LITMIR.BIZ

      Leslie J. Wainger

      Executive Editor

      Last Man Standing

      Wendy Rosnau

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      WENDY ROSNAU

      resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and writing romantic suspense.

      Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times Top Pick. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award.

      Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.

      To my husband, Jerry,

      who continues to stand beside me.

       I love you….

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Each time Lucky Masado entered the gates of Dante Armanno, he found one more reason not to like Vito Tandi’s estate. Today’s niggle was security.

      There were nine state-of-the-art cameras positioned strategically on the grounds, two twelve-foot electronic iron gates, eight hungry-looking Rottweilers on the prowl and four experienced soldatos shouldering AR-70s on the rooftop.

      Still, he’d been inside the house twice without anyone knowing, which meant any day of the week he could play gut-and-run on Vito Tandi and walk away. But that’s not what Lucky wanted from the old capo. Vito would die soon enough without anyone cutting his jugular. If he lasted the year, it would be a miracle.

      The armed guard at the gate was expecting Lucky and flagged him through. It was late, after nine, and he drove his red Ferrari—the only extravagant toy he owned—up the paved half-mile driveway lined with one-hundred-year-old oak trees dressed in winter white.

      Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, the Midwest had gotten ten inches of snow. With temperatures tickling twenty degrees, it was logical to assume that winter had arrived in Chicago.

      Lucky sped through the second set of open gates—another guard giving him a nod—then rounded the circular inlaid courtyard where the statue of Armanno, Sicily’s legendary hero, stood in a snowdrift.

      Accustomed to the routine that had been set a few days ago, he climbed out of the car, tossed his keys to a man named Finch and headed for the keystone archway. He was still required to empty his pockets at the front door. Lucky pulled out his weapons. Three knives—a Hibben, four-inch stiletto and a Haug with a curved blade able to tear a man to shreds in a matter of seconds—were laid out on a marble slab inside the archway. Next came the guns: two skeleton-grip 9-mm Berettas, a Smith & Wesson .22 and the lupara that rode inside the lining of his jacket.

      His pockets empty, Lucky entered the house and followed Vito’s bodyguard down a hallway lit by shadow boxes filled with everything from sixteenth-century swords to Civil War rifles. Vito’s bodyguard was a foot taller than Lucky, which put him over seven feet. Dressed in black pants and a black sweater, the only hint that Benito Palone lived for more than protecting the life of a dying mob boss was the diamond earring he wore and the tattoo of a woman’s backside burned into his forearm.

      Lucky had noticed the earring days ago. Now as Benito reached to open the study door, he offered Lucky a glimpse of his tattoo, two inches above his wrist.

      Because Lucky knew Palone’s intent was to follow him inside, he turned before the big man had a chance to duck his head and negotiate the door’s six-nine opening. Then, in a voice much quieter than one would expect for a man reported to be the most aggressive street soldier in Chicago, he said, “Not this time, Palone. Today, I’m a solo act with your boss.”

      The guard’s green eyes narrowed. He looked over Lucky’s head to where the ailing mobster sat behind an eight-foot-long oak desk. “What do you say, Mr. Tandi? He has no weapons, but—”

      “It’s all right, Benito,” Vito’s gravelly voice rumbled. “If Frank Masado’s son was going to kill me, I expect I would be dead by now. Isn’t that right, Nine-Lives Lucky?”

      Lucky refused to be baited by the use of his childhood nickname. Since he had established himself in the organization years ago, his nickname had been shortened. Of course there were those who still used his given name of Tomas—mostly people outside the famiglia.

      “You wanted to see me.” Lucky eyed the bulky body behind the desk. Vito was dressed in a black smoking jacket with red satin lapels. He was sixty-three years old and bald, but for a graying tuft that rimmed the back of his head and tickled his ears. He was average in height, well above average in weight and would be dead within the year of

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