Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

“Lacey,” he said, as he held up his hand, “this is dangerous work. Women are less strong than men, physically. They’re more vulnerable, emotionally. Why would I send someone I care about into a situation knowing they were utterly unprepared?”

“I’m
not
unprepared. I investigated and found you guys, didn’t I? I’m not stupid.” I knew Carlos had a point, but I had a streak of girl power in me that I’d absolutely inherited from my mother. My father had disappeared when my mother was pregnant, for reasons that may or may not have to do with my grandfather. This suspicion gave me an added boost of disgruntled anger.

“I’ll admit, you have an uncanny ability to solve problems.” He sat back. “Just like your mother, nosy and independent.”

I crossed my arms and tipped my chin upwards.

“In addition, you have certain… connections that I have unfortunately severed.”

“Connections… with whom?” I was flabbergasted. Carlos’ connections spanned the world in a spider web so thick and full a flea could barely make it through unnoticed.

Carlos’ eyes flicked away, and I knew who he meant.
Clay
. My favorite cousin and current roommate, he and Carlos did
not
get along.

“Ah,” I said. “You’re using me.”

“No,” he said. “I’m giving you a job. But I’m giving you a managerial role. Take it as a compliment – do you think, for example, that
I
would personally accompany the guards on a shipment?”

“Maybe not today, but yeah, I think you would’ve done that in your prime.”

“I’m still in my prime.”

“Of course.” I looked down. This one wasn’t a battle I was going to choose.

“Think of it as a promotion from your laundromat gig. You managed the front desk there, now you’re the Operations Manager. Of course, the money will increase accordingly.”

I nodded. “I can get used to the sound of that. What does Nora think?”

His wife was the only person who had influence over any decision he made.

Carlos grunted. “It was her idea. She doesn’t want you to get hurt. I promised her I’d give you a no-hands on gig. Purely strategic. I’ll let you do the investigating, your forte, and then when it comes time for the bust I’ll set you up with a team of men who’ll do the dirty work. Capisci?”

“Yeah.”

“She thought it was safer than you stripping,” he grunted, as if disagreeing. “At least we’ll know where you’re at.”

“Mhmm.”

“There’s, uh, one more part of the deal.” Carlos shifted in his seat.

I leaned forward warily. I’d never seen him so hesitant. “What is it?”

Carlos cleared his throat. “If I give you the job, you must agree to go on a date with a man of Nora’s choosing.”

I rolled my eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Carlos’ eyes flicked towards the heavens. “Will you take the deal?”

“I don’t know the gig,” I countered.

“That’s the last part…”

“There’s more?”

Carlos coughed again. “Nora wants you to come for dinner tomorrow, and we can discuss business after.”

I licked my lips. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

“Deal or not?”

“Fine. Deal.” I sighed and stood up, sensing it was time to go. “Thanks.”

“Be careful,” he said, as I walked out the door.

Great
, I thought. For a few extra bucks a month I was now an Operations Manager for the mob (a job I desperately needed), promised to a member of the male species of my grandmother’s choosing, and forced to consume her cooking all at once.

My mind was overwhelmed.

“Lorenzo,” I called, heaving myself down the stairs. “You got the key to the gelato case?”

“This?” The voice behind me was deep and rumbling, and it sent chills running over my skin, while igniting a fire in my belly. The hot and cold was so arousing I had to reach out and lean on the counter.

“Uh…” I turned and faced the gorgeous Italian that’d been leading the pack at the YMCA. “Yeah.”

He walked me around to the back of the case, clicking the lock open. The cold air rushed upwards, and I was brutally aware of my nipples suddenly deciding to pretend they were compasses and point directly north.

He was much taller than me, and I was certain that if he glanced down, he’d be able to see right down my shirt where said compasses resided in my flimsy, stretchy black tank.

I reached for a bowl, but he put it in my hand before I could fish out one of my own. He reached over me for a scoop of ice cream, and I nearly passed out. My legs whooshed right past jello and into a state of flimsiness I’d rarely encountered before. I
almost
lost my appetite, since my stomach was burning up a hole in the middle of my body, begging for more than pistachio cream.

He used his thumb to press the scoop of ice cream into my bowl, and I didn’t realize I was staring until he held the bowl out to me.

“More?” His voice sounded incredulous.

I looked down, shaking my head ‘no,’ realizing that there were at minimum five scoops in the bowl. I didn’t know where the time had gone. It evaporated. Disappeared. His fingers were magic. Or rather, I imagined so. At least he could scoop ice cream like no ice cream scooper I’d ever met before.

“That looks delicious.” I accepted the bowl of light green gelato, but refrained from clarifying that I actually meant
he
looked delicious.

Well, so did the gelato, so I hadn’t exactly lied. And despite the rather copious amounts of ice cream in the bowl, there wasn’t actually any more than I would’ve had if I’d scooped it myself. I was helpless in the gelato vicinity. It was my version of Heaven on Earth, you know, in case I didn’t make it to the real Heaven for awhile. Or at all. Especially now thanks to my relations with the mob.

The sombering thought (no lifetime gelato in Heaven) brought me crashing back down to earth.

“You want a bite?” I asked. I’d been impolite, scarfing down half a bowl before I’d remembered to speak, let alone offer him a spoon.

“Of what?” His dark eyes flashed over the compasses – still pointing north – and then a titch further down.

“Hey. Buster. Up here.” I stuck a hand on my hip, but I wasn’t
really
that offended. I mean, I’d failed as a stripper. So I didn’t mind getting reassured that my goods weren’t totally dysfunctional every once in awhile.

“It’s just…” He reached forward, as if about to squeeze my breast.

I slapped his hand away.

“You have gelato…” He gestured towards my under-boob, which could be a scary place.

“Oh.” My cheeks burned like the Northern Lights, shining so the entire world could see, and I grabbed a napkin, dabbed it on my tongue, and set to scrubbing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

When I looked up, I narrowed my eyes. His gaze was still on my chest region, and I realized I’d pulled my tank away from my body, giving him a decent show for free.

“People pay good money for that,” I said, and spun around, finding a lid for my ice cream.

“Are you going to go home and pout, and then eat the rest of your gelato to feel better?” He gave the tiniest of smirks. “Not that I’m judging.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Fine. Bye. Perv.”

I tossed the napkin in the trash and stomped out from behind the counter. I’d just about reached the front door when that damn sexy voice called out. “Doll.”

“Excuse me? Who do you think… oh.” I made a point of stomping on back to collect the proffered bowl of gelato he held out for me.

“Do you mind… I always get two flavors.” I leaned over and tapped a finger on the case. “Also nocciola, please.”

An exasperated sigh slipped from his lips, but he got a new scoop and heaved a few more tiny spoonfuls into the bowl.

“Don’t be stingy,” I instructed. “Thanks… what’s your name?”

The mystery man gave me a huge, super fat scoop of gelato to top it off and handed it to me, a ‘no more requests’ look plastered across his face.

“That’s all you get today.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But just an FYI, you’re not the boss of me.”

And then I turned, double kissed Lorenzo once more and flounced into my Kia with the mid-sized wheels. I couldn’t win ‘em all, but I’d won a few, I decided.

Lacey – 1. Gelato – 0. Mystery Man - ?

Chapter 5

After a trip home spent slurping the melting gelato, I finally whipped onto my pothole ridden street, littered with a few tipped over garbage cans and even a complimentary mattress, complete with gross brown stains and a hole that was maybe from a woodpecker and maybe a bullet too.

I climbed out of my car and approached the sagging apartment complex before me. The front steps boasted a word with the capacity to act as a verb or a noun and fell between the words DUCK and GUCK in the dictionary. It was artfully sketched onto the front steps in permanent spray paint, welcoming me home after each and every long, weary day.

I had parked the Kia in front of the fire hydrant.  It looked like a hot wheels car with tiny, probably stolen wheels. But they’d cost me forty bucks for four, so I wasn’t arguing. Plus, I was
not
in the mood to walk a block from the only open parking space. I’d had enough of a workout last night with Blake, my ex-boyfriend. Things were a bit dicey on the romantic front, currently. Last night happened to be an ‘on’ night.

In addition, there was a new white van taking up
way
more
than its share of parking spaces. It’d shown up three days ago and immediately began dominating the best curb space. Three normal sized cars could have easily fit there. I debated calling the cops on account of the van looked like a prime kidnapping machine. I bet they could find something in there to convict the pervert driver.

With a sigh, I decided against it. I’d already committed to the fire hydrant slot. Plus, with my new job, I didn’t want to push my luck with the police force. And as for the fire lane, I figured I was pretty safe. Even if our apartment did have a fire, nobody would realize it since the fire alarms hadn’t worked for years. And if someone did smell smoke, I’d bet my Kia that no one from this side of town would be calling the cops. They’d be running far, far away and hoping the place burned to the ground and destroyed any evidence of their sideline ‘hobbies.’

I heaved myself over the masterful graffiti and pushed the faded door. The handle had long ago ceased to lock, jiggling sadly as the door swung open.

I took the stairs to the door marked with a sideways, tarnished number ‘
7
’, unlocked the deadbolt and wiggled the door open, excited to drop my bag immediately and crawl into bed for a long, uninterrupted slumber.

However, it was not to be.

I pushed my door open and immediately an alarm screeched a warning – which didn’t make sense, due to the fact that no alarms worked in this building. Lights flashed with relentless abandon and the combination of blinking bulbs and screaming noises was the precise recipe for an instant headache. My vision blurred, my ears rang, and I knew that if there was one person on earth capable of putting a stop to this earsplitting disaster, it would be my roommate.

“Clay! Are you here?” I shouted for my cousin slash roommate.

Tupac the Cat flew at me from on top of the refrigerator. The cat was the fattest, fluffiest thing in our apartment, but oddly enough the least cuddly.

“CLAY!”

A blobby, six-foot-tall overgrown child of thirty-two appeared in the doorway, wincing and holding a large box which looked like it’d sprouted all shapes and sizes of levers and knobs.

“What the hell?” I shrieked. “I told you not to do crapola like this.”

Clay pressed a few buttons and twirled a few dials, grunting like a troll the entire time in computer lingo I didn’t understand.

“Sorry.” He winced as the lights mercifully stopped flashing and the alarm’s incessant buzzing turned into a garbled croak that sounded like a badly wounded toad the size of my kitchen table.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” I said, the anger obvious in my voice. “For safety reasons. I could’ve punched you. Or kicked you. Or strangled you. And I still might. Stop friggin’ setting your stupid traps on me.”

“One day it could save your ass,” he said, fiddling with one of the light bulbs attached to what I’d thought was an innocent tea kettle.

“Right. And when that day comes, I’ll owe you one,” I said. “I’ll buy you as many beef bowls as you want. But until then – let me enter my home in peace. I had a bad day, I duct taped a guy’s face, and I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”

“Sure, girl. Mi casa es tu casa.” He pressed a lever and the bulb flashed once, then exploded, covering the ground in miniscule shards of glass.

“Yeah, it is.” I edged my way along the outskirts of the room, trying to avoid a trip to the emergency room for glass shards in my foot. “It is
mi casa
since we split rent.”

“It’s not splitting if I pay eighty percent and you pay twenty when you feel like it,” he retorted, staring angrily at the broken light bulb. He continued to mutter, “It
should
have worked. Compatible electrical frequency. GAH!”

I looked up at his high-pitched shriek to the sight of him swatting out a small fire on the sleeve of his tee-shirt, which sported some calculus equation that was supposed to be a joke in nerd language.

“Better put that fire out – I’m parked in front of the hydrant, and I really don’t want a ticket.”

I huffed into my closet-sized room and plunked my bags on the floor. I climbed into bed ready to sleep for days.

I must’ve fallen into a deep slumber equivalent of Sleeping Beauty, because I barely turned over when the phone yodeled, sometime the next morning. A real, live, actual yodel, another one of Clay’s ingenious inventions.

“Shut that thing up!” I hollered at the kitchen. “It’s the booty crack of dawn.”

Tupac started to screech, adding to the cacophony of weird noises inside apartment 7.

Maybe Clay was still feeling bad for scaring me crapless last night with his exploding bulbs and misconstrued alarms, but he actually answered the phone for the first time in ages. I sighed and closed my eyes firmly. When I heard footsteps at my door, I added a loud snore to the mix.