies will double. This would be the safest place for you, huh?"
Lucky said nothing. He wasn't going to sell the house in town. He and Joey had already discussed what they would do with it, if and when he moved out.
"It's no secret that money and power is not what drives you," Vito continued. "If it was, you would have moved out of your old neighborhood long ago. So what will it take to convince you to accept my generosity and live with me at Dante Armanno?"
Never short on words when he had something to say, Lucky said, "An overhaul on security, for starters, and a private meeting with each of your guards."
Vito's bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. "My security expenditures are close to a million a year. Are you suggesting that's not enough?"
"There are things money can't buy. I'm sure you're aware of that."
His candid reference to Vito's failing health and his irreversible fate was duly noted with a sour grunt of displeasure.
"Your house has thirty-eight rooms, nine entrances and 116 windows," Lucky continued. "Twenty-one of those windows are in need of repairs. You also have a state-of-the-art underground tunnel. By the way, the light is out in the hidden passageway leading to your bedroom. Unless someone has replaced it since this morning."
"You've been busy. Am I to assume no tour will be necessary once you move in?"
"You can assume whatever you want, old man."
An unexpected rusty chuckle erupted from Vito. Rubbing his swollen hands together, he said, "This is better than I expected. Yes, very good." He waved his hand again. "Make any changes you feel necessary. Fire and hire. Do whatever it takes to make my home your home."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Last Man Standing by Wendy Rosnau Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
