Deadly Embrace (55 page)

It struck her as odd that she'd been singled out. Why? And where
had this vehicle come from? Had the gunman been in contact by cell
phone with people to come get him?

What about the other two gunmen and the hostages? Something weird
was going on, and she couldn't figure it out.

"What'll happen to the people we left behind?" she asked.

"That ain't your concern," he said roughly.

"Will they be freed?"

"For crissakes!"

She tried to get a better look at the two men in the front. The
driver was a big man, with a totally shaved head. His bare arms were
festooned with intricate tattoos.

The man sitting beside him had long, greasy hair, and studs in his
nose and ears. That's all she could see.

I'm not frightened
, she told herself.
I'm not scared.
I'm my father's daughter, and he'd expect me to be strong. So fuck
'em
!

But inside she was filled with trepidation.

* * *

As far as Jolie was concerned the situation was heading from bad to
worse. Not only did she have Darren eyeballing her with a lecherous
twist to his thin Snoop Doggy Dogg lips, but now the two men had set
out several lines of coke on a glass-top table, and a couple of
topless girls had wandered in to join the party.

Jolie was offended. She didn't want to be here, this was not her
scene.

She kept on looking over at Nando to see if he got the message
that she wanted to get the hell out of there. He managed to take no
notice of her, he was too busy laughing and bullshitting with the
guys. The next thing she knew he was doing a line of coke.

Determined to act with dignity, she stood up. "Will you excuse me
for a moment?" she said, tight-lipped.

"Sure, babe," Nando answered, half eyeballing one of the topless
babes.

"The pisser's on your right," Darren offered with a sly smirk.
"Want me t' take you?"

"I'm sure I'll find it," she said icily.

She walked out of the room and back into the club, practically
bumping into a huge bouncer who was in the process of dragging some
hapless drunk toward the door.

Now she was really angry. How
dare
Nando bring her to such
a place? He should have more respect for her. After all, she was his
wife
.

She glanced up at the stage. It was open-leg city, girls spreading
them like there was no tomorrow.

Shaking her head, she walked to the front entrance. The parking
valet who'd taken care of Nando's car was standing there smoking a
cigarette.

She fished in her purse and took out money. "Here's that other
twenty my husband promised you," she said, handing him a
twenty-dollar bill. "Can you please bring the car?"

"Sure," the guy said, giving her an appraising once-over as he
flicked his cigarette on the ground. "The Ferrari. Right?"

Tapping her foot impatiently, she watched as a fat man rolled out
of the club chortling with amusement. He was holding on to his
friend, who staggered over to the side of the curb and proceeded to
puke.

Nice. Very, very nice.

The valet brought the car around and she got in. "Oh, by the way,
tell my husband when he comes out that he can take a cab."

And before the parking valet could say a word, she shot off.

* * *

The plane made a smooth landing. Michael disembarked quickly. He'd
kept in touch with Gus, his former prison mate and coworker in crime
over the years. Gus had moved to LA fifteen years ago to run the West
Coast operation for Lucchese.

Gus was there to greet him. They shook hands, walked out of the
airport, and got into a black limo with tinted, dark windows that was
waiting at curbside.

"Good to see you, Michael," Gus said, looking very L.A. in a silk
T-shirt worn under a lightweight cream suit.

"Shame it has to be under these circumstances," Michael
replied.

"Don't worry about it," Gus said. "I done what you asked.
Everything's set."

"Those morons," Michael said, his eyes filled with an unholy
anger. "I think they might've taken my daughter."

"What?" Gus said, squinting at him.

"You been following that hostage situation on TV?"

"You mean the one from the restaurant on Beverly Boulevard?"

"Yeah."

"What about it?"

"It's not a hostage situation," Michael said grimly. "I think they
could've snatched Madison."

* * *

"I suppose," Sofia said, as she sat on Gianni's private jet, sipping
iced tea, "that you're expecting an explanation about last
night."

"I've forgotten about last night," Gianni said.

"No, really," she insisted. "I want to explain."

"You don't have to."

"Why don't you want to hear it?" she said, fidgeting in her
seat.

"I'm not interested. I'm prepared to forget it ever happened."

"Oh, that's great, isn't it?" she said sulkily. "Make me feel like
a piece of shit."

"Sofia—if a gentleman gives you an opportunity to forget
something that is embarrassing to you, then you should take that
opportunity."

"Why are you always lecturing me?" she demanded.

"I'm not. I'm merely trying to tell you that it is more prudent to
listen to good advice."

"You're very smug, Gianni."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

She leaned back and stretched. "I called my mother this
morning."

"You did?"

"Yeah—I figured, I know, she'd like to hear from me. I
didn't tell her about jumping into a swimming pool from eight stories
up!"

"No, I'm quite sure she wouldn't have appreciated
that
."

"Anyway, she wants me to come home."

"And do you wish to do that?"

"Well, she kind of, like, said there was an emergency with my
father."

"Is he sick?"

"No, she just said it was like, um, a situation."

"What
kind
of situation?""

"How would I know? My mom's mysterious. You'd probably fall madly
in love with her. She's a gorgeous blond."

"What makes you imagine I would fall madly in love with a gorgeous
blond?"

"Men fall in love with Dani all the time," Sofia said, stating a
fact. "She used to be a showgirl in Vegas. She was, like, a
real
hot number."

"Your mother was?"

"Yeah, she's only, like, y'know, fifty-something."

"When we get to Rome, you'll do the audition photos, and after
that I'll arrange for you to fly home. Is that a plan?"

"Yeah, 'cause if the photos work out and you want me to do the
campaign, I can always come back."

"Excellent."

"So, you'll buy me a ticket home, and my dad'll pay you. He's
rich, y'know. Probably as rich as you."

"Does he have his own plane?"

"Oh," she said, staring him down. "I guess you're mega rich,
huh?"

"What does your father do?"

"That's a good question," she answered vaguely. "Investments and
crap, real estate, shopping centers, things like that."

"Is he like Donald Trump?"

She giggled. "Donald Trump
wishes
."

* * *

Purposefully Vincent set off to collect his erstwhile wife, and maybe
beat the shit out of Andy Dale. He'd warned him. Hadn't the cretin
gotten it the first time?

Probably not. Andy Dale was a movie star. The dumbest of the
dumb.

He'd dragged Jenna home once tonight, now he had to do it a second
time. This was ridiculous. He didn't need these kind of
headaches.

He'd rescue her, and that was it.

After this little experience, Jenna was on her own. She'd no
longer have him to protect her.

Michael got the call in the middle of the night. He was alone in
Connecticut, since Stella had moved out to live with her boyfriend.
He didn't care. Things between him and Stella had cooled down long
before she left. A divorce was inevitable.

He was trying to get things straight in his own head before he
started thinking about the future. Madison wasn't talking to him, she
was still upset about his revelations concerning Stella. He hadn't
called Dani in a while because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure where
he wanted their relationship to go, and once he told her about Stella
leaving, it would definitely be decision time. Sofia was wandering
around somewhere in Europe. Vincent was the only one who was doing
great. He had a new wife, a successful hotel, and seemed all set.

The call was to inform him that Vito Giovanni had passed away.
Michael was heavyhearted to hear the news. It didn't seem possible
that Vito was gone, a man who'd always been such a strong presence in
his life.

He got in his car, drove into town, and checked into a hotel. The
next morning he got up early and went directly to the Giovanni
house.

Western greeted him with red, puffy eyes. "He was such a sweet old
guy," she said mournfully. "My Vito was real good to me."

"He loved you very much," Michael assured her.

"I don't know what to do," she worried, twisting her diamond
wedding ring. "Who am I supposed to call?"

"Don't worry," Michael said. "I'll take care of everything."

And he did.

* * *

The day of the funeral, two surprise guests turned up. Marnie and
Bone. Almost seventy, Marnie was still trying to look like a
teenager. She wore a bright blue suit with a skirt way above her bony
knees, her bleached blond hair was ratted and brittle, her makeup was
caked all over her face, and she was festooned in diamond
jewelry.

A scowling Bone had dyed his hair boot-polish black and swooped it
across his head to hide his receding hairline. He'd also applied some
kind of fake suntan, which gave his face a sickly orange tint. He
looked ridiculous.

The two of them made quite a bizarre sight.

The turnout for the funeral was enormous. Vito had an endless
stream of friends, business associates, and acquaintances, all
anxious to pay their respects.

Michael immediately spotted Marnie and Bone, and did his best to
avoid them.

Marnie was having none of it; she accosted him on his way out of
church. "Mikey," she said, spiky black eyelashes dominating
over-made-up eyes. "My little Mikey."

Did she not remember their past history? Had she completely
forgotten that she was directly responsible for his mother's murder,
and God knows, probably Beth's too?

He tried to turn in the other direction.

She placed her bony hand on his arm. Long fingers, every one
beringed. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."

"What is it?" he said, keeping his voice low and even because he
did not wish to cause a scene.

"We came to New York to pay respects to my ex-husband," she said.
"Vito would've wanted that." Michael nodded silently. "And also," she
said, leaning confidentially toward him, "to work out how we're gonna
get the money he promised me."

Now was his moment of triumph. "What money?" he said blankly.

"The money you've been looking after for him," she said, fixing
him with a malevolent glare.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't screw with me, Mikey," she said, talking to him as if he
were still the teenage kid she'd known way back.

He brushed her hand off his arm, and in a very low voice so nobody
else could hear, said, "Go fuck yourself, Marnie."

Then he walked away.

Bone came up to him at the reception. "I understand you and Marnie
had a talk," Bone said flatly, fingering the long, thin scar on his
cheek.

Michael stared at him and didn't say a word. How he hated the man
who'd shot his mother. A mother he'd never known because of Bone.

"Take this as a warning," Bone said with a great deal of malice in
his voice. "You get her the money or you're gonna regret it."

"I'll tell you the same as I told Marnie," Michael said, holding
back his anger. "I don't know what you're talking about.

Bone shook his head in wonderment. "You're still the same dumb
bastard." His voice rose. "You get Marnie her money or you'll see
what'll happen."

"Jeez!" Michael said, taunting him. "Threats. What're you going to
do to me now?"

Bone's eyes were cold and dead. 'You'd be surprised," he said.
"You'd be
very
surprised."

Once more Michael walked away. There was
nothing
they could
do to him. There was no way they could prove that Vito had entrusted
him with any money. Besides, he was a legitimate businessman now, he
was way out of their reach.

Over the next few days he made arrangements for Western to receive
a princely income for the length of her life. He didn't feel bad
about keeping the rest of Vito's secret stash. He considered it Bone
and Mamie's punishment, a punishment that was not nearly harsh
enough. Eventually he'd give every dollar of it to some deserving
charity. Now,
that
was justice.

As
the years passed he'd begun to realize that seeking
endless revenge could poison a person's soul. Another
thought—did revenge ever satisfy?

This particular time it did.

Later that night he spoke to Warner Carlysle. She was still close
to Stella, and with her help he planned to move on.

"I want a divorce," he told her. "Can you talk to Stella for
me?"

"I don't know why you two can't speak to each other," Warner
grumbled.

"She refuses to talk to me," he said. "So I'd appreciate it if
you'd step in and tell her that either she proceeds with a divorce or
I will. I won't fight her. She can have anything she
wants—including the house."

"Very well," Warner sighed, reluctant to get involved.

"Thanks."

"Michael," Warner added curiously, "aren't you interested in
knowing why she ran off with another man?"

"I couldn't care less."

"Well," Warner said, "you have to admit that you were hardly ever
there for her. And Stella felt you still loved Beth, and that you
always put Madison before her."