Mafia Chic by Erica Orloff Page A

demanded.
    “Di,” I answered before the FBI agent did. “ This is where our taxes go.” I pointed to Agent Petrocelli. “Welcome to the wonderful world of our government at work.”
    “It’s not my government,” she retorted. “In my government the most we have is a completely loopy royal family. Remember our infamous illicit tape recordings, with Prince Charles wanting to come back as that horsey-faced Camilla’s tampon and things like Squidgy-gate? But we don’t have big burly men frightening innocent women and causing them to break their Jimmy Choos!” And with this she shoved her shoe, hard, right into his chest.
    I looked up at Agent Petrocelli. I expected that at any moment five more agents would come swarming out of the van and put cuffs on us both. Instead, still smiling, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out his wallet and handed me his business card.
    “You send me a bill for your friend’s shoes,” he said, “and I’ll pay for them out of my own pocket.”
    “I bet!” Di snapped. “You’re probably all talk, no trousers.”
    Agent Petrocelli looked at me.
    “Means she doesn’t believe you.”
    “I’m completely sincere. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I think since our cover is blown, we may as well call it a night.” Looking right at me, he winked. “See you around, Teddi.”
    With that, he opened the van door and climbed back in. As they pulled away, Diana elbowed me. “Well, how do you like that?”
    “What?”
    “Agent Hunk is smitten with you.”
    “No, he’s not.” I offered my arm, so she could lean on me as we started back toward the corner to hail a cab.
    “Is, too. I saw the wink.”
    “He had something in his eye.”
    “No. It was a wink.”
    “Maybe that’s just his way.”
    “Well, he didn’t give me his card. And I’m the one with the broken goddamn shoe. I could just cry. They were my favorite pair.”
    I looked down at the card in my hand—Special Agent In Charge. What did that mean? Did the FBI have un-special agents?
    We got to the corner, and I shoved the card into my purse. “Listen, Di, don’t tell my family about this.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, at first I thought we should, but on second thought, I think it would be better if we didn’t. That would make my family even more paranoid. Speaking of which—” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my uncle Lou’s Lincoln, with Tony at the wheel, careening over to the corner. He barely put it in Park before he was out the door.
    “Diana! Are you hurt?” He looked down at her naked foot and assumed, I guess, that she’d sprained her ankle.
    She glanced sidelong in my direction. It was up to me to concoct a lie. But I wasn’t raised in the mob for nothing.
    “She got her heel caught in a sidewalk grate. Twisted her ankle, poor baby.”
    Tony, muscular as a bodybuilder, lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the car. “Let’s get you home and put some ice on that ankle.”
    “Right-o, Tony.” She patted his chest and then leaned against him. “Working out, are you?”
    I followed behind. He opened the rear of the car. It was empty.
    “Where’s Uncle Lou?” Diana asked.
    I shot her a look. In my family, you learned early on not to ask too many questions.
    “He had business to take care of,” Tony said gently. He had to be in love with her. If I had asked something as naive as that, he would have snapped at me. But he said it to Diana as gently as a kindergarten schoolteacher explaining how to mix red and blue to make purple.
    I slid in next to Diana, and Tony drove us home, then carried Diana through the lobby and up to our apartment. Setting her on the couch, he remarked, “Thank God, Diana, it doesn’t look too swollen. Let’s get some ice, though.”
    He went into the kitchen, and I heard him opening the freezer.
    “Go help him,” Di urged. “He doesn’t know where we keep the plastic bags.”
    “I would follow him, but I’m in too much shock that he knows