“I’ve heard about a diner. Tomasso told me about it, but he refuses to take me there. It has been a long time since I had a proper American diner meal. What about there?"
"There?" Jake asked, surprised. "Uh, sure. I guess. What time?"
"Eleven thirty. That way, I can make sure I have lots of time to enjoy our . . . conversation?" I said, again putting a little extra emphasis and accent on the final word. I was thrilled when I saw Tomasso's fingers tighten slightly, even though he knew it was all an act.
"Yeah, I'll be there. See you then."
"Goodbye, Jake."
I hung up the phone and handed it back to Tomasso, who was looking at me with a little scowl on his face. "What?"
"You enjoyed that too much," he said, putting his phone away. "You were teasing me."
I smiled and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. “If there's anyone that I'm going to want to make jealous in this country, it's you."
He huffed slightly, then nodded. "Come on. Time for us to get our shit together. As much as I've enjoyed this day, work calls."
We made our way to the car, where I paused before closing the door for him. "Thank you for a nice date."
"It's not a date," Tomasso replied with a mock growl as he jammed his crutches into the floorboard of his car. "If I ever take you out on a date, you'll know it."
Chapter 15
Tomasso
We got to the diner early, a little after eleven in order to make sure our deception was in place. Luisa was dressed in one of her sexiest semi-casual outfits, a short-sleeved blouse with a plunging neckline, along with a set of slacks that left little to the imagination. She had a borrowed miniature Beretta in her purse, a Model 950 that had only a three-inch barrel, the smallest gun in our house arsenal. Ironically, it was also one of the guns that was produced in Italy, the United States and Brazil, which lent a touch of rightness to her carrying it. I hoped that she wouldn’t have reason to take it out, let alone use it.
I came in ten minutes after Luisa, dressed not as Tomasso Bertoli, but as your typical day laborer who was down on his luck. Underneath my jacket, I wore my own pistol, this time a military-style M9. I crutched over to a booth that allowed me to see both the entrance and where Luisa was sitting and dropped in as if I were exhausted. It wasn't that hard of an act, as I'd crutched nearly three blocks in order to make my arrival seem natural.
The waitress came over, not recognizing me even though I'd been in the diner multiple times before. I was glad my disguise was decent enough, at least. "What can I getcha, hon?"
"Coffee and a slice of pecan pie," I said, pitching my voice higher and screechier than normal. Until Pietro came in, I didn't want anyone recognizing me. "That's three bucks, right?"
"With tax, it's about three fifty," the waitress said, waiting until I peeled out the crumpled and dirtied four singles from my pocket. It was that sort of diner, pay as you go unless you were a Bertoli man. "I'll get you your change with your pie."
"Thanks," I said, watching as Luisa sipped at what looked like an herbal tea. I reached inside my jacket and tapped the little device inside, activating the Bluetooth earpiece that I had in my ear underneath my disheveled hair. "Whatcha drinking?"
"Chamomile . . . and Everclear," Luisa mumbled softly before laughing, cutting her eyes over to me as she took another drink. "Okay, minus the Everclear."
"Good. We've got about three minutes before Jake gets here. You ready?"
She took another sip of her tea and nodded, seemingly to herself, if anyone was watching. "I'll be okay."
The waitress brought my coffee and pie, along with my change, which I left sitting as a tip. I tried the pie, enjoying the rich flavor, and reminded myself to order a slice again when I came here as myself next time. The reality was that the diner was mostly a greasy spoon-type joint, and I was glad to have at least one thing on the menu that wasn't going to give me indigestion.
The bell above the door jingled, and Jake came in. He was wearing not the more typical off-the-rack suit that I assumed he wore for work at the pizza offices, but instead, his tailored suit, the one that he probably wore when he was being a Bertoli man. A little slick, custom fit, and certainly one that said whoever wore it was in charge of himself. He barely glanced in my direction as I huddled over my coffee and pie, but instead, his attention was all on Luisa, who half stood up and waved. Then again, with her cleavage exposed and the smile on her face while she half bent over, I could understand.