“You are a dirty old man,” she said. And she threw her arms around his neck and started to kiss him.
“Madison,” he said, trying to extract himself from her. “Even I’ve got some principles.”
“Well, drop ’em,” she said. “ ’Cause I’m in Miami to have fun.”
“Then the first thing you’d better do is learn how to kiss.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kiss, baby. Pucker up. I’m about to give you a lesson you will never forget.”
The weekend went by only too quickly. Michael noticed that Madison seemed to be in an extremely good mood, and even better, she gave him plenty of time to himself.
“I thought we were spending this weekend together?” he asked quizzically, when she was missing for yet another lunch.
“We are,” she said. “Only I met this friend from school, and we’re having such a great time exploring. You don’t mind, do you?” she added innocently. “That’s what us writers like to do.”
He didn’t mind at all. Madison’s absence allowed him to spend plenty of time with Dani and the adorable Sofia, who looked like Madison had at the same age. There was something in his genes that produced matching kids.
Meanwhile Madison was experiencing an adventure she could only have imagined in her wildest dreams. Frankie Medina was teaching her everything an aspiring writer needs to know. And her education was not taking place between the pages. Far more exciting—it was taking place between the sheets.
Madison was a very willing pupil indeed.
Back in New York, Marcie informed Michael that Vito Giovanni needed to see him urgently.
Vito never changed. When Vito wanted something, he wanted it immediately. He was not a patient man.
Michael gave him a call. “What’s up, Vito?”
“Gotta see you, Michael,” Vito replied in his familiar gravelly voice. “Come by the house.”
“How’s six o’clock tonight?”
“That’ll suit me.”
Michael skipped going home and had his driver take him straight from the office to Vito’s brownstone. He hadn’t seen Vito in several months; it wasn’t necessary, since they conducted most of their business by phone.
Vito was sitting in his favorite chair in his living room. He looked like he’d shrunk and his chair had grown larger.
“Mike, come in,” Vito said, waving him into the room. “You want a drink? Jack Daniel’s. I never forget a man’s drink.”
“Yeah,” Michael said, feeling right at home. “I’ll have a Jack.”
“I’d have one with you, only my doctors say I shouldn’t drink. Fuckers!” Vito said morosely. “Always tellin’ me shit about what I can’t do.”
A henchman fixed Michael a drink, while Vito indulged in a short coughing fit.
“You okay, Vito?” Michael asked.
“I got a few health problems. Nothin’ major. Had oral surgery the other day—that’s what they call it now when they yank your fuckin’ teeth out, oral surgery.”
Michael was well aware that over the years, Vito Giovanni had risen to become very high up in the hierarchy of mobsters. Michael was glad that he’d made it on his own and had never had to ask Vito for any favors—although Vito had always played fair with him, and in return he’d made the old man a lot of money in investments and the stock market. Legitimate money.
“How’s everythin’ goin’, Mike?” Vito asked. “A kid like you from the streets, you did well for yourself.”
“Took a lot of hard work.”
“Yeah, an’ you had your setbacks along the way. But I’m glad you took my advice.”
“About what?”
“About that girl of yours who got shot,” Vito said, adjusting his oversize reading glasses. “You could’ve gone chasing after whoever you thought was responsible. You didn’t, an’ that was smart. Like I told you at the time, you was even.”
Vito still didn’t get it. He was not even. He would never be even. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night and there was Beth, sitting at the end of the bed staring at him. What are you doing about getting revenge for my murder? she always asked, her dark eyes vengeful. You need to do something, Michael. One of these days you need to do something.
And one of these days he would. He didn’t know where or when, he only knew that the opportunity would present itself.
Mamie had moved to Los Angeles, so had Bone. Every time Michael flew to Vegas, he thought about making a side trip to L.A. and blowing their fucking brains out.
He didn’t, because he had responsibilities. Madison, Vincent, and Sofia. His three wonderful children. And Dani, of course. He could never risk letting any of them down.
He’d amassed dossiers on both Mamie and Bone. He knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. Seven years ago they’d gotten married—his two archenemies. It made him sick to imagine them together. Not only had they gotten married, but they’d entered the business of moviemaking, partnering with a porno king who made explicit sex videos for Japan and Europe. Apparently, it was a business that suited Mamie just fine. Bone took care of the finances and Mamie was involved with the creative side. Yeah, he could just imagine.
As if that wasn’t enough, they’d also opened a series of sex shops across the country.
Vito never mentioned Mamie anymore, so Michael didn’t either. As far as he knew, Vito considered her history.
“You gotta do somethin’ for me next week,” Vito said.
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“Be best man at my wedding.”
“Your wedding?” Michael said, somewhat surprised. Vito was over seventy years old and looked it. “Who are you marrying?”
“Western, of course,” Vito said, chuckling happily. “The old broad is finally makin’ an honest man of me.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’ll be my best man,” Vito said.
Michael understood that it wasn’t so much a request, more like an order. He didn’t mind, he was used to Vito’s ways.
“You planning a big wedding?” he asked.
“Nah, we’ll do it privately. Just a few friends. No fuss.”
“I’ll be honored to be your best man,” Michael said, wondering if that was the only reason Vito had requested his presence.
“There’s somethin’ else you gotta do for me,” Vito said.
“If I can.”
“I’m gonna have the guys put a coupla locked suitcases in your car. I’ll give you the combination.”
“What’s in them, Vito?” Michael asked, not embracing the thought of lugging around a couple of Vito’s suitcases filled with God knows what.
“Money,” Vito said. “Two million bucks in cash. You’ll make it legitimate for me.”
“Wait a minute,” Michael said. “Two million in cash. I mean—”
“You’ll keep it until I give you instructions,” Vito interrupted. “I trust you, Mike—I trust you as if you was my own son.”
“Jeez, Vito, I don’t know . . .”
“You’ll do it. Capisce?”
Michael nodded. He felt seventeen again. Besides, why argue? He always ended up doing whatever Vito wanted.
It was their dance. And it never changed.
Tuesday, July 10, 2001
Wedged in the front seat of the van, her hands braced on the dashboard ready for impact should they crash, Madison began reviewing her life. This was all so surreal. How had she ended up in this position?
Just luck, I guess, she thought wryly.
She closed her eyes for a moment, desperately trying to take herself to another place, just like she used to do when she was a child visiting the dentist. Close your eyes and it will all go away—Michael used to tell her that.
This last year had been such a mess. Finding out that Stella wasn’t really her mother. Shortly after that, Stella’s murder. And then her tortured relationship with Michael. One moment she loved and trusted him, the next she didn’t know what to think b
ecause he’d made up such stories about her past. It wasn’t fair of him to do that, he had no right to play God with a person’s life. She might be his daughter, but she deserved to know the truth.
Then there was her relationship with Jake. A roller-coaster love affair with an extraordinarily sexy and interesting man. Now, for all she knew, he could be lying dead, or kidnapped by Colombian drug dealers.
She missed her apartment in New York. She missed her dog, Slammer. She missed her friends, her work. She missed everything.
The van was racing down dark side streets. She had no idea where they were, although the gunman seemed to be aware of their destination.
Fifteen minutes after getting off the freeway, he instructed Cole to pull over. They were in an industrial area—a dimly lit backstreet filled with tall, deserted warehouses, somewhere downtown.
“You mean stop the van?” Cole asked.
“What the fuck you think I mean?” the gunman snapped. Everyone’s patience was wearing thin.
Madison felt dread in the pit of her stomach. Was he going to kill them? Was that his plan?
Where are the police? Where’s the fucking helicopter? Where are the hostage negotiators?
This was a bad joke.
They were totally on their own, and there was nobody to help them.
They were sitting in what Leroy and Darren referred to as their office, although Jolie considered that it looked more like a flophouse for drug addicts. She was trying hard not to breathe, realizing that if she took one more breath, she’d be as stoned as the rest of them. The scent of marijuana hung heavily in the air. And Nando, being Nando, had immediately accepted a joint.
That’s not the way to do business, she wanted to warn him. If Vincent was here, you wouldn’t have dared.
The reason Vincent and Nando were such excellent partners was that Vincent knew how to keep control of a situation. Nando didn’t. Her husband was one of life’s great adventurers. He saw something he wanted and he grabbed it. Unfortunately, he’d never learned the word “no.”
Now he wanted to make this dump into the hottest strip club in Vegas. Why? They had the hotel and gambling casino. Vincent and he were doing great.
Personally she agreed with Vincent—why move into the sleazy side of the business when they didn’t have to?
She also knew that however involved she was, it would not sit well with her if Nando was dropping by a strip club every night, even if that club belonged to them. She’d installed a stripper pole in their bedroom. What more did she have to do to keep him home?
Darren kept on shooting her sneaky sideways looks, as if he were summing up her potential as one of his girls. He looked like a pimp. He acted like a pimp. He probably was a pimp.
What the hell were they doing here?
And why had Nando brought her along for the ride?
The phone was ringing when Vincent walked into his apartment. He grabbed it quickly before it woke Jenna.
“Good news,” Dani said.
“What happened?”
“Sofia called. I told her to get the next plane home.”
“That is good news,” Vincent said. “By the way, I’ve sent someone over to stay outside your apartment. Don’t get alarmed if you see him.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?”
“If Michael says it is, then it is. We can’t take risks.”
“I find this excessive,” she complained.
“Hey—you know him better than anyone.”
“That’s true,” she said ruefully.
“Then don’t argue. Michael gets what he wants. He always has.”
“Oh yes,” she agreed. “That’s certainly true.”
“I’m home now if you need to reach me. I’ll stay here until I hear from Michael.”
He put down the phone, went to the bar, and fixed himself a drink.
Maybe he’d been too hard on Jenna earlier. She was only a kid, after all; the truth was that she didn’t know any better. Christ! He had so much to teach her. That was the problem with marrying an innocent girl who didn’t understand the rules.
He walked into the bedroom ready to forgive her.
Their large double bed was empty.
He opened the door to her bathroom. She was not there.
For a moment he thought about raging out of the hotel, tracking down Andy Dale, and beating the crap out of the dumb little movie star.
Then he thought better of it. Jenna had a lesson to learn. And that lesson was, do not screw around with Vincent Castle.
Sofia had decided that the only sane thing she could do was skip out on Mrs. Flynn and her demand for the late rent. She simply didn’t have any money. The deal was to casually walk out as if she were going to work, then not come back.
She collected a few precious things that meant something to her, stuffed them in her oversize shoulder bag, then casually yelled at Mrs. Flynn, “I’m going out. I’ll be back later with your money.”
“Good on you, dearie,” shouted Mrs. Flynn, the trusting old dear, already on her second glass of wine.
As soon as she got outside, Sofia realized she had no idea where the American Express office was. Damn! She should have made a call.
Then, to her surprise, up rolled Gianni in his gleaming chauffeur-driven Bentley.
The car pulled to a stop beside her. Gianni lowered the back window. “Jump in,” he ordered.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Jump in. We’re on our way to Rome.”
And it seemed silly to argue, because at least with Gianni by her side, it would be so much easier to get back to America.
What did she have to lose?
Absolutely nothing.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Jenna wailed.
“No, you’re not,” Andy Dale said, pumping away on top of her.
“Yes . . . I think I am.”
“Then don’t do it all over me.”
She managed to shove him off and run to the bathroom, whereupon she threw up in the sink. She retched for several minutes, feeling as though she’d been punched in the stomach by a mule.
When she was finished she lay down on the cold marble floor, rolling herself into a tight naked ball. Nobody came in to see if she was all right. Not Andy, not Anais.
From the other room she heard the sounds of music, laughter, and tinkling ice.
She had never felt this bad. “I want to die,” she groaned.
Where was Vincent? Where was her husband when she needed him?
Oh God, she couldn’t let him see her like this, sick and having just made love to Andy Dale—if “love” was a word she could use in connection with the way Andy Dale had treated her.
He wasn’t very nice. In fact, he was a big bully. While they were making out he’d slapped her hard on the bottom several times with the palm of his hand. It had hurt.
“I don’t like that,” she’d cried, his slaps stinging.
“I do,” he’d said, sniggering.
She wondered how she could collect her clothes from the other room and escape. Spying a white terry cloth bathrobe behind the door, she gingerly got up and slipped it on.
Now what? She couldn’t go back inside, it was too humiliating.
Of course, she could always tell Vincent that Andy Dale had raped her. Knowing Vincent, he’d probably beat Andy to a pulp, and she didn’t want it to go that far.
Still . . . she refused to go back in the other room, which meant there was no way she could get out of the suite unless Vincent came to rescue her.
There was a phone next to the sink. She picked up the receiver.
When Vincent answered, she began to cry.
“Help me,” she sobbed. “Please come get me. I need help.”
Sitting on the plane Vincent had chartered to fly him to L.A., Michael was totally calm on the outside and churning up on the inside.
Mamie and Bone.
He should’ve finished them off years ago, exactly like they deserved.
They were scum. Two old pieces of shit who needed to be flushed out of his life once and for all.
And he would do it. There was nobody to stop him.
Before this night was over, Mamie and Bone would be history.
“Everybody get the fuck out,” the gunman said. “An’ no smart moves.”
Hurriedly everyone got out of the van. Madison put her arms around Natalie and hugged her. “We’ll be all right,” she whispered. “I promise you, we’ll be all right.”
Natalie nodded. She was shivering and shaking. Cole came over and embraced the two of them, giving them a solid hug.
Madison looked around; there were two other hostages, five altogether, including them.
Just as they were all wondering what was about to happen next, an old black Cadillac came cruising down the street, loud rap music blasting from the windows.
“You,” the gunman snarled at Madison. “In the back.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, her heart pounding.
“Do it, bitch. Get in the fuckin’ car.”
And he grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back, and shoved her into the backseat of the Cadillac, jumping in after her.
There was nothing she could do. As soon as she was in, the car took off, racing away into the night.
Michael and Madison—1995
I want you to look at this,” Madison said, racing into Michael’s office, waving a magazine in front of his face.
“What?” he said, always delighted to see his daughter.
“Remember years ago when we were in Miami, and I told you I’d make you proud?” she said, perching on the edge of his desk.
“Yeah?”
“Well, take a look at this,” she said, triumphantly thrusting a magazine called Manhattan Style at him. On the front cover was her byline: “Profiles in Power by Madison Castelli.”
“Jesus, kid,” Michael said, staring at the magazine. “All those years in college finally paid off.”
“They certainly did,” she said excitedly. “Guess who my first subject is?”
“Who?”
“Would you believe Henry Kissinger?”