The Gun Runner(76)

“I know you do.”

I walked the edge of the island, and reached for his hand. “We’re safe? I don’t need to be worried?”

“A misunderstanding,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding. You’re not at risk.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as the Pope is Catholic.”

I wasn’t as sure as he was, and I always worried about such things. I asked, and he answered my question, trusting me to be able to accept the information he gave me. I was excited, fearful and wanted to know so much more, but knew to mask my feelings.

I forced a smile. “Good.”

“You say nothing to your mother. Not to Peter.” He pointed to me, and then to himself. “You and me. Our secret.”

I grinned. “Our secret.”

He glanced at his watch and gasped. “I’m late. Jimmy. He’s so demanding of my time.”

I waved my hand toward the island. “I’ll put everything away.”

He smiled, kissed me and turned toward the door. Before he got to the hallway, he turned to face me. “Loose lips. They sink the ships.”

I shook my head. “Our secret.”

“That’s my girl.”

I cleaned up the mess and thought about everything he said. While I was wiping off the countertop, I had an epiphany.

No way.

In my father’s explanation of what happened to Peter, he didn’t mention Argentina. Peter wasn’t in Argentina. It was probably what he told everyone to hide what was really happening.

Michael, Cap and the other two men had saved a hostage on the night before Peter came home.

Cap said Michael gave the man one of his suits to wear.

I tossed the rag on the countertop and raced to Peter’s room. Nervously, I looked through his closet at his suits. Four suits, all roughly the same color of dark gray, hung in his closet. They looked like what Peter had always worn when he was dressed in a suit, and not like Michael’s more modern-fitting clothes.

Shit.

I felt like a detective who had chased a lead in an investigation, only to find out it was a dead end. To think that somehow my father had talked Michael into saving my brother from someone who took him for ransom was a ridiculous thought anyway.

I laughed to myself at my mind’s ability to manufacture such nonsense and walked out of the closet and into Peter’s bedroom. A quick scan of the room brought back memories of my childhood, and how I always felt like the much older sister, although I was only two years older.

I turned to walk out, and when I did, noticed a few articles of clothing draped over the back of a chair at the desk—more than likely things he intended to take to the dry cleaners. Excitedly, I walked to the desk, lifted the items from the back of the chair, and voila.

A navy suit.

I looked inside the jacket.

Brioni. 44R.

I didn’t know what size Michael was, but he was smaller than Peter. Peter was like my uncle Sal, kind of thick and a little chubby, but really tall. I ran to the closet, removed one of the jackets and looked inside.

Joseph Abboud. 46L.

I looked at the next. And the next. And the next. All were Joseph Abboud 46L.

I carefully draped the clothes back over the chair and stared at them. I had no idea what was going on—or if my suspicions were accurate—but I suspected somehow Michael became involved in my brother’s rescue. I wondered if it was common knowledge that he was a former marine, and he offered such services, or if my father somehow knew him. Maybe my father purchased guns from him, I had no idea.

I stumbled to the kitchen. I began to run through the possibilities, seeming almost frantic to find the answers, only to realize I couldn’t know anything for sure. There was no way I would be able to find out anything definite without telling Michael who I really was, and if I told him now it was quite possible I would jeopardize our relationship.

And that was something I couldn’t risk.

My father certainly wouldn’t volunteer anything, and if I revealed I knew Michael—depending on how my father came to know him—it could create many more problems than simply dating a non-Italian beyond the authority of the Catholic church.

I somehow needed to find a way to remain Terra Wilson and act like I knew nothing—at least until the entire truth revealed itself.

But I feared the guilt from not telling Michael who I really was would kill me.





Chapter Thirty-Four

Michael

I didn’t want to appear stupid, but I was sure beginning to feel that way. “I guess I’m not really following what it is you’re trying to say.”

Agrioli adjusted himself in his seat, turned toward Jimmy Cupcake and shrugged. Cupcake brushed the sleeves of his jacket with his hands as if he was cleaning them of an invisible filth. He locked eyes with me and leaned forward in his seat.