Page 67 of Fire on the Moon

Chapter Nineteen

Angelo gestured with the gun, which Zane noted had a silencer.

“Move back toward the bed,” he said, addressing both Zane and Francesca.

They moved. Zane could feel Francesca shaking beside him, and he put an arm around her waist.

“Steady.”

To help her keep her balance, he clasped her against his side, thankful that the phone in his pocket was recording.

Fumbling behind himself, Angelo closed the door and tried to lock it, but there was no way for a patient to lock himself in. “You heard what I arranged for you to hear.” He turned toward the man on the bed. “So you’re Glen Turner now, you scumbag. All these years, I’ve been looking for you, and then sweet little Francesca calls and says you’re dying. She says she wants us to kiss and make up. So I invite her down to my house in Naples.”

He gave her a smug look. “I couldn’t have planned it better if I had written the movie script.”

“Those men who invaded your house were really working for you?” Zane qualified.

Angelo’s expression turned nasty. “Yeah. And everything would have gone off without a hitch if you hadn’t stuck your ugly mug in where it didn’t belong.”

“Why did you want me think you were dead?” Francesca blurted. “And why did you burn down your own house?”

“The place was a rental. No skin off my nose. And I wanted to be sure you’d cut and run.”

“I could have gotten burned up.”

“Naw. The guys started with a bunch of smoke—to make you think the house was burning. It got out of hand, but that was okay. You were always supposed to get away and run back here to your dipshit Daddy and tell him what had happened. I was gonna use that pendant to make sure that went as planned. I coulda had my men follow you to the airport and see where you were going, then had someone pick up your trail when you got home, but your boyfriend here screwed that up. So I thought about what to do and sent the guys to his house, but you got away.” He glared at Zane. “I still had her fingerprints from the orange-juice glass. That was my backup—‘cause I knew they’d be on record.”

Zane gave him a questioning look. “Couldn’t you just use the ID you found in her purse?”

Angelo glared at him. “I didn’t know if it was legit. I mean, she and her dad have been hiding out for years. It could have been an elaborate hoax.”

“You’re the only one who’s that tricky,” the man in the bed muttered.

Zane was still after answers. “And you sent those men to kill us,” he interjected.

Angelo laughed. “Well, to kill you. But not her. I still needed her to go running back to Daddy.” He kept his focus on Zane. “And you wouldn’t give it up, would you? Why didn’t you cut and run instead of trying to squeeze my guys?”

Zane didn’t answer.

Francesca looked sick. “But why go to all that trouble to fake a murder scene? What’s all this about?”

The intruder’s gaze flicked toward his brother. “Back in the old days, your dad and I had a nice little hustle going until he got cold feet after the cops nabbed him.” He spoke directly to the man on the bed. “I woulda gotten you out of it.”

“Oh sure,” Francesca’s father answered.

Angelo ignored him and went on. ‘”You traded information for your hide, you rat. You got a lot of the guys sent to the slammer. Men who were loyal soldiers. I was lucky to get away, but not with my money. Where is it? What have you done with the cash you stole from me?”

Turner tried to push himself up, then collapsed back onto the bed.

“The money,” his brother snarled.

“This is about money?” Francesca gasped.

Both brothers ignored her. A mixture of fear and defiance fought for dominance on the sick man’s face. “I don’t have it.”

“What—you gave it to her?” He gestured toward Francesca.

“No!” the man who had become Glen Turner shouted. “It was dirty money. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I gave it back to the people we stole it from.”

---