strategize a way you can be my handler and my manhandler. Okay?”
“Sasha—”
“I’ve got to go.” She grabbed her coat and purse off the chair and strode to the door, afraid to turn back toward him, even to say goodbye. Something inside told her that if they made eye contact now, she’d be back in his arms for the rest of the morning, and there wasn’t time for that.
Not now, because she needed to rescue Teal.
And maybe not ever.
But she wasn’t ready to concede that yet.
Spoiled Mafia brat, she accused herself with a rueful laugh as she dashed down the three flights of stairs to the street, then hailed a cab to take her to her childhood home for the first time in almost eight years.
She would have loved to surprise Big Frankie, but security at his two-story brick house was too tight to allow a strange vehicle to approach without someone noticing, so she instructed the cab driver to pull right up to the front curb, then took a moment to compose herself.
To her amazement, the emotion that was causing her hands to tremble was pure excitement untainted by dread. Was it possible she was really ready to face him? Or more likely, had Gianna’s wedding gotten to her so much that the little girl in her needed to touch base with her daddy—to pretend that nothing had come between them?
The house was set back a good fifty feet from the street, and Sasha knew she was being watched. She could be intercepted easily before she reached the porch despite the lack of fencing around the property. There were always men in the apartment over the garage, visiting, plotting or just catching a few winks. And her father was almost certainly sitting at his desk, which was positioned in front of a huge bay window that looked out on the street. In warmer months, he could usually be found in the backyard, tending his fruit trees and garden. But in winter, he practically lived at his desk in the den.
Pulling out a compact, she checked her makeup, and was amused at the flush that lingered on her cheeks from her encounter with Jeff. Not exactly the first look she wanted her father to see after so many years. He was a pretty good judge of human nature, and he’d want to know who the man was, the same way he had demanded to know about every boy she had ever spoken to in Chicago and Arizona during her teenage years.
Probably not the right time to tell him that you’re hot for an FBI agent, she teased herself as she applied a light dusting of powder to her otherwise radiant glow. Then she winced, remembering that that wasn’t half the story. She was an FBI snitch in her own right. What would her father say about that? Subdued, she paid the driver and sent him away, then turned back to the house just as the front door opened and Big Frankie Bracciali stepped into view.
At fifty-five, his hair was the same vibrant shade of blue-black as Sasha’s, without a hint of gray. Still he looked a little older, she realized in surprise. Strong as a bull, yes, and commanding as ever, but there was something a little different behind his deep brown eyes.
It wasn’t age that had changed him, it was sadness. She knew that because as soon as she lifted her hand in a halfhearted, vulnerable wave, the years dropped away, and his expression became almost celestial with love and relief.
“Dad…” She bit her lip, then raced toward him, throwing herself into his arms, shocking herself even more than him with the intensity of her display.
“Mio Dio,” he whispered into her hair as he crushed her to his chest. “Is this true? Are you here?”
“I’m here,” she assured him, laughing and sobbing all at one time.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her a few inches away, enough to stare down into her face as he demanded frantically, “You’re not dying, are you?”
Laughing again, Sasha sandwiched his cheeks between her palms. “Of course not, silly. Do I look that bad?”
“You’re a vision,” he corrected as he hugged her
“Sasha—”
“I’ve got to go.” She grabbed her coat and purse off the chair and strode to the door, afraid to turn back toward him, even to say goodbye. Something inside told her that if they made eye contact now, she’d be back in his arms for the rest of the morning, and there wasn’t time for that.
Not now, because she needed to rescue Teal.
And maybe not ever.
But she wasn’t ready to concede that yet.
Spoiled Mafia brat, she accused herself with a rueful laugh as she dashed down the three flights of stairs to the street, then hailed a cab to take her to her childhood home for the first time in almost eight years.
She would have loved to surprise Big Frankie, but security at his two-story brick house was too tight to allow a strange vehicle to approach without someone noticing, so she instructed the cab driver to pull right up to the front curb, then took a moment to compose herself.
To her amazement, the emotion that was causing her hands to tremble was pure excitement untainted by dread. Was it possible she was really ready to face him? Or more likely, had Gianna’s wedding gotten to her so much that the little girl in her needed to touch base with her daddy—to pretend that nothing had come between them?
The house was set back a good fifty feet from the street, and Sasha knew she was being watched. She could be intercepted easily before she reached the porch despite the lack of fencing around the property. There were always men in the apartment over the garage, visiting, plotting or just catching a few winks. And her father was almost certainly sitting at his desk, which was positioned in front of a huge bay window that looked out on the street. In warmer months, he could usually be found in the backyard, tending his fruit trees and garden. But in winter, he practically lived at his desk in the den.
Pulling out a compact, she checked her makeup, and was amused at the flush that lingered on her cheeks from her encounter with Jeff. Not exactly the first look she wanted her father to see after so many years. He was a pretty good judge of human nature, and he’d want to know who the man was, the same way he had demanded to know about every boy she had ever spoken to in Chicago and Arizona during her teenage years.
Probably not the right time to tell him that you’re hot for an FBI agent, she teased herself as she applied a light dusting of powder to her otherwise radiant glow. Then she winced, remembering that that wasn’t half the story. She was an FBI snitch in her own right. What would her father say about that? Subdued, she paid the driver and sent him away, then turned back to the house just as the front door opened and Big Frankie Bracciali stepped into view.
At fifty-five, his hair was the same vibrant shade of blue-black as Sasha’s, without a hint of gray. Still he looked a little older, she realized in surprise. Strong as a bull, yes, and commanding as ever, but there was something a little different behind his deep brown eyes.
It wasn’t age that had changed him, it was sadness. She knew that because as soon as she lifted her hand in a halfhearted, vulnerable wave, the years dropped away, and his expression became almost celestial with love and relief.
“Dad…” She bit her lip, then raced toward him, throwing herself into his arms, shocking herself even more than him with the intensity of her display.
“Mio Dio,” he whispered into her hair as he crushed her to his chest. “Is this true? Are you here?”
“I’m here,” she assured him, laughing and sobbing all at one time.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her a few inches away, enough to stare down into her face as he demanded frantically, “You’re not dying, are you?”
Laughing again, Sasha sandwiched his cheeks between her palms. “Of course not, silly. Do I look that bad?”
“You’re a vision,” he corrected as he hugged her
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