White Heat by Cherry Adair

throbbing, unnatural silence of the apartment made her heart race, and her nerves vibrate.
    The faint beep-beep-beep of a phone off the hook made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Seeing the phone receiver dangling off the edge of the vestibule table ratcheted up her alarm.
    Emily’s shoulders tensed as she took her cell phone from her pocket. What were the chances that she would be witness to two separate break-ins? She should get out of here. Dial 113 for la polizia, and have them come and check to see that everything was all right.
God. She was way overreacting. Wasn’t she?
    A slither of unease made its way down her spine as she stopped just inside the doorway. Cold water funneled off her clothes to pool on the worn oriental rug underfoot. Back up.
    She’d never given intuition much thought. But every nerve in her body was screaming for her to get out of there fast.
    Because of her own scare this morning, she told herself. But her intruder was under lock and key somewhere. Franco’s mother had heart problems, and Nonna Maria was old. What if they’d had a medical emergency?
    Her socks made squishy noises on the carpet as she moved forward slowly. She felt ridiculous scaring herself to death like this. Every light in the place was on. Everything looked as immaculate as it always did.
    The furnishings were straight out of the fifties, with the yellow- and-brown floral sofa, and two matching chairs with lace doilies over the backs and arms, and plastic on the lampshades.
    Nonna Maria’s worn bedroom slippers sat neatly in front of her chair.
Franco’s reading glasses, marking his place in the latest spy thriller, lay on the end table, as if he’d just stepped away. A half glass of pinot grigio sat on a hand-crocheted coaster next to the book. He always had a glass of wine after coming home from work, and before his mother put dinner on the table.
    They should just be sitting down to their evening meal now. Whatever Franco’s mother had cooked smelled disgusting. Probably his all—time favorite salsicce di cinghiale. She didn’t like wild boar, and hoped they didn’t insist she stay for dinner.
    It was too quiet.
    No one was home.
    Maybe they’d decided to go out to a movie. Or they were visiting a neighbor. Nonna could have knocked the phone over with her walker and not even noticed. Which made perfect sense. Emily’s shoulders eased. Man, Signora was not going to be happy about her tracking in dirty water from the street when she came home and saw the trail Emily was leaving.

She rounded the corner into the kitchen and wished desperately that she hadn’t. Dear God in Heaven!
    Red. Blood. Death.
    The room whirled. Her muscles turned to jelly, her knees gave out. She braced herself on the doorjamb so she wouldn’t fall into the nightmare. Not capable of drawing in the next breath she hung on.
    No, God, no. No-no-no-no-no …
    The family was home. They were all in the kitchen.
    They’d been violently, brutally butchered.
    Six
    “WHERE IS SHE Now?” MAX DEMANDED INTO THE SATphone. He’d been picked up within minutes of Emily hauling ass, and was talking to the operatives tailing her. They’d been on her as she’d zoomed out the gate. He was pissed enough to chew nails and spit out bullets. It was damn fortunate that a T-FLAC security team was patrolling the grounds and outer perimeters of the estate at the time and had vehicles available within seconds.
    The driver, an attractive, forty-something oriental woman named Niigata, was in full, black T-FLAC LockOut garb, as were the others on the security team. She handled the vehicle like a race—car driver, taking both the straightaway and corners with high speed and finesse. Two more operatives sat in back.
    “Looks like she’s at the Bozzato residence,” Emily’s tail, Mike Ragusa, reported in Max’s ear. Max cradled the Glock on his lap, his jaw tight. The kid on the phone was barely out of T-FLAC training. The man he was with, Boyle,