This conversation was getting him nowhere. Right now he wanted her out of his sight, he couldn’t stand to look at her. He should’ve listened to his mother and married a smart woman, not this dimwitted bimbo.
“I told you,” he said, “I do not wish to talk about it tonight. Go to bed.”
She flounced into the bedroom.
He walked over to the window and gazed out at the sea of lights. Here he was, in a penthouse at the top of his hotel, and instead of enjoying everything he’d achieved, he was seething with anger.
It was Nando’s fault. Nando encouraged movie people to hang out at their hotel, claiming it was good for business. What Nando failed to understand was that good business meant attracting big time gamblers, high rollers who were prepared to lose a fortune. Movie stars were nothing. You couldn’t even give them markers without them welshing.
He walked back into the living room, picked up the remote, and clicked on the TV just in time for the news. Another car chase. Another murder. Another holdup in California—thirty people locked in a restaurant with armed gunmen in Beverly Hills.
The phone rang. He picked up.
“Mr. Castle? Your mother would like you to contact her.”
“Thanks, Mario.”
It was unusual that Dani would call him so late.
He punched out her number, wondering what she wanted.
Dani answered immediately. “Vincent, I have a surprise for you.”
“What surprise?”
“I need you to come to my apartment right now.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then what?” he said, irritated. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, it can’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, not at all pleased.
“Good,” she said, and hung up.
Sofia followed Gianni into the Marbella Club, where he was greeted on all sides with smiles and admiring salutes. Beautiful women waved and blew him kisses.
“Man, you’re popular,” Sofia remarked, trailing behind him.
“Yes, and I’m sure they are all wondering who the drowned rat is dogging my footsteps.”
“Sorry,” she said rudely. “Am I ruining your impeccable reputation?”
“Not at all.”
“I should’ve picked up some clothes from my place,” she ruminated. “Do you have anything I can borrow?”
“I’m sure Anais has left something in the suite. She usually does.”
She followed him into his suite, which overlooked the ocean. There was a large blowup poster of Anais propped against one wall. Her back was to the camera, and all she had on was a pair of low-rider studded jeans. The heading across the poster read: Black or White? Gianni or Blue Jeans?
Sofia surveyed it, squinting her eyes. “Gotta admit she’s gorgeous,” she said at last.
“I know,” Gianni replied, putting on some classical music.
“Anais is your girlfriend, right?”
“Correct.”
“Isn’t she kind of, like—famous?”
“She is a supermodel.”
“I’ve probably seen her in magazines.”
“So you read magazines?” he said, somewhat amused.
“And books. I did go to school, even though it was in Vegas.” She yawned; the events of the night were finally catching up. “School sucked—I never learned anything. All I wanted to do was get out and discover the world for myself.”
“And have you?”
“Well, I gotta say—tonight was an education. Actually,” she added, grinning, “I’m kinda psyched. I think I handled it very well.”
“Jumping out of a window is handling it very well?”
“I didn’t jump out of a window,” she corrected. “I jumped into a swimming pool.”
“Sofia, if you’d missed the swimming pool and hit the concrete, you would be dead now, and we would not be standing here discussing this.”
“Hey,” she said cockily. “I made the jump, hit the pool, and now I’m totally psyched.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
“So I suppose you’re madly in love?” she said, flopping onto the couch.
“That’s a very forward question.”
“Which means you’re, like, not?”
“Anais is an extremely complex woman,” he said, lighting a long, thin Cuban cigar.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-five,” he replied. “In modeling years, that’s considered old. Sometimes it makes her insecure about her future. She wishes to try acting.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Why all the questions, Sofia?” he asked, expelling a thin stream of smoke.
“You were questioning me in the car. Now it’s my turn.”
“You’ll find a robe in the bathroom. Go put it on before you catch cold. In the meantime, I’ll order you something to eat. I’m sure you’re hungry. What would you like?”
“A club sandwich. Unless they’ve got a burger and french fries,” she said, jumping up. “I’d kill for an American-style burger.”
“Let us not get dramatic,” he said, half smiling. “I’ll see what I can do. When you’ve eaten, we should call your parents and perhaps you should think about going home for a while.”
She threw him a bold look. “Is that before I come to see you in Rome, or after?”
“Then you are interested?”
“Depends what you have in mind,” she said, trying not to sound too intrigued—which she was, because the thought of flying to Rome and scoring a modeling job was quite exciting.
He indicated the poster of Anais. “I need a new face alongside Anais for my next jeans campaign. Perhaps you could be that face. Of course, if you come to Rome, you’ll have to test with my photographer. He’ll know whether you possess the quality we need.”
“Oh, wow!” she said mockingly. “Does this mean I’m being discovered?”
“Possibly,” he said, ignoring her attitude. “If the camera loves you.”
“Cool,” she said. “There’s nothing keeping me here. So . . . will you take me to Rome?”
“You want me to take you?”
“Why not? It’ll be an adventure.”
“Very well, Sofia. We leave in the morning.”
“What airline?”
“No airline, my dear. I have my own plane.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
Jolie was not into competition. She regarded Nando as a challenge—and the challenge was keeping him faithful. So far she was doing a pretty good job, but Jolie was a realist and Nando was a man, so the trick was keeping him as satisfied as she could at home. For his last birthday—his thirty-sixth—she’d had a stripper pole installed in their bedroom.
When Nando first saw it he’d yelled with laughter. But soon . . . when she began showing him what she could do on it, the laughter ceased, and he was more turned on than she’d ever seen him. Now it was his private treat—something she reserved for special occasions.
Tonight Nando seemed like he could use a treat. He was so tightly wound up she could almost feel the tension.
“What’s up, honey?” she asked when they got home to their luxurious house in an exclusive gated community.
“Vincent,” he said, going straight to the bar in their sunken living room with the oversize leopard skin couches and huge marble coffee tables.
“Did he do something?”
“He did nothing. Vincent never does anything.”
“What do you mean?” she asked sympathetically.
“He’s so freakin’ rigid. Doesn’t want movie stars in the goddamn hotel. Afraid to take risks. Doesn’t think we should branch out. I got a deal that’ll make us more money than even you can spend—an’ he doesn’t want to touch it.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause it involves drugs an’ hookers.
Big freakin’ deal. This town wouldn’t exist without drugs an’ hookers.”
“Calm down,” Jolie said. “You’re all worked up.”
“Yeah. I’ll never sleep tonight.”
“Yes you will,” she murmured. “Give me five minutes and meet me in the bedroom. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be so relaxed you won’t know what hit you.”
Finally the van arrived. Madison experienced a brief moment of triumph. Had she persuaded the negotiator to get it there?
Whatever. It was there, that was the main thing.
“This is the way it’s goin’ down,” the ringleader announced. “Pull the cloths off the tables, make holes for your eyes, an’ put ’em over your heads. You—,” he said, speaking directly to Madison. “You’re comin’, an’ your old man. An’ you,” he added, pointing at Natalie.
“Leave her behind,” Madison said quickly. “She’s not feeling well.”
“Fuck that, she’s comin’,” he said, singling out three more hostages—the young Italian waiter, the woman with the gash on her temple, and a middle-aged man. “We go out with you surroundin’ us. Anybody fucks with me, they get their shit-ass head blown off. Got it?”
Everyone nodded.
“The rest of you mothafuckers—over in the corner, an’ stay quiet.”
Madison glanced at Cole. He gave an imperceptible nod—as if to say, Do what he wants. She pulled a cloth off one of the tables and began making crude holes for her eyes with a table knife. Natalie started doing the same.
“This is a nightmare,” Natalie whispered. “How’ll we get through it?”
“We will,” Madison said reassuringly, sounding a lot braver than she felt.
“Where are they taking us?”
“Wherever this lunatic says.”
It was one thing telling Natalie not to worry, but she knew they were in great danger. One of the stoned gunmen could shoot them on a whim. Or maybe the police had sharpshooters with itchy fingers dying to burst in.
Who knew what could happen?
All they could do was hope and pray.
Michael—1972
Motherhood had mellowed Beth slightly, which did not stop her from complaining about being kept awake at night by the baby crying. She also flatly refused to breast-feed. “Not my scene,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s like—ugh!”
“Isn’t it supposed to be better for the baby?” Catherine asked. She’d recently returned from her visit with relatives and was helping to look after Madison.
“That’s crap,” Beth replied, shooting her sister a dagger’s look.
“Y’know, when Madison gets bigger, you gotta learn to control your language,” Michael commented.
“Really?” Beth answered coolly.
“It’s a thought,” he said mildly.
He and Beth had settled into domestic life quite well. They lived together as man and wife, even though they weren’t married. It suited both of them. Great sex and no wedding rings. He was a lucky man—or was he? Sometimes he thought marriage might work out. They had a baby together, so why not?
Since Madison’s birth, he hadn’t felt like seeing any of his old girlfriends. He was satisfied hanging out with Beth, the baby, and Catherine—who, once she’d gotten over her initial shock, had turned out to be a sweetheart. And Beth seemed to have curbed her wild ways, no longer running out to all-night parties and flirting outrageously with every man she saw. She loved Madison as much as he did, and although they fought a lot, they both agreed that Madison was the cutest baby in the world. She was a combination of the two of them, with her dark curly hair, sparkling green eyes, and deep olive skin. She was truly beautiful.
Sometimes, late at night, when Madison awoke for her bottle, Michael went into her room, scooped her out of her crib, and fed her the bottle himself. She was such a warm and trusting little bundle in his arms, her big eyes staring up at him so expectantly. When he looked at her, he felt a love he’d never experienced before. She was his baby. His future. She was the family he’d never had.
When Madison was six months old, Catherine moved in permanently. Although, like Beth, she was only eighteen, she seemed much older and more capable. Michael was pleased to have her around, because now she could keep an eye on Madison and Beth, so that when he was at work he felt more secure—especially since a lot of his work took place at night, and Beth claimed she felt nervous in the house by herself.
One morning Beth woke up, jumped out of bed, and decided she wanted to go back to the fashion institute to continue her studies. “Will you pay for my tuition?” she asked. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want to do,” Michael said, “then I’ll be happy to pay for it.”
“Very sure,” she answered. “I’ll be famous. You’ll see.”
“You will, huh?” he said, amused by her enthusiasm.
“I’ll make you proud, Michael.”
“You’ve already done that,” he said, indicating Madison, who was kicking and gurgling in her crib.
“I have?”
“You bet,” he said, hugging her.
And he truly meant it.
Word on the street was that Vito Giovanni and Mamie had split. Vito had caught Mamie with another woman in their bed, gone completely berserk, and thrown her out. The rumor was that Vito now had a girlfriend—a twenty-two-year-old stripper who went by the name of Western Pussy.
One night, some of the guys were sitting around at the social club playing poker. Bone was there; so was Gus. When Michael walked in, they were sniggering about Mamie and her sexual predilections.
“She was always a tough-assed bitch,” Bone announced to the room. “Her an’ that douche bag cousin of hers—Roy.”
Michael figured this might be the right time to get Bone to acknowledge his existence. “Oh, yeah, Mamie,” he said, pulling up a chair. “She used to get it on with girls in Vegas. Everyone knew about it.”
Bone threw him a blank look. He was a tall, scary-looking man with yellowing, hangdog teeth and a lethal scar running the length of his left cheek. “You talkin’ to me?” he said coldly.
“Some reason I shouldn’t?”
“You’re a fuckin’ joke,” Bone sneered.
“Okay, okay, cut it out,” Gus interrupted. “The war’s outside this room—not in it.”
“Forget it,” Bone growled.
Michael was not prepared to forget it. “You got some kinda beef with me?” he demanded later, blocking the older man on his way out.
Bone looked him over with his small, shifty eyes. “You gonna stand there an’ tell me you dunno what went down?” he asked. “You really gonna do that?”
“Huh?”
“C’mon,” Bone taunted. “You can’t be that dumb.”
Michael stared at him blankly.
“Oh, now I get it,” Bone said, enjoying himself. “Mamie never told you, did she?”
“Told me what?”
“About your mama,” Bone said. “Y’know,” he added, fingering the scar on his cheek, “I was there the night it happened.”
Michael felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. “What the fuck you sayin’?”
“Mamie set up the robbery that got your mom killed and your old man shot,” Bone announced triumphantly. “Her and Roy was responsible. Roy fired the gun, while Mamie stood guard outside.” A long beat. “Now d’you get it?”
“That’s impossible,” Michael said.
“Aren’t you listenin’?” Bone said with an evil leer. “I told you—I was there.”
“You were there,” Michael repeated dully.
“I used t’ fuck that cow, Mamie,” Bone continued. “Turned out she’s a bad one. Screwed me on a big deal.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Oh yeah, I know plenty about Mamie an’ her fuckin’ scumbag cousin.”
“Roy killed my mother? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”
“He sure did,” Bone said, picking his teet
h. “I was with ’em, only I wasn’t carryin’. We scoped the place out in the afternoon, an’ came back later. Shit—had no fuckin’ clue Roy was gonna shoot anyone.”
“Christ!” Michael said, turning pale.
“Now you know, whatcha gonna do about it?” Bone challenged. “ ’Cause that bitch sure as shit made a monkey outta you all these years. You danced for her good.”
Michael didn’t answer. He was desperately trying to remain calm and think rationally. Never act on impulse—that was one lesson he’d learned. Inside he was burning up with a barely controlled black rage. Could this be true? Had Roy shot his mom while Mamie waited outside?
In a horrible way it all made sense, and it certainly explained why Mamie had always been so interested in Vinny. It also explained why she’d befriended him. It must have amused her in a cruel and heartless way to know that she was responsible for his mother’s death.
He turned and walked away from Bone without saying another word. If he stayed around, he’d probably kill the bastard.
When he got home that night, Beth was sitting on top of their bed, painting her toenails silver while listening to the Rolling Stones on the new stereo he’d bought her. “What’s up?” she asked cheerfully, bouncing around to the raunchy sounds of Mick Jagger yelling “Satisfaction.”
“Nothing you should worry about,” he said, going into the bathroom and staring at his reflection in the mirror.
“Never said I was worried,” she replied, shouting above the music. “Isn’t this track amazing? I love Mick. Don’t you?”
He was desperate to talk to someone, and Beth was too young to burden with such grim information. He went downstairs to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, then sat at the table and considered telling Max.
Not a great idea, because Max was always on his case. “You’re working for another gangster,” Max had complained. “Five years in the joint ain’t enough? You want more, is that the deal?”
“Anybody with an Italian name and you automatically think they’re connected,” he’d replied. “How many times I gotta tell you—Dante Lucchese is a businessman.”