The Goddaughter by Melodie Campbell

CHAPTER ONE
    I like Pete Malone of the Steeltown Star , especially when he comes bearing drinks.
    â€œBig crowd at this gig,” he said, handing me a glass. “The art gallery will be pleased. Did you bring the thug from New York?”
    I nearly spilled some really good scotch. “I’m doing a favor for Uncle Vince.”
    Pete nodded. “Figured that. You’re the Goddaughter.”
    I struggled for something smart to say.
    â€œDoes it show?”
    Pete shrugged, then smiled. “Not as much as other things. I like the dress.”
    Bugger. Never buy a wraparound. It won’t.
    We watched the gilded crowd for a while, or at least I did. Pete never took his eyes off me.
    â€œWhere is the Italian Stallion, by the way? I’d like to get a few words for the paper.”
    I shook my head. “You really don’t want to do that. Nope…I don’t recommend it.”
    â€œVince wouldn’t like it?”
    It was my turn to smile. “Vince doesn’t read the paper. It’s your tender ears I’m thinking of. They might be shocked.”
    Pete laughed easily. He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the outdoor patio.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I said, with a sideways glance. Pete looked good from any angle. I like a tall man in a dark-gray suit.
    â€œSomewhere I can speak with you in private. I never get to see you alone.”
    My flirt-alert went off the scale.
    â€œWhy not? Are you philosophically against calling a girl and asking her out?”
    He laughed. “Now, see? That’s what I like about you, Gina. Always a smart-ass.”
    I took a sip of scotch. “I thought you liked the way I dress.”
    â€œThat too.” Pete’s big hand on my arm was hot. I liked his wavy honey-colored hair, and the set of his solid footballer body.
    â€œSo why haven’t you picked up a phone?” I said.
    â€œBecause I’m not suicidal.” He held the glass door open.
    I paused a beat. “Ah. You fear the family connection. It wasn’t my choice, you know. You don’t get to choose your relatives.”
    As our feet touched the terrace, the night exploded.
    â€œWhat the—?” Pete grabbed me, and we slammed to the ground. I landed on his arm. Our drinks went flying. More shots rang out. We rolled.
    The air went quiet.
    Seconds later, Pete pushed away from me. He vaulted up, scanning the terrace for damage. I struggled to see through the dust. When I got to my feet, Pete was standing over a dead body.
    â€œYou fond of that guy from New York?” he said.
    I took a breath. “Not so much, now that he’s full of holes.”

CHAPTER TWO
    P ete stood guard over the body until the cops arrived. He was good at it. Crowds of haughty people in swank evening garb tried to find a way through the glass doors to peek at the carnage. Pete used his big arms to motion people back. He also frowned a lot and looked mean.
    I sat down on the edge of a concrete planter and tried to remain calm. It was a beautiful May night, softly warm and just a tiny bit humid.
    But three bullets and a river of blood can mess up a girl’s composure. After all, I did arrive at this gala with the man on the ground…I was even related to him, in a completely depressing way. You might even consider that he had been in my care, in so much as he was a guest of my Uncle Vince. This was just not a good train of thought. It led one to contemplate other distressing things. Such as—what the hell was going on, and why didn’t I know about it?
    Ten minutes later, the cops were in control, and we were seated in the art gallery’s swish boardroom. The black leather chair swallowed me up. We were surrounded by lavish paintings that graced the dove-gray walls. Pete kept me company as we waited to be questioned. He seemed to think I needed comforting, or maybe even protecting. I like that in a non-relative.
    I was deep in thought, gazing at the