"I can do that,” Tomasso said, not unkindly. Considering the conversation we'd had that afternoon over coffee, he at least partially understood my frustration. He looked at me now with understanding written on his face, which for some reason just made me angrier. "Luisa, would you come with me, please?"
In the hallway, I stopped and stared down the richly carpeted surface. Tomasso closed the door to his father's study behind him, and I looked over. "You said please. I appreciate it."
He turned and looked at me carefully. His face was collected, but his voice was slightly haughty and commanding. "Luisa, I don't like this any more than you do. You don't want to be in Seattle—I get it. You've got some bug up your ass about Americans—I get that too. Right now, I'm just as frustrated because I haven't even learned all the parts of being an errand boy for my father's organization, and now I'm being tasked with something much more important, making sure you stay safe. I'd prefer if we could at least be polite with each other like we were at the cafe this afternoon, but if you want to hold your father's stupid chauvinism against me, there's not a thing I can do to stop you. Your choice, chica."
I wanted to slap him. Nobody except my father had spoken to me in such a frank, yet still disrespectful tone since I was a child. Even my brothers had learned to avoid my wrath. However, Tomasso was right. I wasn't pissed at him as much as I was pissed at my father. "Come on then," I said instead, pointing down the hall. "I'm sure you know which room I'm supposed to use."
"Actually, no," he replied with a chuckle. "But we can ask Jessie. She's one of the maids, and she'll know."
We found Jessie in the kitchen, busily cleaning the silverware. A pretty girl wearing what looked like a new wedding ring, she still blushed when Tomasso called her name, and I wondered if the two had any sort of history together. "Jessie? This is Luisa Mendosa. She's going to be staying at the house for a little while. Dad said there might be some empty rooms in the guest wing."
Jessie thought, then nodded. “Only one, sir. It was the room your cousin used when she was staying away from that psycho stalker.”
Tomasso smirked and chuckled. "Oh, the irony. All right, show us the room, if you could."
Jessie, complete in a little maid's outfit that while not totally sexist, certainly accentuated her petite but sexy figure, led us both across to the other wing of the house, opening a door to an internal room. "I'm sorry, Miss Mendosa, but all the other rooms are currently in use. Well, except for Miss Bertoli's private room. If you'd like, and Don Bertoli approves, I can—”
"No. This will be fine," I said, giving her the kindest smile I could muster at the moment. I already towered over the girl, who looked to be barely over five feet tall. She was clearly intimidated, and I didn't want to scare her. "Thank you. Tomasso, you said something earlier about my bags?"
He nodded. “I’ll give Pietro a call and see what’s taking them. In the meantime, relax, and you can have the run of the house—I have to go make my rounds."
I shrugged, not knowing what to say. "Thank you. For now, I think I'm going to sit and think."
“Okay, but please, if you want to leave the house, find me. I'll come check up on you later, maybe at seven or eight. That's when we’ll have dinner. And if you don’t have your clothes by then, don’t worry about it.”
I looked down at my paint stained t-shirt and sighed. I could hear the joke in Tomasso's voice, and he wasn't trying to needle me. He was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. "Okay. Thank you."
The next day, I was wearing my second-best suit when I met Dominic Petruzelli, the family attorney. Tomasso drove me down to the police headquarters in his Alfa-Romeo, remarking that he was glad the seats cleaned so quickly. When I asked him what he meant, he told me that he'd spent a half-hour scrubbing the headrest of my seat after I'd bled on it the day before, which did cause me to feel a little bit guilty, even though I obviously couldn’t have controlled it. Dropping me off, he said he'd go wait a little distance away, where the police weren’t so interested in people with the last name of Bertoli.
I didn't have to wait long to meet Dominic. He was waiting in the middle of the plaza outside the police headquarters, and he recognized me immediately, probably from my height and my blonde hair. Even in America, there are not too many six foot blondes running around. "Miss Mendosa? I'm Dom Petruzelli, the Bertoli family attorney."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Petruzelli. And how are you?"