He was not surprised, although when he discovered she’d run off with a twenty-six-year-old struggling artist, his ego was slightly deflated. Only slightly, because what really pissed him off was the fact that she obviously didn’t give a shit about Madison’s reaction. Which meant that she didn’t care if Madison discovered the truth.
Now he’d have to tell Madison. Whether he liked it or not—the time had come.
First he’d have to summon the courage, and that was not going to be easy. It might take a while.
A few days later, sitting around in Vito Giovanni’s old brownstone drinking Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, Michael felt as if he was a kid again. He felt melancholy, too, because Vito was in extremely bad shape. The old man had lost about fifty pounds and was a skeletal figure. It was upsetting to see him that way. His jaw seemed to have caved in, his eyes were hollow, and his paper white hands shook uncontrollably. Now his favorite armchair completely enveloped him.
“You’re lookin’ good, Vito,” Michael lied, knowing how vain Vito was.
“You always was a lousy liar,” Vito replied, indulging in a vigorous coughing fit. “I’m a sick old man. I ain’t got much longer.”
He’d been suffering from prostate cancer for the last three years. Chemotherapy and radiation treatments had completely debilitated him, but he still knew how to bitch. And bitch he did—about his treatments, his doctors, the hospitals, and the nurses. The only person he had a good word for was his wife, the former stripper Western Pussy, now officially Western Giovanni.
Western was a cheery soul who obviously made him very happy. Unlike Vito’s former wife, Mamie, Western did not have a bitter bone in her body. Oblivious to criticism, she sailed through life with her 46D boobs and her cheery smile.
“How’s my baby boy?” she said, sweeping into the room, smelling of cheap scent and pizza. Western never had learned to spend Vito’s money; she still preferred the small pleasures in life.
“Did ya say hello to Michael?” Vito asked, coughing again.
“I always say hello to your handsome friend. How’s it shakin’, Michael?”
“I’m good, Western. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.” She turned to her ailing husband. “Look what I bought you in the sale at Bloomingdale’s, honeybunch,” she said, digging into her shopping bag and producing a most unsuitable pink V-neck sweater. She waved it in front of him. “It’s cashmere,” she said reverently. “So soft and cuddly.”
“That’s nice, babe,” Vito said. “Now run along. Me an’ Michael got business to discuss.”
“Business at your age,” she scolded. “You gotta give it up, Vito.”
“Scram,” he said affectionately.
She blew him a kiss and left the room.
Vito turned to his nurse, who was sitting in the corner. “Wait outside,” he commanded.
“But Mr. Giovanni—”
“Go!”
The woman went.
“They try to keep me in bed,” Vito confided. “I ain’t havin’ that shit. I’m no fuckin’ invalid. I got prostate cancer. Big fuckin’ deal.”
“I guess they feel you should get plenty of rest,” Michael offered.
“Rest for what?” Vito demanded. “My fuckin’ grave?”
“Look, Vito, I’m glad you saw me today. We’ve got to discuss what you want me to do with your money.”
“Oh yeah. My money,” he said vaguely. “How much is it now?”
“About three times as much as you gave me.”
“You always was good at makin’ dough,” the old man guffawed. Then he frowned. “I sure as shit don’t want the tax man gettin’ it.”
“Then what?”
“Here’s what you do. Western can’t manage nothin’, so it’s no good givin’ it to her. Once I’m gone, you arrange a monthly income for her. Somethin’ that goes straight into her bank.”
“Okay.”
“Then I want ya t’ take a coupla million an’ give it to Mamie.”
He said it so casually that Michael didn’t register what he was saying for a moment. When it hit him, he was outraged. “What?”
“Mamie—remember her, my ex-wife?”
“What the fuck would you want to do that for?”
“I promised her that when I went, she’d get it.”
“From what I hear, she’s doing okay with her porno empire.”
“She was with me a lotta years, Mike,” Vito said. “I think she deserves it.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yes, I do,” Vito said, his gruff voice hardening. “So Mike, I can trust you, right?”
Michael nodded. He had no intention of giving one dime to Mamie. By withholding the money, he could finally exact a very small revenge.
And that’s exactly what he planned on doing.
Fresh back from L.A. and an exciting assignment interviewing a powerful superagent, Madison lunched with Jamie in a Manhattan restaurant.
She was at the top of her game now. “Profiles in Power by Madison Castelli” was a big deal. Publicists were clamoring for her to sit down with their clients. In the magazine publishing world, she was a star.
Jamie leaned across the table. “What’s the best sex you ever had?” she asked.
“Huh?” Madison said.
“You know,” Jamie said. “Mind-blowing, down-and-dirty sex. The kind where you never want to see the guy again, but at the exact moment you’re doing it, anything goes. And I do mean anything.”
“Well . . .” Madison said, wondering where Jamie was heading with this. “Miami,” she said at last. “Remember that weekend I spent with my dad when I was sixteen? Well, I met this guy, a forty-something major playboy with all the toys—penthouse, Porsche, and an oversized water bed covered in rose petals. Also . . .” She paused for effect. “An extraordinarily talented tongue.”
“Damn!” Jamie exclaimed. “You never told me.”
“It was my secret,” Madison said, laughing. “His name was Frankie Medina. I’ll never forget him. He taught me plenty.”
“You sly one,” Jamie said. “I didn’t know we kept secrets from each other.”
“Just one.”
“Ha!”
“What’s with all this sex talk anyway?” Madison asked.
“I think Peter might be having an affair,” Jamie blurted, mentioning her husband.
“You’ve only been married a few years,” Madison pointed out. “Give the guy a chance to get bored.”
“Thanks a lot,” Jamie said huffily. “What makes you think he’d ever get bored?”
“Anyway, don’t talk to me about unfaithful men,” Madison said. “They’re all dogs.”
Recently she’d broken up with her live-in boyfriend of two years, David, a TV producer. She suspected that David had gotten uptight because he’d discovered she made more money than him. One day he’d informed her he was going out for cigarettes, and failed to return. A few weeks after his abrupt departure, she’d heard he’d married his childhood sweetheart, a vapid blond with fake boobs and an annoying overbite. So much for good taste.
David had been her longest relationship—she wasn’t looking for another one, although she’d recently met Jake Sica in L.A., and he was very attractive. Unfortunately he was hooked up with someone else.
“Ever since David took a runner you’ve turned into a real cynic,” Jamie remarked.
“For your information, I’m glad he’s gone,” Madison said. “I’ve discovered that work is more important than a man any day.”
Later that night they met up at a dinner party at Anton Couch’s house. Anton—a gay and extremely social man—was Jamie’s partner in her design business. During the course of dinner, Anton mentioned that Madison’s mother had called him.
“My mother?” she said, surprised.
“You do have a mother, don’t you?” Anton said crisply. “You didn’t just spring from the streets of New York with a pen in your hand.”
“Why would she call you?
”
“To inquire about a design concept for their new apartment.”
“What new apartment?” Madison said, puzzled. “My parents live in Connecticut now.”
“Apparently they’re moving back to the city.”
The moment she got home, she called Michael. He sounded half asleep. She didn’t care.
“I do not appreciate hearing from Anton Couch that you guys are getting an apartment in New York,” she said.
“Hey, sweetie,” he mumbled. “I’m asleep. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said, slamming the phone down. She couldn’t stand it when Michael didn’t give her his full attention.
The next morning he was on the phone bright and early. “If you’re available I’ll drive into the city and we can go for brunch.”
“You and Stella?” she said, stifling a yawn.
“No,” he said shortly. “Stella can’t make it.”
An hour later he picked her up and they went to the Plaza, where after talking about a dozen other things, he finally told her that Stella had left him for another man.
“What?” she said, totally shocked. “You and Mom have always been so close.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“How did it happen?”
“Who knows?” he said evenly. “I’m merely the guy who got left. Came home one day and she was gone. I haven’t spoken to her since.”
“So it’s her who’s getting the apartment?”
“I guess so.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Madison suddenly blurted out, “How can you let her do this to me?”
He laughed dryly. “No one’s doing anything to you.”
“You’re my parents,” she said accusingly, knowing she sounded unreasonable, but unable to stop herself. “I don’t want divorced parents.”
“What are you—eight?”
“No,” she said heatedly. “But I’ve always looked up to you both as an example.”
“Everything isn’t always what it seems,” he said mysteriously.
“Why hasn’t Stella called me?”
“You were never exactly close.”
“She is my mother. Don’t you think I should have heard it from her?”
He sighed. “The truth is that you didn’t always get the attention from either of us that you deserved, and that bothers me.” He paused for a long moment. Was now the time to tell her the truth? Yes. He couldn’t procrastinate any longer. “Listen, sweetheart,” he said, hesitating slightly. “There’s something else I have to tell you. Something that might help you understand things better.”
She felt queasy. What could be worse than them getting a divorce? Obviously it was something she didn’t want to hear.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, his eyes fixed firmly on hers. “Stella . . . she’s, uh . . . well . . . she’s not your real mother.”
Her world began spinning out of control. Stella wasn’t her real mother? How could that be? It didn’t make sense. What the hell was he talking about?
Michael was still speaking, telling her a long, involved story about when he was single, and a girlfriend had his baby, then his girlfriend got shot because businesspeople he was dealing with decided they had to punish him.
What kind of insane story was this? She felt as if she was in the middle of some crazy soap opera as she listened to him speak.
When he was finally finished there was another long silence.
Suddenly she had a blinding headache. For God’s sake, was this her life? Everything had suddenly changed. She was no longer the person she’d thought she was.
“I . . . I have to go home and . . . digest this,” she managed, standing up.
“Don’t run away from me,” Michael implored, grabbing her hand. “I need you, sweetheart. I’ve always needed you.”
“Maybe you do,” she said, feeling a sharp pain burning within her, “but this is too much of a shock, and I have to deal with it on my own.” Pulling her hand away from his, she stood up and hurried from the restaurant.
Outside on the street, everything seemed different. She felt dizzy and faint and she didn’t know what to do or where to turn. All she really wanted to do was burst out crying.
Why do you want to cry? her inner voice asked.
Because I don’t know who I am anymore.
Watching his daughter bolt from the restaurant, Michael felt a sense of relief. Not because Madison had gone, but because he’d finally told her. And by telling her, he’d freed himself from the guilt he’d been living with for all these years.
Madison was upset now, but she was a sensible girl, she’d get over it. Especially when he explained it to her in more detail. It was a lot for her to absorb in one sitting. Too much.
He couldn’t wait to phone Dani, although he wasn’t ready to tell her about Stella. He’d sit on that information for a few more weeks.
Right now he wasn’t in the mood to make any life-changing decisions.
Dani would always be there. Waiting.
One day she might get a nice surprise.
Dani and Vincent—2000
Everything’s set, Mrs. Castle,” the caterer said.
“You’re sure? I don’t want any mistakes,” Dani responded.
“Mrs. Castle,” the caterer replied, “I never make mistakes.”
She nodded. “Just checking.” Then she smiled.
The man smiled back. He loved dealing with this beautiful woman. She was quite an exquisite creature. And yet, like all his other clients, she was extremely fussy. And so she should be—it was her son’s wedding, so who could blame her?
When she was finished with the caterer, Dani took the elevator to her suite in the Castle Hotel. Vincent was finally getting married, and Michael was late. Although, since it was out of his control, she had to forgive him. She’d called the airport a couple of times and found out that his flight had been delayed leaving New York. The plane had finally taken off and he should be arriving any minute.
She’d told him to come directly to the hotel. She no longer had a house; she’d sold it and moved into an elegant apartment shortly after Sofia had dropped out of school, at fifteen, and run off to Europe. She blamed Michael for Sofia’s defection. He’d had a massive fight with his daughter, who’d accused him of never being there for her. A few weeks later she’d taken off.
Dani was a wreck about it, until Sofia had called from England and said a cavalier, “Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m with friends and I’ll check in occasionally.”
Dani had appealed to Michael. He’d been his usual, stubborn self. “She can look after herself,” he’d said. “Sofia’s okay, she’s just like me.”
Michael’s favorite description of his children was that they were just like him, when in fact the only resemblance was physical.
Did he think he was so perfect?
She had news for him. He wasn’t. Although that didn’t stop her from loving him. She always would. Michael Castelli was her incurable addiction.
The Castle Hotel and Casino had turned out to be a big success. Nando and Vincent had managed to build and operate a boutique hotel that appealed to the younger crowd. The hotel was always fully booked, and the casino always packed. Business was excellent.
Today was a special day. Vincent’s wedding day. He was marrying Jenna Crane, the very pretty, honey blond daughter of a local lawyer.
Naturally Vincent had gone for looks. Jenna was not the girl Dani would have picked for her son. Yes, Jenna was very pretty. Yes, she appeared to be quite innocent. However, she didn’t seem too bright. Dani would have preferred to see Vincent marry a more intelligent woman.
At least he was getting married. Nando had done the deed a year earlier. His wife, Jolie, was quite gorgeous. A former dancer, Jolie was beautiful and smart. A winning combination.
As Dani put on her mother-of-the-groom outfit, it occurred to her that this would be the first time Michael was actually going to meet Dean.
When she’d told Michael that Dean would be at the wedding, he’d been livid. “Why do I have to look at that asshole?” he’d complained.
“He’s not an asshole,” she’d answered firmly. There was no way she was not inviting Dean to her son’s big day, so Michael would just have to get over it. “I’ve told you many times, Dean’s my best friend.”
“Fuck the prick,” Michael had said, quite put out. “I should be your best friend.”
“Well, you’re not. You’re my lover.”
Her words had pissed Michael off even more.
She was putting the finishing touches to her hair when Michael arrived. He entered the suite, put his arms around her from behind, nuzzled her neck, and said, “Guess what?”
She spun around. “What?”
“I told Madison.”
“About us?”
“No . . . no. I, uh . . . told her that Stella isn’t her real mother.”
“Oh my God,” Dani gasped, realizing what a big deal this was for him. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
“How did she take it?”
“She ran out on me. She’s angry.”
“Of course she is. That’s understandable.”
“You know what, Dani? I’m glad I did it. Now that I’ve told her, I’ll give her a couple of months to digest it, then slowly I’ll tell her about you and the kids.”
“You will?”
“It’s time.”
“Good.”
“I love you, Dani,” he said, nuzzling her neck again. “Now that I’ve told Madison, things will be different. You’ll see.”
Instead of calming him, Nando was making Vincent into a nervous wreck. As it was, he had a hangover from hell. The night before, Nando had insisted on throwing him a bachelor party. It had turned out to be the bachelor night to beat all bachelor nights. Strippers, contortionists, mud wrestlers—all of them naked, all of them female, and all of them on his case.
His last memory was of tequila being poured down his throat at 3:30 A.M. and a beautiful Eurasian girl thrusting her breasts in his mouth and begging him to fuck her—an offer he’d turned down. He groaned at the memory.