One Way Out

“That she’s a liar and a thief!” Joey swore softly, wishing he hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t want his son to wake up to the sound of his father shouting like an angry fool. He didn’t want Niccolo ever to be afraid of him. Not in the way he’d been afraid of his own father when he was a boy.

He and Lucky had tiptoed around their father, beginning at an early age, to avoid his lectures on loyalty to the famiglia, but they hadn’t been able to escape the hourly drills Frank had forced on them to make his sons weaponry experts. By age thirteen Joey could nail a target dead center with a six-inch knife from twenty yards away. Lucky, at age ten, could empty a round of ammo into a dummy’s head with a 25-caliber Beretta and a .38 Special.

More softly, but just as angrily, he said, “She kept me from my son, Lucky.”

“Yesterday you had a right to be angry, mio fratello. But today you have the boy. Focus on what you want tomorrow. What you want next month. Next year. What you want for Niccolo’s future.”

“What I want for my son is for him to grow up happy, doing whatever the hell it is he wants to do with his life. I don’t want him to be like us. I don’t want him to feel trapped, or forced into chasing another man’s dream.”

Lucky raised his glass of scotch. “Then, we’ll drink to happiness, and to changing the future for him.”

Joey lifted his glass. “And we’ll drink to you, Lucky. For making a trip to Florida and buying that camera.”

Lucky nodded, his grin softening his dark eyes and the scar on his chin. “To Niccolo. May he grow up to be as wise as his father, and—” he grinned “—as handsome as his uncle.”

Chapter 2

The sight of the milky blue horizon over Lake Michigan was glorious, but it had been as fleeting a feeling as the absurd emotional tug that Rhea had somehow come home…home to stay.

Now, as she stood in the lobby of Masado Towers with a lump in her throat, clutching Nicci’s teddy bear, she knew the depth of what she was facing.

The night she’d left Chicago, escorted to the airport by two of Frank’s bodyguards, Joey’s dream had been nothing more than a blueprint, steel girders and concrete columns. Today, Masado Towers was a work of art, an architectural phenomenon. A city within a city.

Not only was the Towers a grand hotel, but there were condominiums, offices, department stores, boutiques, an art museum, a health club, a grocery store, restaurants, lounges, movie theaters and a bank.

Rhea had never thought she’d underestimated Joey’s ability. But all of this confirmed that the man she thought she knew was as complex as the dynasty he had built and now commanded.

If she had known before he had touched her what a mega-power he was, or what the future would hold, would she have done things differently? It was a question she couldn’t answer. That night three years ago, beaten down and desperate, alone and scared, she hadn’t expected to be rescued—least of all, rescued by Joey Masado.

Countless times she’d gotten herself home from the hospital after one of Stud’s outbursts. She could have done it one more time. Then Joey had appeared and completely disarmed her with his take-charge tenderness.

But that was then, and this was now. Last night he had breached a secure compound and stolen his son from under the noses of eight armed guards. And he had done it without a single confrontation. The tender man beneath the tough-guy veneer had a ruthless side. Maybe she had always known that. The rumors had surely warned her that the Masado men never turned the other cheek. Never… And she had seen evidence of that with Frank. He was a hard man, determined to protect his family, whatever the cost.

Rhea checked her watch. It was early, barely eight. She hadn’t slept, nor could she until she saw her son and knew he was safe. She eyed the glass elevator—the woman at the front desk had said, “You’ll find Mr. Masado’s personal elevator in the passageway. Go down hall B, you won’t be able to miss it.”

As if in a trance, Rhea stepped into the glass box, not thinking it peculiar that the door was standing open as if waiting for her. She pushed the only button visible, and when the door closed, she wet her lips, then nervously brushed her long bangs closer to the scar next to her eye.

When the elevator stopped, she buried her free hand—the one that was shaking—in the pocket of her brown suede jacket and waited for the door to open. When it did, she was confronted by a man who reminded her of the guards at Santa Palazzo—big and tough, and capable of snapping a woman’s neck in a split second.

“Ms. Williams?”

“How did you know who I… Never mind.”

The blond powerhouse surprised Rhea with a smile. “I’m Gates. Mr. Masado’s—”

“Bodyguard,” she finished.

“At the Towers we use the word assistant. This way, Ms. Williams.”

Rhea followed the six-foot-five assistant. As they walked along, she saw him lower his head and speak softly into a small gold lapel pin on his suit jacket. She decided he was outfitted with a miniature microphone of some kind that allowed him to speak to his boss.

Moments later, Gates stopped in front of a massive pair of doors. He didn’t bother to knock, just swung the door open and moved aside to allow her entry.

Rhea stepped inside, her son’s teddy bear gripped tightly in her hand. She didn’t know what she had expected to find, but a room shrouded in darkness wasn’t it. In the next few seconds, as the door clicked behind her, she saw that a vast wall of closed vertical blinds behind a sweeping half-circle desk were responsible for the shadows. They hadn’t stolen all the light from the room, but it certainly had set the tone for what undoubtedly was Joey’s morning mood.

The expensive leather chair behind the desk was empty. She was in the lion’s den, but where was the lion?

She scanned the room and located a silhouette seated at a mile-long bar that looked like it should have been in a nightclub instead of in an office. There was a liquor bottle on the marble surface, and beside it, a half-empty crystal glass.

It was too early to be drinking, but then, her ex-husband had drunk all hours of the day and night. The comparison, as well as the result of those painful times, didn’t calm her nerves.

He knew she was here. Rhea saw him stiffen on the bar stool. It was ever so slight, but she’d learned the hard way to be alert. Even the smallest body changes, a shifting eye or a tightening in the jaw, could be a warning.

The key to handling fear was to keep the brain well supplied with oxygen so your thought processes remained clear and your reaction time was lightning quick. Knowing this, Rhea concentrated on slow, deep breathing.

A minute ticked by, then two.

She stood there motionless while he raised and lowered his drink. When the glass was empty, he set it down and gave it a little shove. The heavy glass slid smoothly to the end of the bar with less than an inch to spare. It was a practiced maneuver, she decided, perfected over time.

Another minute lapsed before the white leather stool slowly rotated. Rhea’s heart skipped several beats, then several more when his dark eyes finally locked with hers.

Joey Masado was an awesome looking man. She had always thought so. Over six feet tall, he had brown bedroom eyes, jet black hair and a body that looked like it had been crafted out of iron.

His hair was shorter than she remembered—more businesslike, and a contradiction to the growth of whiskers that lined his jaw. It appeared he hadn’t shaved in three or four days. The stubble, however, didn’t detract from his handsome face, it simply added another measure of danger to an already dangerous man.

A minute dragged by before he spoke, but when he did, his deep voice sent raw chills racing the length of her spine.

“Rhea, in the flesh. After all this time, in a heart-beat she returns as quickly as she left. What brings you to town, darlin’?”

Rhea fought the constriction in her lungs, the sudden weakness in her knees. “You know what brought me, Joey.”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

He was going to make her say it. “Where’s Nicci? Where’s my son?”

“You mean ‘our son,’ don’t you, Rhea?” He came off the stool in one fluid motion, gestured to the stuffed animal in her hand. “Is that the bear he keeps asking for?”

“Yes. He sleeps with it.” She expected him to be wearing one of his expensive suits. Instead, he wore jeans and a black V-neck sweater that revealed a dusting of black hair on his chest.

Joey was known for his Sicilian charm and lazy smile, but both were absent as he held out his hand for the bear.

Rhea shook her head, pulled the bear close. “I want to see him. I want to see my son.”

“No.”

“I need to see him, Joey. I need to know that he’s all right.”

“He’s fine.”