Deadly Embrace

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, kissing him. “Mommy loves you too. In fact, Mommy loves you the whole wide world!”

  Sometimes, when Sam was on one of his drinking jags, she hired a baby-sitter to stay with her son.

  Sam didn’t approve. “Are you saying I’m not capable of looking after the kid?” he yelled.

  “If you want to go out, there has to be someone here,” she said. “You cannot leave Vincent alone.”

  He’d done it one night, and when she’d come home and found her child alone, she’d been hysterical. She was determined that it would never happen again. Sometimes she wondered how things might have turned out if Emily hadn’t vanished. Would Emily and Sam have remained a happy couple? Would Sam have started drinking? And would she have gotten pregnant with Vincent? Because with Emily to advise her, she probably would’ve been smarter and wiser.

  It wasn’t worth thinking about, because it didn’t matter. She had Vincent, and he was everything to her.

  One day, while walking home from the market with Vincent, she thought she saw Manny Spiven. It was a horrible moment. She clutched on to Vincent, tightening her grip on his small hand.

  “Wassamatter, Mommy?” he asked, big eyes gazing up at her.

  “Nothing,” she answered as Manny Spiven scurried past, barely noticing her. Of course he wouldn’t recognize her. It was years later and she looked quite different. Onstage she was a gleaming goddess. Offstage she tied her long, blond hair back, put on no makeup, wore granny glasses and understated clothes.

  Seeing Manny brought back all the memories. The night she’d spotted him in the audience with Michael, and then the next day Michael repeating the horrible lies Manny had made up about her. Then Michael returning a few weeks later, and their one night of unforgettable passion.

  Damn! She had to stop thinking about him.

  You think about him because he’s Vincent’s father, her inner voice informed her. And you named him after Michael.

  I did not.

  Yes, you did. Surely you remember that when you were sitting with Michael in the coffee shop at the Estradido, he told you that his given name was Vincenzio Michael Castellino?

  Yes, she remembered, but it had nothing to do with her naming her son Vincent. It simply happened to be a nice name, a popular name.

  When she got home, Sam greeted her full of enthusiasm. “I’ve come up with a scheme,” he announced excitedly. “We’re gonna make millions.”

  This was his new thing, coming to her with schemes that he tried to persuade her to invest in.

  “What is it this time, Sam?” she asked, unloading the groceries in the kitchen as Vincent played on the floor with his train set.

  “Windmills,” he said. “Everybody wants windmills. It’s a new tax dodge. And—” A triumphant pause. “Guess what? I’m gonna build ’em.”

  “You’re going to build windmills?” she said patiently.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, pacing up and down. “I met this guy an’ he’s gonna show me how to do it.”

  “You’re going to build windmills with your own hands—is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No. I’ll put together a team, an’ I’ll supervise.”

  “It sounds like a good idea,” she said, thinking it was a stupid idea.

  “Pleased you like it,” he said, beaming. “ ’Cause all you gotta do is hand over ten grand.”

  Oh yes, naturally it involves me and my money.

  “I don’t have that kind of money, Sam,” she said evenly. And even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be giving it to you to put into windmills.

  “No, no, honey, you don’t get it,” he said, waving his arms in the air. “Windmills are gonna be big. Like I told you—we’ll make millions.”

  She didn’t say a word. They were headed for another fight and she hated him for doing this in front of Vincent.

  “So,” he said belligerently, “you gonna come up with the money, or not?”

  “I told you,” she repeated, wishing he’d stop this nonsense. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

  “You must have,” he said, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. “You sock it away every week, an’ you’re getting paid top dollar. You sure as hell don’t spend it on me.”

  “I told you what I do with my money,” she said quietly. “I put it in the bank for Vincent’s college education.”

  “Why you wanna send him to college anyway?” he demanded. “We did okay without goin’.”

  “Maybe you did, only I would’ve given anything to have gone to college.”

  He threw a malevolent glare her way. “So you’re not gonna help me?”

  “It’s not a question of helping you.”

  “I’m outta here,” he said, scowling. “Get a baby-sitter for the night.” And he slammed his way out the door.

  She couldn’t win with Sam. It was quite obvious he didn’t want them to be happy. The only time she saw a smile on his face was when he took Vincent to the park and played ball with him, and he didn’t do that too often.

  “Daddy’s cross,” Vincent said, zooming his train around the wooden track.

  “No, he’s not,” she assured him, cheerful as always.

  “Cross! Cross! Cross!” Vincent singsonged.

  She didn’t know what their future held. She refused to allow her son to grow up in an atmosphere where there was no love or respect, and as each day passed, she and Sam seemed to argue more and more.

  She had to make a decision. And the sooner she made that decision, the better it would be for all of them.

  Tuesday, July 10, 2001

  I can’t breathe,” Natalie said, gasping for air. “I think I’m about to faint.”

  “Don’t!” Madison said. She was equally scared, only desperately trying not to show it. Her face was splattered with blood and there was a tight knot of horror in her stomach from the senseless murder she’d just witnessed. She kept on thinking of Jake, and wishing he were there to protect them.

  The gunman—in a fit of anger and frustration—suddenly ripped off his ski mask and threw it on the ground. He was pale and thin faced, with pointed features and a long nose. His hair was cut close to his head, marine style, his skin was shiny with sweat, and he had wild, staring, stoned eyes.

  He looks like one of those neo-Nazis, Madison thought. Or one of those skinheads who hate everybody.

  “See what you made me do!” he screamed. “See what you mothafuckers made me do! Get me a fuckin’ van, or I’ll shoot another one of you.” He retreated to the other side of the room, where he and his two cohorts formed a tight group.

  Cole removed the cloth from one of the tables and draped it over the girl who had been shot. She was quite obviously dead.

  The women hostages were wailing and sobbing, the male ones were just plain scared.

  “He’s a kid,” Madison whispered to Cole. “Did you see his face?”

  “I saw it all right,” Cole said grimly. “Wish I hadn’t.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “He can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

  “Listen,” he said in a low voice, “I’m gonna try an’ talk to some of the guys, see if we can take ’em.”

  “No, Cole. He’s got an Uzi, he could kill every one of us.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cole said.

  “Why not?” Madison said urgently. “He’s already killed twice, he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “We can take him, Maddy. Like you said—he’s a kid.”

  “Surely you know what kids are capable of?” she argued. “Remember the Columbine school massacre?”

  “Then what’re we supposed to do?” Cole asked, completely frustrated. “Sit here and take it? Give him a chance to pick us off one by one?”

  Cole was right, they had to do something. But then again, it was foolish to take risks.

  “I need to talk to that hostage negotiator again,” she said, feeling strangely brave. “It appears they have no intention o
f getting a van here. Maybe I can convince them.”

  The main gunman swaggered into the center of the room. Now that he’d removed his ski mask, he seemed boastful and triumphant. He surveyed his captives.

  Madison raised her hand. She noticed white powder on the tip of his nose and her stomach flip-flopped.

  “What the fuck d’you want?” he yelled, eyes glittering dangerously.

  “Let me speak to the negotiator again.”

  “You did shit last time.”

  “I know I can help,” she said, her words almost tripping over one another. “Please, can I give it another try?”

  “Yeah,” he sneered. “Tell ’em what went down here. An’ tell ’em that in fifteen fuckin’ minutes, I’m shootin’ another one.”

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Sofia said as the Bentley pulled up in front of the boardinghouse she was staying in.

  “Excuse me?” Gianni said. He had never met anyone like Sofia before; she was a girl full of surprises.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she repeated, biting on her lower lip. “Have you got a floor or something I can camp out on?”

  He raised a surprised eyebrow. “Are you asking to come home with me?”

  “You’re trustworthy—aren’t you?” she said, deciding that he was. “And anyway,” she added, “you know what I can do if you’re not. Scream bloody murder.”

  “I’m staying in a hotel. If you like, I will book you into a room.”

  “You don’t understand,” she explained. “It’s not that I need a room; it’s, like, I can’t be alone right now.”

  “You can’t be alone,” he repeated.

  “Sometimes I get totally freaked in the middle of the night and have bad dreams.”

  “You wish to sleep with me?”

  “Not sleep with you,” she corrected. “Be in the same room.”

  “You are making no sense, young lady,” he said sternly.

  “Hey, c’mon, don’t call me ‘young lady’ like you’re some old dude ready for the graveyard. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Forty-six. I’m sure as far as you’re concerned, forty-six is an old . . . dude.”

  “Are you gay?” she asked, fixing him with a direct gaze.

  “Do I look gay?” he replied, quite affronted.

  “No,” she said, thinking that he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad for expensive male fashions. “Thing is—these days one never knows. Actually,” she added with a sigh, “I wish you were.”

  “You do?”

  “Jace—one of my best friends—was gay. The problem was, there was no way I could keep tabs on him. We were traveling around Europe together, and he kept on, like, totally getting himself into weird situations.”

  “What sort of situations?”

  “Stuff you wouldn’t approve of.”

  “May I ask how old you are?”

  “Um . . . uh . . . eighteen.”

  “How long have you been traveling around Europe by yourself?”

  “It’s cool,” she said, not wishing to get into a discussion about her travels.

  “If you were my daughter it wouldn’t be . . . cool.”

  “My dad doesn’t give a shit,” she said, shrugging. “He’s probably glad to be rid of me.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “Who knows?” she said vaguely. “Sometimes he’s in New York, sometimes Vegas. That’s where I’m from, y’know, Las Vegas.”

  “People are actually born there?”

  “What did you think—that everyone goes there just to lose their money?”

  “Las Vegas is an odd place.”

  “You ever visited?”

  “Once, for a special charity event.”

  “Of course,” she said sarcastically. “Why else would a dignified man like you be caught dead in a hokey place like Vegas?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re, like, so up yourself,” she said, shivering.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Uptight. It wouldn’t kill you to chill out.”

  “I am very relaxed. It’s you who are nervous.”

  “So,” she said, dreading the thought of being alone, “can I sleep with you, or not? And I don’t mean ‘sleep’ in the biblical sense. I mean, y’know, just kinda like stay in the same bed or something, so long as you don’t come anywhere near me.”

  “Sofia, my dear, as tempting a proposition as it is, I do not imagine my girlfriend would approve.”

  “You have a girlfriend?” she said, startled.

  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I dunno, you seem like, uh . . . asexual.”

  “That’s an extremely insulting comment to make to an Italian man.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I dunno,” she said, fidgeting on the luxurious leather seat. “You’re, like, so all put together, with your expensive suit and your snooty attitude. I can’t imagine you getting it on with anyone. Who is your girlfriend, anyway?”

  “A famous model.”

  “Oh,” she said, giggling. “So you fuck the help—is that it?”

  “You’re an extremely rude girl.”

  “Some people get off on that.”

  “Not me, Sofia.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to sit in my bed by myself and have freaking nightmares. Not that you care,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  He put his hand over hers. “No,” he said, “you can stay with me.”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “She’s in Paris.”

  “Then that was just a ploy to get rid of me?”

  “Am I getting rid of you?”

  “No.”

  “Very well.” He tapped on the glass separating him from his driver. “Manuel, to the hotel, please.”

  “And what hotel is that?” she asked.

  “The Marbella Club,” he replied.

  “Where else?” she murmured.

  If Vincent had a gun, he would have shot Andy Dale right in his movie-star face. How dare the short, untalented actor think he could get away with this kind of repugnant behavior?

  And what was Jenna thinking? Naked in a Jacuzzi with another man, in his hotel. She was insane. She’d lost it totally, and he knew he would have to divorce her. She’d disrespected him, and that was the worst thing she could’ve done.

  “Get out of there!” he said, barely able to say the words.

  “Honey,” she said, putting on her little-girl voice, “I’m so sorry. I know I was supposed to come back to the table, only I bumped into Andy and Anais, and they invited me up here. I was about to call you, see if you cared to join us.”

  “I repeat—get out!”

  She stared back at him defiantly. “And what if I don’t?” she said, testing him.

  “Surely you can’t be that dumb?” he said. And then turning his attention to Andy Dale, he continued, “You get out, too. Take your girlfriend, your belongings, and leave my hotel.”

  “Are you talking to me?” Andy said, eyebrows shooting up.

  “Yes, I’m talking to you.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Christ! Hadn’t they recently had this same conversation?

  “Do you know who I am?” Vincent said.

  “Yeah,” Andy sneered. “Some schmuck whose wife doesn’t give a shit.”

  He’d taken enough for one night. Striding over to the Jacuzzi, he grabbed Jenna by the arm and hauled her out. She was half naked, having kept on her thong underwear, which was now totally transparent.

  “You hurt me!” she complained.

  “Get dressed,” he hissed.

  “You can’t treat me like this,” she objected. “I’m not a possession—I’m your wife.”

  “Yes, my wife,” he said harshly. “And my wife is sitting half naked in a Jacuzzi with this no-talent actor.”

  “Hey,” Andy objected. “Who’re yo
u calling names? I won a Golden Globe last year, and don’t you forget it.”

  “I’m not forgetting anything,” Vincent said. “Now get your skinny ass out of there.”

  “I’ll get out when I’m good and ready,” Andy said. “In the meantime I’m calling my manager. You’re gonna get the worst publicity this hotel ever had.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you do,” Vincent said. “I’m sending somebody up here to throw you out. You are not staying on my premises.”

  “You’re being so mean,” Jenna wailed, her pretty face crumpling into tears of self-pity. “It’s all my fault. Andy didn’t do anything!”

  Vincent glared at her. “Be quiet,” he said, “and put your clothes on.”

  Sulking, she reached for her dress.

  “Are we going somewhere?” Anais inquired, stretching languidly, her large black nipples startlingly erect.

  “No,” Andy snapped.

  “Yes,” Vincent said. And with that he physically dragged the actor out of the tub and threw him down on the floor, a sprawling wet mass.

  “Shit!” Andy whined, trying to cover his privates. “I’ll have your ass for this. I’ll sue you and the fucking hotel.”

  By now Jenna had wriggled into her dress.

  Picking up her shoes, Vincent took her by the arm and led her from the room.

  “I’m staying here,” Michael said, getting out of bed. “Cancel your maid service or whoever you’ve got coming in.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Michael,” Dani said, sitting up in bed. “The way you take my feelings into consideration.”

  “I always do.”

  “Did I say you could stay here?”

  “You don’t want me to, Dani?” he said, pulling on his pants.

  “Does it matter?” she sighed, reaching for her robe.

  “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s not fight. I need a place to think things out. You’re that place.”

  “I’m always that place,” she said, wondering why she continued to put up with him after all these years.

  “This is what I want you to do,” he said, all business. “Get me Vincent.”

  “It’s late.”

  “He’s in the casino, isn’t he? Or his restaurant.”

  “I don’t keep tabs on him, Michael.”

  “See if you can reach him. I need to see him.”