The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (60 page)

“That depends,” Louis said warily.
 
“What do you have in mind?”

Vincent told him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The first thing Michael noticed when he and Leana cleared customs was Spocatti.
 
He was moving in their direction, sifting through the crowds, eyes on Michael, tossing a cigarette into an ashtray as he passed it.

For a moment, Michael thought Santiago’s men had somehow followed him here, but he looked around and saw nothing unusual.
 
He turned back to Spocatti, who now was at a restroom entrance.
 
He nodded at Michael and stepped inside.

Michael was tempted to keep walking, but couldn’t.
 
Spocatti once saved his life.
 
If Santiago’s men were here, he might repeat the favor.

“I need to use the restroom,” he said to Leana.
 
“Do you mind waiting a minute?”

The restroom was cool and quiet and painted deep blue.
 
Spocatti was at the rear of the room, washing his hands at a sink.
 
As Michael moved toward him, he noticed two other men standing at the urinals, both wearing business suits.
 
Spocatti’s men.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

Spocatti turned off the water and shook his hands over the sink.
 
Michael noticed two long, red marks running horizontally on each palm.
 
They looked like burns.
 
Rope burns.

“I’m here to help you, Michael.”

“Why?
 
To make up for the life you took earlier?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Michael took a step toward him.
 
“Why did you kill her sister?”

Spocatti raised an eyebrow.
 
“Look at you—standing up so tall and brave.”
 

“She didn’t have to die.”

“I just do as I’m told.”
 
He ripped a towel from a dispenser and began wiping his hands.
 
“Actually, you’re right,” he said.
 
“Of course, I killed her.
 
And I enjoyed killing her.
 
You should have seen the expression on her face when I cut the rope and tied it around her legs.
 
Now we’re talking fear—”

Michael lunged forward and pushed Spocatti against the wall.
 
The two men at the urinals looked over their shoulders.
 
One laughed.
 
The other went to the door and blocked it so no one else could enter.

“Who’s next?” Michael asked.

Spocatti didn’t struggle.
 
Instead, he looked bemused.
 
“Everyone is next, Michael.
 
Everyone will die.
 
It’s all going to be tragic.
 
Blood will be everywhere.”

His hands soared up.
 
He shoved Michael against the opposite wall and withdrew the gun concealed beneath his black leather jacket.

Tried to withdraw his gun.

It caught on his shoulder holster and tumbled from his hand.

As if in slow motion, Michael watched the gun bounce off Spocatti’s knee, drop to the blue tile floor and spin in his direction.

He lunged for it.

Tried to lunge for it.

The man at the row of urinals no longer was amused.
 
Suddenly, he was standing in front of Michael, blocking his path to the gun.

Spocatti picked it up.
 
He holstered it and said to Michael, “If you want to get through the next few days alive, and especially if you want to be rid of Santiago, I suggest you cut the bullshit, listen to me carefully and do as I say.”

*
  
*
  
*

Leana was nowhere in sight when Michael left the restroom.

He looked around the crowded corridor and found her standing across from him.
 
She was on her cell phone, talking rapidly, gesticulating with her free hand.
 
Michael wondered who she was talking to and if it concerned him and the conversation she overheard in Monte Carlo.

When she snapped the phone shut, he moved toward her, the knot hardening in his stomach—tightening.
 
“Who was that?” he asked.

“Mario.”

“Mario?”
 
He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
 
While they were in Monte Carlo, his father told him that De Cicco was running a check on them both.
 
If the man somehow learned he was Louis’ son, Michael knew that Mario would take him out.

“And?”

“Eric’s dead,” she said.
 
“The contract’s been canceled.”

He searched her eyes, trying to see if there was something more she wasn’t telling him.

“So, it’s over,” he said.

She looked incredulous.
 
“Are you serious?
 
Of course, it isn’t over.
 
First, the spotlights explode, then my sister is murdered.
 
Someone is out to hurt my family.
 
Are my parents next?
 
Is it me?
 
Nobody’s been caught.
 
Which one of us is next?”

Michael could say nothing.

Leana reached for the oversized handbag that was at her feet.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I didn’t mean to snap at you.
 
I’m sorry for getting upset.”

“You have every reason to be upset.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”
 
She started to leave.
 
“Can we go home now?
 
It’s late and I’m tired.
 
I want to get up early tomorrow morning and see my parents.”

*
  
*
  
*

For Michael and Leana, home now was a new apartment located at the top of a Fifth Avenue high rise.

As their limousine neared the glittering tower, Michael thought back to the phone conversation he had in Monte Carlo with his father.
 
The man thought of everything.
 
Not only did he know his son would need a new place to live, but he also knew that that place would have to reflect the kind of wealth and power his new bride would be expecting.

He wondered if his father intentionally chose an apartment on Fifth Avenue.
 
If Louis had, Michael wouldn’t be surprised.
 
Only yesterday morning, his manuscript by the same name had been burned.

The car hit a string of green lights, sailed up Madison and turned onto 59th Street, where it crossed over to Fifth.
 
As it began moving down the avenue, Michael looked at the people on the sidewalk, at the illumined store windows and remembered what Spocatti told him in the restroom.
 
The doorman’s name is Joseph.
 
He’s tall, dark hair, thick mustache.
 
He’s expecting you.
 
When you see him, act as if you already know each other.

 
The car pulled to the curb.

Michael looked out the window and saw a liveried doorman hurrying in their direction.
 
For a moment, his heart seemed to stop.
 
The man coming toward them was short and bald.

He looked past the man, toward the twin gilt doors, and saw one other doorman standing at the entrance—but he was young and blond.

His door swung open.
 
“Mr. Archer,” the man said.
 
“It’s a pleasure to have you back with us.”

Michael had no choice but to go with it.
 
He stepped out of the car.

“And you must be Mrs. Archer,” the man said, looking past Michael.
 
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

As Leana alighted from the limousine, the man flashed Michael an intimate, knowing smile. “She’s every bit as beautiful as you said she would be, Mr. Archer.”

Michael managed a smile of his own, hating Spocatti more now than he had before. “Where is Joseph?” he asked.
 
“I thought he’d be working tonight.”

“Flu,” the man said.
 
“We’re hoping he’ll be back tomorrow.
 
Let me help you with your bags.”

They took an elevator to the fiftieth floor.
 
When Michael entered the apartment, he found it as sumptuous as Spocatti said it would be.
 
It was filled with items similar to those that he lost to the bank only a few short weeks ago.

As he looked around, it came to him that the apartment somehow seemed lived in, even though Spocatti said it had been furnished only that morning.

Leana dropped her handbag onto a side table.
 
She moved toward the center of the foyer and appraised the room with a sweeping glance.
 
“So, this is where you live,” she said.

Michael held out his hands.
 
I guess so
, he thought.

*
  
*
  
*

When he joined Leana in bed that night, sleep wouldn’t come.
 
There were so many thoughts crowding Michael’s head, he knew he would go mad if he gave into them.

Instead, he allowed his thoughts to drift to his mother.
 
Sometimes, Michael thought if he could just see her again and talk to her, he could feel the rage his father had felt for years and go on with this, knowing that what his father swore was right.

But his mother had died when he was three.
 
What few memories he had of her were only fragments tarnished by time.

Some things he did remember—the way she smiled, the toys she showered him with, the pretty cotton dresses she wore.
 
He wished he could remember more, but he couldn’t.
 
It was his father who dominated his childhood memories.

Michael closed his eyes and let his mind slip into the dark.

He remembered….

He was a child and his father was moving toward him, loosening his belt, saying in his whiskey-stained voice that he wished Michael hadn’t been born.

He remembered….

It was a late, snowy February evening and he could hear his father’s drunken weeping in the next room, saying his wife’s name over and over, almost as if it would bring her back.

He remembered….

He was eighteen years old and on a bus headed for Hollywood.
 
Michael would never forget that day, the stale smoky air, the countless hours on the road.
 
Every bit of it was better than the prison his father had confined him to.
 
When the bus left Grand Central, he became Michael Archer and he swore to himself that his father would never again control his life.