Last Man Standing

Lucky pulled the .22 from his jeans and aimed it at Vito. “Only a fool surrenders all his weapons, old man. A dead fool.”

“Grande buono!” Vito shouted, then leaned his head back and roared in laughter until he began to cough. “This is why no one will ever forget that day. Why my men call you the guerriero. The warrior who is unafraid to bleed. It is true. You are the American Armanno.”

Lucky had grown up with the story about how the Cosa Nostra had been born and why the words this thing between us had been chosen as the bond that would forever unite the fathers of Sicily. Dante Armanno had been one of those fathers. A young man in Palermo who had fought like a lion the day the French soldiers had invaded the city and killed his three sons and raped his daughters.

As much as Lucky rejected the idea that he and Vito were a lot alike, they had similar views on family and work ethic. He suspected it was why thirty years ago Vito had paid twice what Dante Armanno was worth—the American estate built in tribute to the legend—when it had gone to auction.

Unable to stay in the chair a minute longer without a drink in his hand, Lucky shoved himself to his feet. He was worth 2.4 million, and yet he wore what he always wore—jeans, leather boots and his seasoned leather jacket, a testimony to where he had been and what he had seen over the years in Chicago.

At the narrow mullioned windows, he returned his gun to his jeans. It had started to snow again. His thoughts briefly returned to the warm Florida sunshine he’d enjoyed a week ago. The sunshine and the sea witch—as he’d come to think of her.

He turned from the window. “Does Vincent D’Lano know that you have decided to replace Moody as your heir?”

“Not yet. But when he finds out—” Vito grinned “—he’ll want to take a meat cleaver to both our necks. Since your brother rejected his daughter Sophia, Vincent has promised to tear down Masado Towers a brick at a time. I wonder what his threat will be once he learns you have stolen his ride to the top of the famiglia.”

“I have heard there are witnesses who are saying Vinnie masterminded my sister-in-law’s kidnapping. If that’s true, he’ll be sitting in jail a long time.” Lucky asked, “When you agreed that Moody would become your heir, did you ever speak to Vinnie about it? Or was it all arranged through Carlo?”

“Vincent came with Carlo once to gloat. But I never spoke to him or agreed to anything. Because I have no heir, Carlo decided I should turn over everything to his man of choice. A few weeks later in a letter, he warned me that if I took too long to die, he would have me carted off to a nursing home. It’s true Vinnie will want what Carlo promised him, but it’s not what I promised him.”

“And if the changes in the will aren’t what I requested and I decide to withdraw?” Lucky asked.

Vito pulled the will from his drawer. “It is done. My lawyer thinks a secret trust fund is suspect and I should demand to know whose name is on it, but I don’t intend to.”

Good, Lucky thought, because he had no intention of explaining his actions to anyone.

“I want the American Armanno as my heir. That is all I care about. That my men will be taken care of for their years of loyalty. I’m restocking the wine cellar with Macallan,” Vito reminded him. “I’ve asked Summ to remove my things from the master bedroom so you can take control even before I die. I’m stepping down the minute your signature is on the papers. Tonight you will become CEO of Tandi Inc. and sole owner of Dante Armanno.”

“I don’t want your bed, old man.”

“Since you have toured my house on your own, you’re aware that the master bedroom has a warm-water pool. It will be of use to you when you start your recovery.”

“My recovery?” Lucky’s black eyebrows arched.

“I’ve had a discussion with your doctor. He’s concerned about your continued delays in having the back surgery he recommended. He is afraid there may already be permanent nerve damage. As I said, I want the America Armanno as my heir, the toughest soldato in the city. But I wonder if that were tested today, if we would find it true.”

Lucky never made promises he couldn’t keep or claims that weren’t within his power to guarantee. In truth, he knew he wasn’t a hundred percent. Hadn’t been for months.

“If your memory fails you, I will refresh it. Days ago I offered my assistance to you and your brother. Joey was able to rescue his wife from that bastard, Stud Williams, because of my generosity. For this you agreed to repay me with a favor of my choice. I have made my choice. You as my son. At least on paper.”

A soft knock at the door sent Lucky back to the chair, licking his lips.

“Come in, Summ,” Vito said. “I believe you met my housekeeper days ago.”

When the door opened, a small Japanese woman entered the study with a bright blue parrot riding on her shoulder. Anxious for his requested Scotch, Lucky was disappointed to see the woman carrying a teapot and two stone cups on a bamboo tray.

“It looks like the wax in your ears is again causing you a hearing problem, Summ,” Vito grumbled. “We ordered Scotch, not tea.”

“Hear fine. Drink Matcha tonight.” Her gaze found Lucky. “Tea in honor of wise decision to become wakai shujin.”

“What did she call me?”

“Young master,” Vito explained.

“Gwaak! Shoot the moron. Drop and roll! Gwaak!”

Lucky ducked as the parrot lifted off the woman’s shoulder and sailed to a perch in the corner of the room.

“That would be Chansu,” Vito explained. “He’s part of Summ’s ancestral family. A reincarnate, if you believe in that sort of thing. He and Summ come with the house.”

The housekeeper placed the tray on the desk. She was a petite woman, dressed in green silk pants and a high-collared tunic to match. She looked mid-thirties, though Lucky knew she was older. For years there was talk that Vito had an Asian mistress.

She moved her long black plaited braid off her shoulder. Poured the tea. “Matcha good.” Her eyes locked on Lucky. “You like.”

No, he wouldn’t, Lucky thought. Not if it tasted anything like it smelled. It reminded him of the stench that always clung to his neighbor’s dog after he came back from a sewer run chasing rats.

Any minute he was sure Vito would set the housekeeper straight and send her out the door for the ordered Scotch. To his disappointment, it never happened.

While the woman poured the tea, Vito said, “I took the liberty of informing Summ about your medical problems. It looks like she’s decided to aid your recovery in her own way. As you’ve already noticed, the tea smells like—”

“Roadkill,” Lucky acknowledged.

Vito chuckled. “It tastes no better. But if you can get it down, it will ease your pain. Two years ago my doctors sent me home to die. They told me my throat cancer was too advanced. The next day Summ started brewing the Matcha.” He accepted the cup of tea from his housekeeper. “After you sign the papers, we’ll toast your future as the new master of Dante Armanno. Then, I’ll tell you a story about your father. A story about the old days when Frank and I first became friends. Before he stole my wife and became my enemy.”

The sheer curtains moved and Elena glanced at the open door leading to the veranda. A balmy breeze filtered in off the ocean, the surf making that familiar rushing noise her mother, Grace, loved so much, the one she claimed eased her pain and lulled her to sleep at night.

“What is it, Lannie? Have I been moaning again?”

Elena had been standing next to the white wicker bed for a long five minutes watching her mother sleep. “No, Madre,” she said softly, leaning down to gently kiss Grace’s forehead. “I just came to check on you.”

Grace tried to raise her hand, but the attempt was met with an exhausted sigh.

“It’s all right.” Elena rescued her mother’s hand and gently squeezed. “Everything is fine.”

Four weeks ago Grace had suffered another stroke. It was the second in a year, the fifth in the past ten. The numerous strokes, the doctor explained, were caused from the accident her mother had incurred before Elena was born more than twenty years ago.

The accident had destroyed her mother’s memory, along with her beauty. Elena couldn’t remember a time during her childhood when Grace wasn’t dealing with an excruciating headache or sleeping off the effects of a sedative to battle the daily pain she lived with.

“Your father brought me a new silk scarf. Ann helped me put it on. She doesn’t do as nice a job as you do, Lannie, but she’s getting the hang of it.”

Ann was Grace’s new live-in nurse. Elena eyed the lavender silk turban on her mother’s head. “It matches your nightgown perfectly. From what I can see, I agree. Ann’s attempt looks like she’s improving. You look stunning.”

Grace’s eyes lit up. She loved compliments, even though she knew the scar that cut deep into her cheek had destroyed any chance of her being truly beautiful ever again. Still, the silk turbans she wore and the soft lingerie that draped her fifty-seven-year-old body salvaged a degree of her dignity.

Over the years Frank had gotten into a routine of sending monthly gifts in the mail when he was away. Grace’s favorite had been the colorful silk scarves. To make them more usable, Elena had come up with the idea to fashion them into turbans to cover the numerous scars on her mother’s head. Grace had loved the idea, and they’d had fun buying matching nightgowns and silk pant outfits to match the scarves.

“Your father retired from his job. Did he tell you?”

“He told me.”