The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (22 page)

Leana wondered why she felt so threatened.
 
She had done nothing to these women.
 
Their hardships weren’t her fault.
 
She should be able to look them straight in the eye.
 

But she could only glance at them as she passed.

“Seen enough?”

Leana saw the sarcastic smile on his lips, the hint of mocking in his eyes and dropped his hand.
 
“I’ve seen enough,” she said.
 
“But let me ask you something, Mario—where do you get off judging me when your Family with a capital fucking F is known to kill people for a living?”

Mario’s face flushed.
 
“What my family does has nothing to do with me.”

“Exactly,” Leana said.
 
“What my father does has nothing to do with me.
 
So you can shove your condescending attitude up your ass, because I’m sick and tired of you telling me how spoiled and shallow I am when you’re no better than me.”

“I’ve never said you were spoiled or shallow.”

“Maybe not in words, but your actions sure as hell have.
 
Why else are we here?”
 
She stepped away from him, flagged a cab and was gone before he could say another word.
 
They hadn’t spoken since.

Now, looking at these children and knowing what the future held for them, Leana regretted all of it.
 
There was a time when she could have just drawn from the bank account her father kept full for her and written a check to alleviate a good deal of this.
 
And yet she hadn’t.
 
Why hadn’t she?
 
And what will Mario think of me now?

He was on time, of course.
 
In the distance, she saw his car coming down the street and wasn’t surprised to find that it was the same car he had two years ago.
 
Here was a man who could own a fleet of Ferraris—and yet he drove a simple black Ford Taurus.

He pulled alongside her.
 
Leana adjusted her sunglasses, hoping the bruises didn’t show around her eyes.
 
She knew they did—but just barely—on her face.
 
She didn’t want him to see them.
 
At least not yet.

He stepped out of the car, looked at her with that sideways grin of his, and she felt the same thrill she had felt years ago, when they met at a mutual friend’s dinner parry.
 
He looked the same.
 
His hair was as thick, dark and as curly as hers.
 
It was just a tad too long, but it helped to soften the squareness of his jaw.
 
His body—that body—seemed more athletic than ever.
 
Mario De Cicco, son of Antonio Gionelli De Cicco, capo di capi of the New York Syndicate, was just as hot as she remembered.

He came around the car and embraced her tightly, kissing her once on each cheek. “It’s good to see you,” he said.
 
“It’s been…what? A year?”

“Two years,” she said.
 
“And a lot’s happened.”

“Then let’s go and catch up over lunch.
 
I want you to tell me everything—especially why there are bruises on your face.”

As they were leaving, Mario looked around him.
 
“Isn’t this place great?” he said.
 
“I chose it just for you.”

“What a surprise.”

He pointed to one of the tenements across the street.
 
“That’s a crack house,” he said. “Condemned.
 
Last week, a woman smothered her nine-week-old child there because she was hiding from the cops and didn’t want the baby’s crying to tip them off.
 
When the cops left, she smoked what crack she had left and dropped the baby into a trash can.
 
It was an elderly woman searching for food who found it alive.”

He looked at Leana.
 
“So, how are things on Fifth?”

Leana fastened her safety-belt.
 
She wouldn’t take this lying down.
 
“Everything’s shit,” she said.
 
“The recession has buried Barney’s below Filene’s basement.
 
People are reduced to renting the latest Louis instead of buying it.
 
Real estate is in the can—a $30 million penthouse now goes for $20 million.
 
Can you imagine?
 
It’s a horror show.
 
The only good news is that now you have no trouble getting a table wherever, whenever.”
 
She smiled at him.
 
“Speaking of food, I’m famished.
 
How about that lunch?”

“Fair enough,” he said.
 
“I’ll treat you to a po-boy.”

As they pulled away from the curb, the van that was parked at the street corner followed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The bar at Mario’s was three-deep in people.
 
Some were watching the Yankees game on the television above the bar.
 
Others were talking excitedly among themselves.
 
It wasn’t a large restaurant—it seated only seventy—but the atmosphere was warm, the food was good and the staff was trained to the point of remembering names.

Nestled on Third Avenue, its clientele ranged from the average blue-collar worker to the heads of corporations.
 
When Leana and Mario entered the restaurant, there was a brief lull in the conversation as all turned and said hello to Mario, their faces bright with smiles and respect.

Leana was aware of being watched as they followed a heavyset, dark-haired woman to a back table, which was covered with a plain white tablecloth, simple dishes and flatware.
 
This was clearly Mario’s table, Leana thought.
 
It was understated, but positioned so it overlooked the entire restaurant.

Although she felt foolish for keeping them on, she didn’t remove her sunglasses.

Mario ordered a bottle of wine.
 
“We’ll order lunch later,” he said to his Aunt Rosa, winking at her as she left.
 
He noticed Leana looking around the restaurant and asked if she approved.

“It’s beautiful,” Leana said.
 
“And obviously a success.
 
When did you buy it?
 
You didn’t have it when we were together, did you?”

“I bought it last Christmas,” he said.
 
“The family needed a place where they could eat in peace, so I opened Mario’s.
 
This way, there are no problems.”

She decided not to ask what he meant by that.
 
She was glad to see Rosa bringing the wine and happier still when she and Mario fell into conversation.
 
For the next thirty minutes, they talked and drank, recalling things they had forgotten about their affair.
 
It lasted only six months, but it had been powerful.

When Rosa returned, Mario ordered for them.
 
When she left, he asked Leana if the police learned who rigged the spotlights.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.

“You sound as if you couldn’t care less.”

“That’s because I couldn’t care less.”

“Still having problems at home, huh?”

“Is that even a question?”

She lifted her glass of wine and sipped.
 
There was a time when she told Mario things about her family that she only shared with Harold.
 
They were that close.
 
Mario’s understanding, his support and the fact that he didn’t judge those feelings was one of the reasons she fell in love with him.

“I moved out of the house last night.
 
I’ve decided to give it a shot on my own.”

Mario looked surprised.
 
“Where’s your apartment?”

“I’m staying with friends.”

“You moved out of your house without having a place of your own to move into?” His leaned back in his chair.
 
“All right,” he said.
 
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on and how it’s connected to the cut on your lip, the bruises on your face—and those you’re trying to hide around your eyes?
 
You called me for a reason.
 
I want to know what it is and how I can help.”

Leana removed her glasses and told him everything.
 
She told him what Eric Parker did to her.
 
And she told him about her father’s reaction and ultimatum.
 
When she was finished, Mario’s anger mirrored her own.

“I’ve thought a lot about this,” she said.
 
“I’ve thought about the threat Eric made me and I’ve thought about the consequences.
 
But I can’t let him get away with what he did to me—contract or no contract.
 
I’m sure my father will fire him, but that isn’t enough.
 
Eric will just get a job somewhere else and that will be that.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said.

“I want him to hurt as much as he hurt me.”

“And he should.”

“I can’t do it alone,” she said.
 
“Obviously.
 
Just look at me.
 
Will you help?”

“You had my help the moment he did this to you.”

She put her hand on his. “I’ve got Harold and now I have you.
 
There have been times, over the years, that I’ve really missed you and regretted ending what we had.”

“We can always start over, you know?”

She looked at him with sadness.
 
“I know,” she said.
 
“But you’re still married, Mario, and I told you once that I’d never come second in your life again.
 
Right now I need you to be my friend.
 
Can you do that for me?”

He put his thumb over the back of her hand.
 
“I can do that,” he said.

*
  
*
  
*

“Will you be needing your car, Mr. Baines?”

Harold descended the mahogany staircase and smiled at the tall, gray-haired man standing in the entryway of his townhouse.

“Not necessary, Ted.
 
I’m going for a walk.”

He stepped into his office, which was at the foot of the stairs and retrieved the leather briefcase he placed there earlier.
 
He locked the door behind him when he left.

“When Helen gets back from her lunch date, would you tell her that I won’t be home for dinner?
 
After my walk, I have a business dinner.
 
I’ll be late.”

“Of course, Mr. Baines.”

When he left his apartment, Harold turned onto 81st Street.
 
A limousine was waiting for him at the street corner.
 
He stepped inside and told the driver to hurry.

Traffic lurched, stopped and lurched all the way to the Lower East Side.
 
The driver shot through two red lights and came close to busting a third.
 
Harold smoothed his hands over the briefcase and closed his eyes.
 
He was only dimly aware of the horns blaring around them.
 
The driver slowed to a stop in front of a building near Houston.