Authors: Jessie Keane
It was all planned out.
What she didn’t want now was Max kissing her, touching her, weakening her resolve. She had doubts enough in her mind. She already felt she’d be cheating Layla of a life with Max. They had reformed their close bond with alarming speed; it was always Max that Layla ran to now, rather than Annie. But . . . she couldn’t let him snatch her daughter away. She just couldn’t.
‘We could spare half an hour,’ said Max, watching her.
Annie was checking her reflection in the mirror. She wore her hair in a thick ponytail that hung down over her bare shoulder. Big diamond earrings – a gift from Constantine – adorned her ears, and she wore her signature red lipstick and a slick of black mascara.
‘No – we couldn’t. You know, you don’t look too bad yourself,’ said Annie. It was an understatement. He was wearing a sharp black suit, white shirt and black bow tie. With his swarthy piratical looks and his dark, curling, over-long hair, he looked like what he essentially was: a gangster. A dangerous man.
Ah, the lure of bad boys
, she thought regretfully.
Tonight, she was going to leave him.
Handsome as he was, and much as she loved him, she had to strike first.
Her heart was breaking; but in her mind, she was already gone.
There was a queue of cars offloading celebs onto the red carpet outside the club. Everyone who was anyone was attending the opening, and there was a crush of people there to spot the stars, being held back by barriers, big bullish bouncers and a couple of police. The press were out in force, snapping away as each car unloaded its passengers and they strolled up the red carpet, doling out professional smiles to one side and the other as flashbulbs popped constantly in a dazzling strobelike effect.
The noise when they stepped out of the car was like a great gushing roar of sound. Celebs were moving ahead of them up the carpet towards the entrance with the big ritzy ‘Annie’s’ sign proudly displayed above it. Far ahead, she saw Alberto chatting to a woman in a gold dress. She hoped to catch Daniella here tonight, too, but she wasn’t optimistic about that.
Up ahead were Candice Bergen and Ryan O’Neal, Jacqueline Bisset and Topol, and the crowds were surging forward, trying to catch a glimpse of them, maybe even get an autograph.
Are those barriers going to hold?
thought Annie in sudden concern.
The security staff were lining up along each side of the carpet as more and more cars unloaded.
‘The red carpet’s always a great leveller,’ said Annie under her breath to Max as they were suddenly the focus of the crowd’s and the photographers’ attention. Just as suddenly, seeing no famous face to admire, the attention of the masses moved on, looked for the next limo, the next star about to appear.
‘Jesus, would you like to have to go through this every time you stepped out the door?’ he asked, tucking her arm in his.
‘No,’ she said with a shudder.
Max was looking ahead at the club’s big, glitzy ‘Annie’s’ façade. ‘It’s bigger than I expected.’
Annie’s gaze followed his. She’d been planning for this since before Constantine’s death. She felt her eyes sting with tears. She had to swallow hard past a sudden lump in her throat.
He
was supposed to have been here with her tonight to celebrate this, but he wasn’t. They should have been here, together – and she should have already given birth to his child.
They had talked about it. Constantine had been concerned – should she really be undertaking so vast a project, so huge an organizational challenge, with the baby coming? But she had insisted she would manage. She had help. Money bought that, lots of it.
But now . . . now she didn’t have him.
Or
the baby.
Life had been turned on its head for her yet again.
Instead, she was here with Max.
The barriers were rocking and security were moving in closer to the crowds, holding out their hands, telling them to move back, move back.
Annie looked ahead. Alberto had disappeared inside the building, and she saw Topol and Candice hovering just inside the door. She was glad when she and Max reached it, too. More roars were erupting from the crowd as new limos pulled up at the kerb.
Then suddenly the crowd on the left surged hard forward, and a barrier fell. People stumbled forward, security started shouting. Someone bumped hard against Annie and let out a shriek. Annie fell forward on the steps and she felt Max jerk her back, trying to correct her fall.
Suddenly all was confusion. There was a blurring of noise, brilliant light and people jostling close up against her. Then she was upright again and against the wall of the club. When she straightened up she saw Alberto nearby with a big meaty minder at his shoulder. Alberto was shouting something and the minder was haring off into the crowd.
There was a smell of cordite, the sounds of screams and people started shouting about a gun and scattering in all directions.
A
gun
?
Annie reached out for Alberto but couldn’t touch him; there was a mob of heaving bodies between them. She looked for Max. He was right there with her, against the club wall.
Alberto was pushing through the panicking crowds towards her.
‘What’s going on?’ she shouted at him, but her voice was drowned out.
‘Is he all right?’ Alberto yelled back. His face was white and strained.
What
?
Alberto surged in close, grabbed her. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘Someone took a shot at you,’ said Alberto.
‘Someone
what
?’
‘I saw it. He came out from the left-hand barrier and aimed at you. Mark knocked you out of the way.’
Annie looked at Max. ‘Did you see the man? What did he look like?’ she demanded.
‘Like he was about to kill you,’ said Max with a tight smile that somehow turned into a grimace.
‘What . . .?’ Annie drew closer to him. The sleeve of his left arm was glossy, wet. She looked down and felt her heart stop in her chest; there was blood staining his pristine white shirt cuff and it was dripping down over his fingers, falling onto the carpet, which showed not a mark. ‘Oh Jesus . . .’ she gasped.
She turned and shouted at Alberto: ‘Get an ambulance! He’s hurt.’
Alberto dived off into the crowds. Annie moved in tight to Max. She suddenly realized that he was supporting himself against the wall, trying not to fold to the ground.
‘Don’t you
dare
die on me,’ she muttered, holding him tight.
‘Already died once,’ he gasped through teeth gritted with pain. ‘Can’t do it again.’
He started to sag.
‘Shit! Max!’ she cried out.
But his eyes were closing; slowly, he sank to the ground and she could only wait for help to come. He’d taken a bullet meant for her. She started to shiver with reaction. She crouched there beside him, and waited.
‘You were lucky,’ the doctor was saying to Max as he lay in the hospital bed next morning with his arm in bandages and a sling. ‘It winged you, that’s all.’
That’s all.
Max glanced at Annie, sitting there watching this exchange. She dredged a smile up from somewhere, but God, she felt wrecked. She’d spent the whole night at the hospital waiting for news of his condition. At about three a.m. – the time at which she and Layla should have been taking off on the red-eye flight to California – this same, briskly smiling Jewish doctor had come out to her in a bloodstained green gown and told her that it was a flesh wound, nothing more; the bullet had torn through the outer edge of the deltoid muscle so there had been a fair bit of blood loss, but he’d be fine.
At about two, she’d phoned Gerda to tell her what was happening and not to worry Layla with the details. She’d phoned Sonny at the club and he told
her
not to worry: everything was fine their end, there was no such thing as bad publicity and a botched shooting at the opening night wasn’t going to put off the doughty New Yorkers. And was it true, Sonny asked in high excitement, that the bullet was intended for her?
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’
‘So all you need to do today is rest up,’ the doctor told Max. ‘Go home tomorrow, okay?’
‘Thanks, doc,’ said Max.
The doctor left the room. Annie stood up too. She was still wearing the black-sequined gown, her hairdo had come unravelled, her make-up was smeared all over her face, and she felt as though she needed a bath and a few hours’ sleep as a matter of urgency.
‘You scared me half to bloody death there,’ she said accusingly.
‘I scared
myself
,’ said Max. ‘That bastard came out of the crowd so fast. I just had time to knock you flat and then the cunt shot me.’
She looked down at him. Even pale and in a hospital bed, he was just too damned handsome. ‘Well, we’re evens now,’ she said. ‘I stopped a bullet for you once, remember? Now you’ve done the same for me.’
‘Yeah.’ He closed his eyes wearily.
‘So all bets are off,’ she said, still staring down at him. At his broad chest with its curling dark hairs . . . just the night before last she had slept cradled against that chest, feeling so secure, feeling that the nightmares and dramas of the past few months were a world away.
But that wasn’t the case.
Someone was still trying to kill her.
His eyes opened as she turned and moved towards the door.
‘And you missed your flight,’ he said.
Annie froze. She swivelled and stared at him.
‘The bag in Layla’s room at the back of the wardrobe? Found it. Thought you were planning something, and you were.’
Annie’s mouth tightened. ‘You’re not going to take her away from me.’
He stared at her for long moments. ‘Couldn’t wait to get away, right?’
Is that what he thinks?
she wondered, and stepped back towards the bed.
Then he yawned heavily. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ His eyes were flickering closed. ‘You could have gone, couldn’t you? Left me here being patched up by the medics. You could have done it. Perfect chance. But you didn’t.’
Annie was still staring at him.
His eyes were closed now.
Fuck it.
He was right. She could have gone, if she’d been hard enough. Determined enough. She could still do it. But she was weak where he was concerned. She’d missed that chance, and . . . shit, she didn’t want another one. She didn’t want to lose Layla but she didn’t want to lose
him
, either.
She was stuck in limbo.
He had all the power.
All she could do was wait, and see what he would do next.
When she got out into the waiting room, Alberto was sitting there, with one of the Barolli foot soldiers lounging against the wall keeping watch. Alberto stood up when he saw her walking towards him. They embraced; he kissed her cheek.
‘How is he?’ he asked as she slumped into a chair and he sat back down too.
‘He’s fine. Just a flesh wound,’ she said, wiping a tired, trembling hand over her brow. She looked at Alberto. ‘That bullet was meant to kill me, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
Alberto nodded. She thought that he looked pale, not the all-American Golden Boy any more. His face was grave and etched with heavy lines that she hadn’t noticed before.
‘Did they catch him? The man who did it?’
Alberto nodded again; his face was closed, shuttered.
‘Can you tell me about it?’ she asked.
‘If I must. Our people caught him. They made him talk.’
She wasn’t about to ask how. She swallowed and said: ‘And he said . . .?’
‘Fabio Cantuzzi’s boys hired him from out of town for ten thousand dollars. The news on the streets is that Lucco’s letting the Cantuzzi family in on deals through the back door, and Cantuzzi did this for Lucco as a favour.’
Annie sat there staring at the floor. She had thought she knew the depths of Lucco’s hatred. But to kill her? That was taking it to a whole new level.
‘The Cantuzzis have been a thorn in the side of the family for a while,’ said Alberto. ‘Now Lucco’s colluding with them.’
Annie’s eyes drifted up from the floor and over to the bulky minder standing there watching over Alberto.
Oh shit
, she thought.
Max was right about all this. Lucco wants to take over the whole outfit, absolutely. He doesn’t want Alberto sitting there in reserve. Alberto’s a threat to him. He doesn’t want me breathing. He hates me.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked him.
‘Right now? I don’t know,’ he admitted.
The move against her had been a slip on Lucco’s part, she could see that. He had let his emotions rule him, just as he always did, and that was dangerous. Cantuzzi’s hired enforcer had squealed and now Alberto had valuable information. But what would he do with it?
She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t bring herself to say out loud,
How long before he tries to kill you too, Alberto?
Lucco Barolli was out on New York Sound on his boat with two old friends: Jonathan Mancini – his late brother-in-law Rocco’s elder brother – and Gianni Ecco, one of the
capos
from his district. He’d grown up with both of them, loved them. They were comrades in arms.
He had expressed his extreme sympathy to Jonathan over Rocco’s grisly demise and his father’s untimely end.
‘He was in my care,’ Lucco said as the powerful and expensive boat – Jonathan’s boat, a recent gift from a penitent Lucco – cruised out into deeper water, Gianni at the helm. ‘I feel responsible.’
He poured beers for them all and sat back on the deck and looked out over the sunlit autumn waters and thought it was good to be alive. Things hadn’t worked out entirely to his satisfaction yet, but sometimes what could you do? You hit snags. But there were always solutions. He’d paid the Mancinis ten times over to compensate for their distress.
Jonathan nodded, his face solemn. ‘He was a good boy,’ he said.
‘The best,’ said Lucco, although he personally thought Rocco had been soft and weak-minded.