Rushed(97)

"Maybe," Tomasso said, rewinding the footage one more time. "The hair is the right color, but there are two other guys who have blondish hair . . . and half the guys on the payroll wear suits like that."

Tomasso pointed at the screen. “That's not a smartphone. That's an old-school flip phone."

"A burner phone?" I asked. When he gave me a look, I returned it with an ironic expression. "Come on, don’t act surprised. My family is no different than yours. I know what a burner phone is."

He nodded and turned back to the screen. "You're right, my fault. It might not be a burner phone, though. Look, he’s obviously using speed dial—he definitely didn’t put a number in that fast. Who takes the time to program a burner phone?"

I watched, nodding. “You’re right. He only pressed a few buttons.”

"I just wish we could verify who it was. It could have been Jake, or Brad Walker, or Petey Franks."

"I don't know those last two," I said, thinking. I'd seen a lot of men around the past few weeks, and I hadn't exchanged words with most of the Bertoli men. It hadn't been something I was all that interested in.

"Brad and Petey aren't family,” Tomasso explained, glancing back and giving me a warm smile that told me he understood my words, "just associates who sometimes do errands. But they've been in the house before."

“I know what you mean. My father has similar employees,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. I rubbed at the back of his neck, smiling when he groaned softly. I stepped behind his chair, kneading the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck as I continued. “Our families seem to have a lot in common—not that I expected any different.”

"Luisa . . .” Tomasso sighed, a soft need to his voice. "That feels awesome."

"You're tense," I replied, the air suddenly warm and heavy. “Feels like you could use a good massage.”

"You're doing an amazing job already,” he replied. "I just wish there were more."

"I know," I said softly. "But we can't—not yet.”



The next morning, I woke up early after a night of tossing and turning. I spent the entire night thinking about Tomasso and how we were growing closer. The sexual tension was still there, but there was more growing between us, something that I hadn't felt in a long time—something I wanted more of.

When my alarm went off at six in the morning, I’d already been awake for nearly forty-five minutes. Instead of slapping the snooze and fighting for another few minutes of non-rest, I rolled out of bed and pulled on some exercise clothes. I wasn't a fitness freak, but that morning, I needed something to get me moving and to keep my mind off Tomasso.

I was surprised when I got to the gym and found that I wasn't alone. On the treadmill already was Margaret Bertoli, power walking on an incline treadmill, sweat pouring down her face and darkening her hair. She saw me walk in and gave me a wave. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Se?ora Bertoli. I didn’t think anyone would be using the gym right now," I said. "Would you prefer to be by yourself?”

"Not at all," she answered, hitting a button on the console. The treadmill started to ratchet down some, the angle decreasing. "I've got about ten minutes left. You want on?"

"Actually, I was going to do some yoga first," I replied, going to the mats in the corner. "It helps me think."

"A clear mind is important. Me, I'm in here because I want to look good for my daughter's wedding. Carlo wasn't the only one unhappy with the way our clothes for the ceremony fit."

I smiled and shook my head. If I looked as good as she did when I got to be her age, I'd count myself lucky. "You still have a youthful figure. If you ever come down to Brazil, you'd have no problem finding a young boyfriend who'd be counting his lucky stars to have you."

"You're as much a flatterer as Daniel. He’s one of Carlo’s men. We took him in when he was just a boy.” Margaret laughed, slightly winded.

I smiled, recalling the name that had been mentioned several times now, but I hadn’t had a chance to meet him. I started my first pose, just a simple opening of my chest and shoulders before going into a split-legged stance to start with my hips. “I know what it means to get compliments every now and then. Every girl needs them."

"And attention from handsome young men," Margaret replied, breathing a little easier as she slowly eased off on the intensity of her walk. "I noticed the way you and my nephew were looking at each other when I came home the other night. Whatever tension may have been between you seems to have gone away."

“I guess you could say that,” I answered, bending over and opening my lower back before stretching up, then repeating the process. “But there can’t be anything between us, though I think both of us want there to be.”

"Why not? Family politics?" Margaret asked. "I don't know what your family's rule is, but Bertoli men are pretty much clear to do whatever they want. It may not be fair, but it's the truth."

"Saint Paul wrote, all things are permissible, but not all things are beneficial. I don’t know your family's religious takings, but most of my family is still very religious," I said. "Not that I haven't broken most of the Ten Commandments. Have yet to commit adultery or murder. And while I have coveted, it wasn't my neighbor's wife—it was his Lotus."