Page 90 of Above ’N’ Beyond

Sammy tugged out the antenna and walked around the room. Jamie had no way of knowing if that particular device was capable of picking up on wired signals from Bella’s cameras. Most were designed to find wireless cameras and microphones. He also didn’t know about the quality of the device.

As Sammy continued around the room, aiming the antenna up to the ceiling, Bella poured the last glass of wine. For Jamie. She glanced at Sammy. Her hand trembled more, and a few drops of wine landed on the table.

Using fake potted plants, she’d concealed the cameras well. Unless the device in Sammy’s hand was powerful enough, or if the laser beam it emitted didn’t hit the cameras’ lenses, no signal would bounce back to the detector.

Bella’s throat worked as she gathered up the tray and headed for the door. Once more, she glanced worriedly to where Sammy circled the far side of the room, raising and lowering the device around the other tables and chairs. Before closing the door, she locked gazes with Jamie one last time.

Somehow, when this meeting was over, he had to find a way to talk to her. Alone.

Finally, Sammy returned to the table. The device hadn’t beeped or lit up once. “Room’s clean,” he said to Tony.

“Good. Everyone, dress up like we did for Ma’s dinner last night. Your best suit and tie.” Tony waggled his finger at the other men. “No warm-up suits. And Sammy, no sneakers. Capiche?” The other man nodded sheepishly. “That’s it for now. I want everyone here no later than six.”

“Are we packing?” Jamie asked. He would be. Knowing how many other guns would be there was tactically essential.

“Nah.” Tony made a face. “Marco will be. If the cocksucker ever shows up.”

“He’s probably just tied up with something.” Handcuffs.

Jamie followed Tony and the others from the room, then waited for them to leave before searching out Bella.

She wasn’t in the dining room or the kitchen. He found her in the walk-in, a clipboard in her hands as she surveyed the produce. “Bella.” For privacy, he closed the heavy door most of the way, blanketing them in the silent, cold air. “We need to talk.”

“I’d say we’ve talked enough. Jamie.” She leaned in, whispering, “Or should I call you Sergeant Pataglio?”

Ignoring the dig, he took her by the arm, forcing her to the back of the walk-in. “I know you want those sim cards to blackmail your aunt, but it won’t work. Even if Paola doesn’t snap your neck for bugging her meeting, which is the likeliest scenario, the Bistro is tainted. All its assets are comingled with dirty money.” It killed him to say it, but he wouldn’t lie to her about anything else. “The government will seize this place no matter whose name is on the deed.”

She swallowed hard, then thrust out her chin. “Maybe. Maybe not. Those sim cards are my property. Not yours.”

“I need those cards.” Ironically, those sim cards were his bargaining chip and hers. The FBI would seize those sim cards whether she liked it or not. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Whose?” She shrugged from his grasp. “Yours? I won’t tell anyone who you are.”

That much he’d figured out, or he’d be dead already. “Thank you, but that’s not enough. Leave those cards in the cameras. We’ll get them later with a search warrant.”

Bella clenched her jaw. “Not if I get there first. They’re all I have to bargain with. Stay out of my way. Stay out of my life.” She pushed past, leaving him alone in the walk-in.

If she took those cards before he or the FBI could grab them, it could take months for the legal system to do its thing and demand she turn them over. She’d get an attorney, more delays. His dad could be dead by then.

Pressing his hands against the cold wall, Jamie hung his head. He couldn’t choose between two people he loved. But his father’s situation really was life or death. He’d already lost Bella. He couldn’t lose his dad, too. Not without giving him a fighting chance. Somehow, he’d find a way inside the event tomorrow night.

Or die trying.

Chapter Thirty-One

By eight o’clock Friday night, Bella was ready to scream.

For the last hour, she, Lori, Rebecca, and Sierra had been scurrying around like indentured servants, delivering plates of olives, nuts, and cheeses. Already, they’d emptied out most of the bar’s top-shelf liquor. Now they were onto the antipasti.

She picked up the latest platters of bruschetta, inhaling the strong scent of garlic and herbs, and curling her fingers so tightly around the rims she worried the plates would break.

Inside the banquet room, Puccini’s “La Boheme” piped from the overhead speakers. Deep voices kept up steady conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter. Between all the expensive wine and food and paying her staff for the overtime, the price tag on Paola’s shindig would tap what remained of the Bistro’s accounts.

Every table was taken up by the seemingly never-ending stream of expensively dressed men who’d arrived in limousines and town cars that had blocked Main Street for the last hour. At least two dozen guests, by her count. The only woman there was Paola, seated at the head table. Rossi, Bruno, Gallo, and De Luca—the same men whom her aunt had honored at her house two nights ago—sat to her left. Another man sat to Paola’s right. Even she knew that man’s name.

Salvatore Palumbo. Head of the infamous Palumbo Crime Family.

For years, Salvatore Palumbo’s face had been plastered on the front pages of every major newspaper and highlighted on all the TV news networks. Standing guard against the wall behind him was Palumbo’s goon squad, three men with the stoniest, meanest faces she’d ever seen. They were like something out of a comic book. Big. Hulking. And with bulges beneath their suit jackets. Guns.