Ruthless (13 page)

As usual he had a bodyguard on either side. Sandor, of course – Eastern bloc, huge and black-haired, with only a rudimentary grasp of English but an unswerving devotion to his boss; the other man was slightly smaller but no less dangerous. Two more heavies were waiting by a long black car. Make one suspicious move towards him, and you’d be dead before you hit the ground.

He was holding two large bunches of red roses. On his index finger glinted a ring, the gold one glittering with diamond stars. Annie had a flashback then, men bending to kiss the hand of the godfather who would help them, grant their wishes, ease their pain – at a price.

She took a gulp of air and stepped towards him. ‘Hi,’ she said.

He pulled her in tight against him, hugged her. Annie closed her eyes.

‘How are you, Stepmom?’ asked Alberto, Constantine’s youngest son.

‘Fine,’ she lied.

‘Going home today?’

‘Yeah. In –’ she glanced at her Rolex – ‘about three and a half hours.’

‘Give Layla my love then.’

Annie sighed, thinking of her lovely, problematical daughter, still as hostile as ever, still keeping her at arm’s length. Unlike his siblings, Alberto had never resented her, never shown any hostility towards her. She had never said it – she never would – but
he
had been the main reason her marriage to Max had foundered. Max had never believed that her trips to the States were purely business. He’d been convinced that she went there to see Alberto, that she was having an affair with him. Because Alberto was almost the same age as her. And because he looked so much like her old love Constantine that it hurt.

Because, because, because
. . .

She had fought tooth and nail to convince Max that this was not true, that it was him she loved. But slowly, steadily, his insane, stupid jealousy and his refusal to believe her had gnawed away at her patience, exhausted her, eaten away at her love.

She would not be confined. She would not live in a box of his devising, watched and worried over like some bloody
possession
. When she had finally snapped and flung the divorce word in his face, his eyes had been so hard, so implacable. He had said, ‘OK, that’s what you want? That’s what we’ll do.
Then you’ll be free to fuck whoever you damned well like
.’

Even now, eight years on from all that hurt, that agony, she still felt sick, dizzy and dangerously near to tears when she thought of it. It had taken her a long time to get to grips with her grief over Max.

Of course Layla blamed
her
, not him. Layla thought that if her mother had stayed in London more, there would have been no divorce.

Annie sighed heavily. She had found some comfort here in the States with Alberto, but for God’s sake, how could Max have thought such an absurd thing? Alberto was not her lover, she had never wanted that. He was like a son, a little brother maybe, to her. There was nothing sexual in their mutual affection.

Looking at Alberto’s face, she could see that he too had suffered. He had aged in the few years since she’d last seen him. Time and knowledge and bitter experience had carved their indelible lines in his handsome face, making it harder, tougher: more fearsome. Now he was even more like his father. He was no longer the readily smiling youthful charmer. He had become the godfather.

‘Just visiting the grave,’ said Annie, indicating Constantine’s last resting place. ‘You?’

‘Yeah. I come here to see them every week.’

Alberto walked forward and laid one of the bouquets in front of his father’s headstone. He placed the other one on another of the graves there. Away in the distance, Annie saw a priest walking, hurrying between the headstones.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

Sandor and the others were scanning the graveyard. They watched the priest vanish from sight, then cast around for any other movement.
Dangerous men,
she thought. Her life had been full of them. If there was one thing she hoped for, it was that Layla would one of these days –
soon,
with luck – fall for some nice straight guy. That the lure of bad boys wouldn’t affect her life as it had her mother’s.

‘You look tired,’ she said to Alberto as he straightened up.

‘Do I?’

‘Everything OK?’

‘As OK as it ever is,’ he said.

‘Alberto, what is it?’

He gave a smile. ‘I’ve been thinking, that’s all.’

‘About what?’

‘That this whole house of cards is about to come crashing down.’

Annie looked at him in alarm.

He shrugged lightly. ‘Sometime soon, I might have to take off somewhere.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

Alberto’s eyes were smiling into hers. ‘Stepmom, I’m a very bad man. The Feds have levelled a lot of accusations against me. And my attorneys are working hard at batting them away, as usual. But I get the feeling, the
strong
feeling, that before long the game’s gonna be up.’

Annie stared at him, worried. ‘And these accusations are . . .?’

‘How long you got? Money laundering, evading tax, sale of stolen goods, conspiracy, racketeering . . . oh, and maybe murder. If they can make it stick.’

‘They can’t – can they?’

‘They move slow. We move faster. But some day, the axe is gonna fall. Regan wants a clean sheet, and that means taking care of outstanding business. And that’s people like me.’

‘The murder charge . . .’

‘It’s not a charge. Not yet.’

‘Is that . . . would that be Lucco?’

‘And others,’ said Alberto.

Lucco was Alberto’s older brother, Constantine’s eldest son. He had vanished years ago, presumed dead. After that, Alberto had taken over the reins of the family firm. Annie hated Lucco, but nonetheless she had always wondered what happened to him.

Alberto’s eyes grew colder. ‘Lucco had no respect for anyone, living or dead. Everything our father had worked for,
slaved
for, he would have run straight into the ground.’

And you couldn’t let that happen
, thought Annie.

‘You know, once I thought you and Daniella . . .’ she started.

Daniella had been Lucco’s wife.

‘I thought that too.’ He gave a small sigh. ‘But what you just said about Lucco – obviously you think I had a hand in whatever happened to him. Well, Daniella thought the same thing. She couldn’t live with that. It ate at her. She’s a fine, honest woman, Daniella. Not long after he went missing, she returned home. She’s remarried. And she’s a mother.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Another world,’ he said, and gazed off across the graveyard, his eyes wistful.

Annie watched him. Maybe he was seeing the sunlit island of Sicily, his ancestral home – the lemon groves, the hot sun beating down on dusty roads and lush vineyards. And Daniella, dark-haired and lovely, laughing, kissing her husband, playing with her children.

Annie reached out, touched his arm. She didn’t want to see him come to grief.

‘How long . . .?’ she asked, meaning how long would it be before the Feds picked him up and charged him.

‘Months, I think. Maybe weeks.’

Annie was horrified. ‘You must have contingency plans?’

He shrugged. ‘Aunt Gina’s gone to Sicily. But me . . . I’d miss New York. I was born here.’

‘Better an open sky and freedom,’ said Annie. ‘Are you winding things up?’

‘Stepmom . . .’ He turned to her with a smile. ‘Don’t ask. That way you know nothing, and it’ll be safer for both of us.’ His gaze intensified. ‘You know what I wish?’

‘No. Surprise me.’

‘I wish before all
that
hits the fan, you’d move on. Find a nice guy. I’ll have to approve him, of course.’

Annie shook her head. ‘I don’t want to move on, Alberto. The fact is, I’ve no desire to get serious with anyone, ever again. I have the Times Square club to run, and I have Layla. That’s enough.’

He was staring at her.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘I can’t believe that would ever be enough, not for you.’

‘No? Well, you’re wrong. Come on,’ she said, reaching out to take his arm. ‘Let’s get some coffee, I’m parched.’

‘Coffee? I thought you English only drank tea?’

Annie caught the teasing note in his voice and hugged his arm against her as they walked towards the cars. His foot soldiers followed them.

God, how could she bear to lose him? She couldn’t. It hurt her even to imagine it.

‘I’m becoming Americanized,’ she said.

And maybe she was. Maybe London wasn’t home to her any more. Back in Britain, Margaret Thatcher was in her third term as Prime Minister, and Annie sensed there was big trouble brewing. Soon it might erupt on the streets of London. But . . . she knew that as long as Layla was there – no matter how cool Layla was towards her – that was where she had to stay.

‘Americanized? You? I don’t believe it.’ He smiled.

By tomorrow she’d be back in Holland Park, in her home. With her daughter. Her heart didn’t lift at the thought, even though she knew it should.

29

London, 1988

They were watching Layla Carter like cheetahs about to run down an impala.

‘That’s her,’ said the man in the driver’s seat.

The two men stared out of the steamy windows of the car, parked at the edge of the park. Thin sunlight was beginning to penetrate the dull grey clouds. They’d been waiting for over an hour; she was late this morning. They’d started to wonder if she was coming at all, but it was unlike her to break her routine.

Finally, here she was. A dark-haired young woman dressed in navy shorts, white sports bra and trainers was jogging steadily around the perimeter of the park, kicking her way with long easy strides through the dewy grass, her breath pluming out in the cool morning air.

‘She’ll check her watch when she reaches the shrubbery,’ said the one behind the wheel, his eyes on the woman. ‘One, two, that’s it . . .’ The woman slowed to a walk, looked at her watch. The driver, a big man with pudgy features, the build of a rugby prop forward and a shock of long curly red hair, turned to his companion. ‘See that? A creature of habit.’

‘So shall I do it, Rufus? Can I?’ Dickon was getting excited. The coast was clear, there was no one else about. Perfect timing. She wasn’t, he was disappointed to see, that young – not as young as
he
liked them – but he was still eager to get on and do it.

‘No.’ Rufus savoured the sight of the woman, the feeling that she was within his grasp. His for the taking, whenever he was ready. Orla would be pleased with him, he knew it.

‘I could do it now,’ said Dickon.

Rufus sent him a cold glare. Dickon was a kiddy-fiddling piece of shit who was bound straight for hell, but in the meantime he had his uses.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’ll run again in a minute. Let her. Then she’ll be too tired to get away.’

Layla bent double, hands on knees, until she got her breath back. She was slow this morning. It irritated her. She could feel her heart pounding, and her head was thumping too. Last night’s company dinner hadn’t gone well, she’d drunk too much and now she felt awful.

Looking back, she was annoyed with herself. She hadn’t even wanted to attend the dinner, but she knew she had to make the effort. After all, Bowdler and Etchingham, Chartered Accountants and Registered Auditors, had given her a chance, hired her despite all the whispers about her family background: the least she could do was turn up at their annual bash. But now, she wished she hadn’t.

That moron Paisley, a trainee who had joined the firm at the same time as her, had been goading her for ages. He’d started in again last night, his whip-like tongue worse than usual because of the drink. And for the first time ever – yes, probably
also
because of the drink – she had risen to the bait.

‘Caught your finger in the till, did you?’ he’d asked her, his face red from too many mojitos.

Layla stared down at her left hand. She had only three fingers and one thumb on that hand. The smallest digit was missing. And Paisley thought that was very funny. Paisley knew,
everyone
knew, that her family background was . . . well, not exactly law-abiding. Hence the crack about the till.

She had promised herself she would never lose her temper. Never sink to that fool’s level. But she was sensitive about her missing finger. Something had snapped in her brain, and she had leaned in to Paisley, ignoring his foul breath, and hissed: ‘Why don’t you shut up, you fool?’

It wasn’t much of an outburst. Her mother would have said: ‘One more word out of
you,
shithead, and you’ll find your dick caught in a mincer. You got that?’

But all the same Layla had registered the shock in his eyes. It was there and gone in an instant, before he recovered his usual smirk.

She was, after all, quiet diligent Layla Carter.

As a rule, she never bit back. She did her job. She was punctilious, polite, efficient. She had to be all that and more, because of who she was, where she came from. She wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t Annie Carter.

Layla checked her watch again. Nearly eight o’clock. She turned and set off for the house at a fast walk that became a steady jog. Tonight, her mother would return from New York, where she’d been checking in on the club management in Times Square – and no doubt checking in on Alberto, too.

Alberto
.

Layla felt her heart flip painfully at the thought of him. She could see his face in her mind as clearly as if he were right there in front of her. Her first real memory of Alberto was when she was five years old. He’d hoisted her aloft and into his arms, tossing her into the air, grinning up at her.

Her stepbrother, Alberto Barolli.

And yet, as the years passed, she had become more and more aware that he
wasn’t
related to her – or at least, not by blood, which was all that mattered. Constantine Barolli, the great Mafia don, had been a widower when he met Annie. His wife Maria had died in a hit, leaving him with three children – Lucco, Alberto and Cara – and no wife.