Out of Time (Fall of the Morelli Crime Family #3)

4. Chapter 4

four

Bianca

M ark looked like I’d slapped him. He dropped the hand that had been gently resting along my elbow and took a full step back from me.

I expected it. He was a good man, a good cop, and he wanted nothing to do with me now that he knew the truth.

I wasn’t surprised, but I was heartbroken nonetheless.

I nodded, trying to hide my desolation when Mark made his excuses and left, then slowly made my way back to my car. I’d text Frannie and plan to make it up to her another night. If I wasn’t feeling it earlier, I certainly wasn’t up for company after actually seeing Mark and having him all but tell me to take a hike.

I drove home to Haight-Ashbury, parking my car in the garage about half a block from my building. I had a long-standing deal with the owner of the lot that I could park there whenever I wanted if I gave him first dibs and a fifteen percent discount on any of the classic sixties pieces that made their way into my shop.

Who cared about a 150-year-old grandfather clock or an authentic 1600s pocket watch when this man could relive his free-love days with the rest of the OG Haight-Ashbury hippie crowd?

I waved to the parking attendant in his booth as I headed out and hauled ass to my storefront, only pausing to briefly take out my set of keys to the bookshop next door and flip the sign on their door over so it said CLOSED. I locked it back up and unlocked my own door to let myself into my shop, fumbling through my tote for my phone to send a text to the owner next door.

Your husband left the OPEN sign out again. Fixed it.

After I threw Steven under the bus—for the third time this month—I dropped the phone back into my bag and debated just going upstairs to bed. I had a full-size loft apartment upstairs, but I spent almost every waking hour in the larger downstairs space, repairing and restoring vintage timepieces.

Responsibility won the debate in my head because I wasn’t lying to Mark; I really did have work to do, and it was best to get it done tonight. I could forget myself in the process so I didn’t have to think about the lose-lose situation my love life had become. I needed to prep for my mid-year inventory, take care of my monthly bookkeeping, and complete a job for a paying client, so I had plenty to keep me busy. Which one first?

That was an easy answer: client fulfillment first, back of house business stuff later.

I pulled the box from my client toward me, using a letter opener to get some aggression out and stab through the tape sealing the package. It contained a variety of fancy gold watches and various of computer chips. I delicately emptied the box out, finding the list of instructions on the bottom.

Each watch had a matching computer chip that needed to be seamlessly inserted, enclosed, and made to look like it never existed. I followed the instructions on the list, matching up individual watches with the chips that were supposed to be placed inside, then retrieved my toolbox from under the counter and got to work.

This was for a recurring client, an online spyware shop that sold hidden bugging devices, discreet cameras, night vision goggles, and other nonsense like that to people.

The watches were all nice, expensive, and common. I could find any of them at a nice department store—think Nordstrom, not Walmart—but their real value came in what was hidden inside: fancy audio recording chips, GPS tracking, blank chips just existing as a way for the buyer to hide sensitive information in a common accessory…It was pretty genius.

And the work was simple. I didn’t know why a company that could create technology like that in such a small package couldn’t fathom taking out a couple screws and dodging some simple mechanics to place the chip, but it was an easy job that paid well. Who was I to complain if the company helped me profit from girlfriends spying on their cheating partners? This was my third batch of watches for the company, and this job alone could have paid the mortgage on my building. Since my dad didn’t want me to have to worry about anything like a pesky loan payment, he’d purchased the building for me outright six years ago, so the wad of money instead went right into my savings account.

Heck, maybe I should send the owner of NoMoreCheaterz.com a thank you card. I paused my work to shift through the drawer under my register for a notecard and envelope, then hesitated.

I didn’t actually know the owner’s name. We always communicated through their company email, and he paid the invoice promptly with the link I sent out through my accounting software, but I’d never actually spoken to him. That wasn’t unusual in a lot of online businesses, but it was unusual in this district.

We always got really into each other’s business (figuratively and literally—I’d just barged into the bookshop next door and caused marital drama with a text a couple minutes ago, after all) in this neighborhood. It came from working in a historic district, an area that was so vital to America’s recent history. We weren’t just businesses on the same street; we were neighbors. Friends.

But it wasn’t a bad thing to take a little non-neighborly business to keep the lights on. Even in the Haight-Ashbury, sometimes you needed to sell out just a little. And me selling out for a client or two each month meant I had the disposable income to buy exclusively from local vendors and shops.

I finished the job and packed everything back up. I emailed the courier, letting them know to send someone for the package tomorrow. Mission complete.

While I procrastinated working on my inventory, I opened a second, much smaller package that came by a different courier around the same. It was a small box with a note attached, my father’s handwriting immediately recognizable.

A lovely accessory for a lovely woman. It’s been too long since I spoiled you, cara mia.

I smiled, opening the little box. Then I laughed.

It was a delicate gold watch. I’d just altered one that looked exactly the same for my mysterious online client, inserting a GPS tracker. It was just as I surmised when working on the watches: they were expensive, high quality, but obviously mass-produced and readily available in the right places.

Good thing Dad already knew where I lived, or I might have been nervous. A lot of the watches I altered were repeated each month—I thought I remembered this exact one in last month’s shipment—so I very well could have just bugged myself when I clasped the delicate watch around my wrist.

Gifting was my dad’s love language. He made a lot of money when he was a lawyer and we lived on the East Coast, but he made even more now that he was a “lawyer.”

He always found ways to spoil me with items I never asked for. Every couple weeks as a child I’d received a fancy toy, I got a new car at sixteen, and he paid for my college so I never had to take out any student loans.

He even insisted on buying my building for me, even though I’d already done all the work and secured a loan. “Why would I let my daughter pay a mortgage if I can help it? You should spend your money as you see fit, cara mia! I’ll do this for you.”

The extravagances came less often when I moved out of the house and into the apartment upstairs six years ago, but they still came, though usually they were given in person at our weekly family dinner. I didn’t know why he didn’t just wait until I came over to visit to give it to me.

But it didn’t really matter. My father was thinking of me and wanted me to have something pretty.

The watch itself was practically a work of art: fine golden filagree and beautiful roses (for my middle name, of course) twined together to create the band, with a smooth mother-of-pearl face, the numbers carefully painted and the hands made of golden strands so thin they looked like they could break at any moment.

I almost didn’t want to wear it, to save it for a special occasion, but my father fully believed that wealth should be flaunted. He would want me to wear it as often as it went with my outfit, even if it meant it would get damaged or broken.

“You can replace a silly necklace, bambina,” he once said. “You cannot replace how beautiful you look when you wear it!” Although a silver necklace with a very real and very large emerald was overkill for a seven-year-old’s birthday present, I felt like a princess wearing it until the chain busted when I was playing in the bounce house.

While I may not agree with the wastefulness as an adult living on my own, I could appreciate the sentiment for his sake and wear the darn watch because I knew it would make him happy.

I had a caring father, a sweet mother. Who needed anything more? I didn’t need to start a family with Mark when I already had one.

I bit down on my lip when I felt it tremble with the weight of suppressed emotion. I couldn’t fall apart again. I needed to keep busy.

With nothing left to capture my attention, I started up my laptop and opened my bookkeeping software. I had to catch up on a month’s worth of transactions and it was only three days before my bookkeeper was due to go through my books.

The process was straightforward enough, but insanely boring. Fifteen transactions left. Seven transactions. Four, three, two.

“I hate paperwork,” I told the empty shop. The empty shop did not answer, thankfully, but I took that as my cue to head up to bed, leaving the last transaction to reconcile for tomorrow. Not for any rational reason, but as a compromise to the Me who hated the business side of running a business.

Petty, sure, but it got me through the tedium.

I grabbed my tote and fumbled through it for my phone as I headed up the back stairs, intent on texting my dad a thank you for the gift.

The phone ringing in my hand surprised me enough that I let out a small shriek in the quiet, nearly dropping it down the stairs, but my racing heart settled back down as confusion took hold when I saw the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a local 415 so I swiped the green icon to answer the call.

“Hello, Morelli Timepieces and Vintage,” I answered before slapping a hand on my forehead. Just because I was in the shop didn’t mean I was answering the shop phone.

“Morelli Timepieces and Vintage, huh?”

I gasped. Why was Mark calling me?

“I meant just ‘hello,’” I answered weakly. “This isn’t my business line.”

“A Morelli watch is a real killer, you know that?” I didn’t quite understand his tone of voice, but he was still reaching out, even after he knew who I was.

“Oh, I know it. I’m good at my job. I can fix almost anything. Just not smart watches. Sorry again.” I was smiling widely, cradling the phone close to my face as I twirled back and forth on cloud nine. Mark wanted to talk to me. He wanted to hear my voice enough to track down my number. I was flattered and blushing like a teen with her first crush.

“I meant literally. Do you make the watches for your family?”

Oh. His tone was hard. Mark was angry with me. He didn’t love me, didn’t want me.

“No?” It came out as a question, uncertainty over how to handle Mark’s anger making me self-conscious. “Sometimes when I come across a really nice men’s watch I keep it out of my inventory and give it to someone as a gift, but I don’t make any of them.”

Don’t hate me for my family, please.

“Your father has done a lot of illegal things, you know.”

“Allegedly,” I said, well-versed in the favorite word of many men in our family.

“He’s committed fraud, money laundering. He’s stalked people. Had them killed. Engaged in witness tampering, spying on them.”

I glanced down at the watch resting on my wrist again, but then folded my arm across my chest, tucking the piece under my arm. It was a coincidence. I only ever worked, patronized local businesses, and volunteered at the Community Center. Even if my dad wanted to track my movements, he didn’t need GPS for that. He didn’t need to bug me.

“Allegedly,” I said again. He’d be in prison if they could prove any of that. Blood is thicker than water, cara mia. Always stand with your blood over everyone else.

“We’re working on it, Bianca.” That name coming from his mouth sounded wrong. Only my family called me Bianca Rose. Everyone I met on my own—without their influence or interference—always called me Bee. But then his words hit me.

Would Mark and his task force succeed? Panic crept up my spine at the thought of my dad going to jail.

But Daddy does do illegal things.

It wasn’t a secret. He was clearly in the mafia, just like my grandfather was before he died. But my dad was a good man. He only worked some mafia things on the side because it was part of the family business. Small stuff, I was sure, like chop shops or something. I never asked.

I never wanted to know the details. I didn’t want that aspect of my father’s life to affect how I saw him.

He always provided for us. He gave gifts to both me and my mother. He smiled and was affectionate, made me feel loved. He was a good father and husband to the women in his life, and I never saw a need to ruin that with something like the truth. Should I have?

“Bianca, I don’t want to argue with you,” Mark said with a heavy sigh, interrupting my crisis of faith.

“Then why did you call?” It clearly wasn’t to say we could get past the truth of who my family was.

“I still think we should talk. There’s a lot to discuss, isn’t there?”

“Off the record?” I asked out of instinct. Was that a thing with cops, or just journalists?

“Definitely off the record. Believe me, I don’t want to be caught fraternizing with you, so nothing you tell me will make it into an actual report.” He didn’t want to be caught with me. Ouch. Hit a girl where it hurts. “Besides, I just want to talk about you, not your relatives.”

“What do you want to talk with me about, if not…that?”

“Why don’t you meet me for coffee tomorrow morning and you’ll see? My treat.”

I paused. What could be the harm?

“Where?” I asked.

“How about my place?” he said. It hurt that he didn’t want to be seen in public with me, but I definitely understood. “I can grab a couple coffees and some breakfast and meet you here. Do you remember where I live?”

“Yes.” I forgot nothing about that night. “When?”

“You’re an early riser, right? So how does seven sound?”

Blood is thicker than water, cara mia.

I shouldn’t want to meet with Mark, shouldn’t want to spend time with him. I should want to tell him no and hang up on him.

I compromised.

“Yes,” I told him. Then I hung up.

At least I did one thing I was supposed to.