Free The Artful Goddaughter by Melodie Campbell

ONE
    W hen I was a girl, my favorite movie was The Pink Panther .
    Great-Uncle Franco owned a movie theater in town. He had a knock-off reel. We’d beg him to play that film on the big screen. I probably saw it thirty times. It became an obsession with me.
    When other girls dressed up for Halloween as princesses, I was decked out in head-to-toe black. With a mask.
    â€œGirls can’t be cat burglars,” my cousin Paulo told me.
    â€œYeah?” I yelled back. “What about Mad Magda?”
    Paulo sneered. “She’s not real. She’s just a legend, like Santa Claus. Only boys are burglars.”
    This obviously did some serious damage. Because, of course, I had to prove him wrong. Even if it took me twenty years to do it.
    My name is Gina Gallo. That’s what it says on my passport—or at least one of them.
    I’m a gemologist by trade, not a professional cat burglar. The last thing I want now is a life of crime. But I am known in this burg for some pretty daring escapades. Some were even successful. Others, not so much.
    My fiancé, Pete, would say, “You’re still out of jail. That’s successful.”
    Frankly, I’d call it a miracle. Especially since I was now contemplating murder.
    It had happened again, and I was ready to kill someone.
    â€œLady, this card is no good.”
    I was in Four-bucks. The gum-chewing barista held out the credit card. The one with my name on it. My real name.
    â€œWhat?”
    She shrugged. “Machine says it’s been ‘compromised.’” She struggled over that big word.
    â€œYou’re kidding me.” I snatched it from her hand. Then I stared at it to make sure I had given her the right one. Bugger. It was. I stormed out of the store without my double cream-no sugar and pound of beans.
    Outside in the sunlight, I punched a number on my cell.
    â€œWhere are you?” I said to Sammy.
    â€œAt the chicken coop.”
    â€œI’ll be there in fifteen,” I said. I clicked the phone off and went to find my car.
    Sammy is the underboss and Jewish cousin of my godfather, Uncle Vince. Yes, we can buy both bagels and bologna wholesale in this family. He’s a little guy, short on muscle but long on brains.
    I drove along Barton and turned left.
    We have a chicken coop on the shores of Lake Ontario. This is one of several properties owned by the family in the industrial city of Hamilton. Our skyline includes steel plants. We consider smog a condiment.
    The chicken coop is really a two-bedroom cottage. Some relative long ago kept chickens out back, so the place was assessed as a chicken coop for tax purposes. The chickens are long gone, but they never paid much tax anyway.
    We use it for private meetings, if you get my drift. And warehousing. I try not to think about that.
    I sped along North Service Road and swung onto a gravel drive. Sunlight glistened off Lake Ontario. Pretty, but it was November, and the water looked cold. I stopped the car and vaulted out.
    Sammy’s black Mercedes was parked farther up the drive. So was an expensive Italian motorcycle I recognized.
    I flung open the flimsy wooden door and stormed into the cottage.
    â€œWhere’s the son of a bitch? I’m gonna kill him!”
    The place was dark inside. A single lightbulb hung from a wire in the center of the room. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
    Sammy was sitting at a small wooden table. Even in the dim light, he looked a lot like Woody Allen.
    He looked up. “What son of a bitch, Gina?”
    â€œMario! He stole my credit card number again !”
    â€œWhoops.” My dopey cousin Mario was sitting opposite Sammy, in the dark corner. He rocked back on the wooden chair.
    I marched over and swatted his dark curly head.
    â€œOuch!” Mario ducked too late. His hands went up to protect his good-looking face.
    â€œSecond time this month! I have to get a new card AGAIN.” I was steaming.