Heart of the World by Linda Barnes Page B

bed. Walked as far as the window, lifted the corner of the shade. I always think I’ll splurge and buy curtains, but I never get around to it.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œTrying to see whether the snow's stopped.”
    Sam's penthouse at Charles River Park has heavy gold blackout drapes over triple-glazed windows, a king-sized bed, and carpet your toes can get lost in. My drafty old Victorian has chilly hardwood floors and plain white walls. The house has good bones, good space. Potential, a realtor would rave. It belonged to my Aunt Bea, and she left it to me, free and clear, except for property taxes that rise like Iowa corn in July.
    â€œSounds more like rain,” Sam said.
    â€œSleet.” I shivered in the chill, and the CD ended. Instead of sticking another disc in the player, I picked up the Plexiglas music box off the top of the dresser, the one I’d found in Paolina's room, and turned the silver key. Inside the clear plastic, gears meshed and rotated, and the first halting notes of “Teddy Bears’ Picnic” emerged.
    When Paolina was barely seven years old, when we first met, she was behind in a lot of ways, shy and fearful. Because I was not her mother, not exactly a friend, not a teacher, we had the freedom to regress, to go back and do some of the things she’d never done with her mom, play the baby games, read the baby books. I remembered endless rounds of hide-and-seek to the refrain of “Teddy Bears’ Picnic.” By the time the music box ran down, one of us had to be safely hidden. Not till the music wavered and died could the other yell, “Ready or not, here I come.”
    â€œSam?”
    He grunted sleepily.
    â€œAny chance she could have been snatched because of you? Because of your—what you do?”
    He didn’t reply for such a long time I thought he might not have heard me. Then he said, “You spent time with your cop pal today. Mooney. The one who wants to get into your pants.”
    â€œHey,” I said. “He might have mentioned it first, but I’d have gotten there on my own, sooner or later. And you know he's my friend, and that's all he is.”
    â€œDon’t tell me he wouldn’t like to be more.”
    â€œSam, stop it. Just answer the damn question.”
    â€œThe answer's no. Plain and simple. No. Nobody's going to go after Paolina because of me. Nobody in their right mind.”
    â€œI’m not worried about people in their right mind. I’m worried about contract killers from Miami.”
    â€œWhere the hell did that come from? Late-night TV? Listen, I work with businessmen. Get it? I don’t operate some low-rent street gang. I don’t do Jamaican drug rings and—”
    â€œHow about Colombian?” I said sharply. “What exactly do you know about Roldan? What do you hear?”
    The room was dark. I could tell by his outline that he’d turned to face me, but I couldn’t see his eyes. “I thought we had an agreement, remember? I’m not your window into the Mob. You don’t want to know about the business.”
    â€œSam, come on. Am I some little Mafia wifey? Hear no evil? See no evil? I know the Italian thing isn’t a gents’ club anymore, running policy numbers and strip shows and shit. It's drugs now, Sam. That's where the money is, right? Drugs. And I’m asking because I need to know. This isn’t some case; this is Paolina.”
    â€œThe money's in legitimate businesses,” he said.
    â€œYeah,” I said. Right. I clamped my lips together but I couldn’t stop. “Sam, don’t you see? Every day, you’re getting in deeper. Can’t you get away from it?”
    â€œMy dad,” he said softly. That was all. My dad .
    Anthony “Big Tony” Gianelli, Mob patriarch, Sam's father, was in a nursing home. The first stroke had been mild, but there’d been others, each minor, but with a cumulative