Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Gina LaManna
Tags: Mafia, Urban, Robbery, female protagonist, organized crime, Theft, assassin, Comedy, Heist, fun, scary, mob, amateur, racy
debated going into the bar and sloshing back vodka diets until I couldn’t possibly drive.
But that would be bad.
My phone rang, and I looked down.
Carlos.
I imagined dunking my phone in milk, burying it in the sand, and then sending it to the bottom of Lake Michigan attached to an entire cement truck.
Instead, I answered it.
Because nobody says no to Carlos.
“I’m coming,” I said, hanging up the phone as I shifted the car into drive. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I cruised through the streets, but couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to the roads. After nearly clothes-lining a mailbox with my side mirror, I forced myself to pay attention as I skirted the area, jumping on the highway to downtown St. Paul.
Carlos was waiting for me at Marinellos, the best Italian restaurant in town. I threw the car into an illegal parking space and traipsed inside. I kissed Lorenzo – the short, beefy bouncer – on both cheeks and pointed out my car. He’d make sure nothing happened to it.
“Tutto bene?” I asked. My Italian was broken but semi-functional; kind of like my car.
“Si, si. Carlos is upstairs. Except, are you sure you don’t want to shower first?
“You’re not digging my dumpster scent? I think I’m rockin’ it.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “Your grandfather’s upstairs.”
I slipped passed the trays of Gelato calling my name, passed the memories in the form of photos on the walls, and up the darkened staircase to the rooftop deck. At times like this, after hours, the place became a primo meeting place for Carlos’ business meetings. It was either here, or the backroom at the laundromat. I’d never had a one on one business meeting with my grandfather before, but at least here I could hope to be sent home with a leftover panini and a bowl of gelato.
I knocked hesitantly on the door.
“Come.”
Carlos’ voice was ever so slightly accented, though his English was perfect. He spoke Italian and Sicilian Dialect, but it was hardly noticeable to Americans unless one knew to look for it.
I pushed open the door, and my grandfather sat at a table before me. His hair was peppered gray, but handsomely so. He had one leg crossed over the other as he reclined in a large, comfy chair which might as well have his name engraved on it, smoking a personalized, hand rolled cigar.
His dark, intelligent eyes glanced in my direction as if he were as interested in me as a pet rock, his gaze giving away no emotions or clues to his thoughts whatsoever. His impeccable grooming was par for the course, except his hair was slightly ruffled in a way that made me nervous. Carlos’ hair was perfect always.
I gave an awkward nod, then approached him and kissed both cheeks.
Though I normally hated the smell of cigarette smoke, thanks to years of exposure in the strip clubs, Carlos’ cigars always smelled expensive and smooth, easy on the lungs. At times I almost wanted to ask for a puff, but I feared he’d chop my hand off with his pinky nail.
Though not physically intimidating – his legs were thin and pale (though I’d only ever seen them once, in swim trunks, and at Nora’s incessant begging), his stature medium-short and thick, but not particularly muscular, as any one of his guards could bench press him with one hand. However there was never any doubt about who held the power in the room. With a tongue capable of stinging quicker than a scorpion and deadlier than a Black Widow, Carlos could will someone out of this world with a name uttered under his breath.
“Hello, Carlos,” I said. I’d tried out Grandpa, Grandfather, Sir, etc. but nothing had stuck. So I reverted back to his given name. “How are you this evening?”
Carlos inhaled for a long breath, held the smoke in his lungs, and blew it out in lazy rings while sweat slicked my palms and perspiration dripped between my boobs and down my back.
As the last ring drifted towards the moon, Carlos spoke. “I have a man injured, and another who was
But that would be bad.
My phone rang, and I looked down.
Carlos.
I imagined dunking my phone in milk, burying it in the sand, and then sending it to the bottom of Lake Michigan attached to an entire cement truck.
Instead, I answered it.
Because nobody says no to Carlos.
“I’m coming,” I said, hanging up the phone as I shifted the car into drive. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I cruised through the streets, but couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to the roads. After nearly clothes-lining a mailbox with my side mirror, I forced myself to pay attention as I skirted the area, jumping on the highway to downtown St. Paul.
Carlos was waiting for me at Marinellos, the best Italian restaurant in town. I threw the car into an illegal parking space and traipsed inside. I kissed Lorenzo – the short, beefy bouncer – on both cheeks and pointed out my car. He’d make sure nothing happened to it.
“Tutto bene?” I asked. My Italian was broken but semi-functional; kind of like my car.
“Si, si. Carlos is upstairs. Except, are you sure you don’t want to shower first?
“You’re not digging my dumpster scent? I think I’m rockin’ it.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “Your grandfather’s upstairs.”
I slipped passed the trays of Gelato calling my name, passed the memories in the form of photos on the walls, and up the darkened staircase to the rooftop deck. At times like this, after hours, the place became a primo meeting place for Carlos’ business meetings. It was either here, or the backroom at the laundromat. I’d never had a one on one business meeting with my grandfather before, but at least here I could hope to be sent home with a leftover panini and a bowl of gelato.
I knocked hesitantly on the door.
“Come.”
Carlos’ voice was ever so slightly accented, though his English was perfect. He spoke Italian and Sicilian Dialect, but it was hardly noticeable to Americans unless one knew to look for it.
I pushed open the door, and my grandfather sat at a table before me. His hair was peppered gray, but handsomely so. He had one leg crossed over the other as he reclined in a large, comfy chair which might as well have his name engraved on it, smoking a personalized, hand rolled cigar.
His dark, intelligent eyes glanced in my direction as if he were as interested in me as a pet rock, his gaze giving away no emotions or clues to his thoughts whatsoever. His impeccable grooming was par for the course, except his hair was slightly ruffled in a way that made me nervous. Carlos’ hair was perfect always.
I gave an awkward nod, then approached him and kissed both cheeks.
Though I normally hated the smell of cigarette smoke, thanks to years of exposure in the strip clubs, Carlos’ cigars always smelled expensive and smooth, easy on the lungs. At times I almost wanted to ask for a puff, but I feared he’d chop my hand off with his pinky nail.
Though not physically intimidating – his legs were thin and pale (though I’d only ever seen them once, in swim trunks, and at Nora’s incessant begging), his stature medium-short and thick, but not particularly muscular, as any one of his guards could bench press him with one hand. However there was never any doubt about who held the power in the room. With a tongue capable of stinging quicker than a scorpion and deadlier than a Black Widow, Carlos could will someone out of this world with a name uttered under his breath.
“Hello, Carlos,” I said. I’d tried out Grandpa, Grandfather, Sir, etc. but nothing had stuck. So I reverted back to his given name. “How are you this evening?”
Carlos inhaled for a long breath, held the smoke in his lungs, and blew it out in lazy rings while sweat slicked my palms and perspiration dripped between my boobs and down my back.
As the last ring drifted towards the moon, Carlos spoke. “I have a man injured, and another who was
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