“Whatever,” he says. He’s still half-asleep.
We pull into the drive-thru and I wind down the window. The girl in the window says, “Bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” I say, holding up two fingers. “Two Royales with cheese.”
“Royales with cheese; c’est deux Royales avec du fromage?” she says with a frown. She has long blond hair and long, blond eyelashes. She looks far too young to be working.
I say it again, louder and slower.
“Two Royales with cheeeeeeeeese.”
She types something into her touch screen computer. I think she gets it.
“Cinq euro, s’il vous plaît, madame,” she says.
“Huh?” I say.
“Cinq euro,” she says, holding up five fingers.
“Oh. OK. Five.”
“Nino,” I say, “have you got any cash?”
He nods toward the priest’s suitcase. I grab the case from the back shelf and haul it onto my lap. I undo the buckles and open it up. The money looks so pretty, I don’t want to touch it. It smells like fresh paint. I peel a €500 bill from the top of a pile. It is clean and crisp as though just off the press. I stick my arm out through the car window and give it to the girl. She’s staring at the suitcase. Oh, the money. She takes the note between her fingertips and rustles around for some change. It takes ages.
“Quatre cent quatre-vingt-quinze euro. Merci,” she says, holding out the notes for me to take. The notes look dirty and crumpled like someone’s wiped their ass with them. “No, it’s OK, you can keep the change,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Just give me the burgers.”
She doesn’t understand. I shake my head.
“Non.”
Nino leans over and grabs the money through the window, shoves it into the glove compartment. The girl hands me the burgers and we drive off.
“What did you do that for? I was just trying to be nice,” I say.
“Well, don’t. It doesn’t suit you,” Nino says.
Chapter Forty-Two
I look out the window, but I can’t see any fish. Just black. We’re sitting in the Lamborghini squeezed into a carriage with dozens of cars. They actually load the cars into a train and then drive the train through the Channel Tunnel. It all seems rather pointless. Why not just let the cars drive through the tunnel? The French . . . they’re nuts. I didn’t want to get on another ferry after the last time. I don’t think Nino did either. So I suppose the train thing is better than being seasick. Except that the carriage smells of car fumes and there’s nothing to do. I can taste gasoline. This would be a really cool place to start a fire.
“Shall we get out and go for a walk?” I say.
“Where are we gonna go? We’re seventy meters below the sea in a metal tube,” says Nino. Nino’s still cross because I trashed his drugs.
I look over at Nino slumped in the passenger’s seat, the collar of Ambrogio’s black leather jacket pulled up under his ears, his eyes as dead and bleak as black holes and the fading scar on his cratered face as long and thin as a line of coke.
“I don’t know, just up and down the train?”
“What’s the fucking point in that?”
“We could stretch our legs.”
“I don’t need to stretch my legs.”
“We could look at some of the cars.”
Nino glares and shakes his head. “We’ve been driving on endless motorways looking at nothing but cars. And you want to go look at more cars? This is the best-looking car on the whole fucking train. Look at this.”
He’s right. I’m bored of cars. I’m bored of driving. I can’t drive, so I’ve been making up for lack of technique with increased speed. If you started a fire in the Channel Tunnel, I guess the whole train would explode. All these cars are filled with petrol. There are hundreds of cars all packed together. You’d only have to light one match and leave it underneath one car and the whole fucking thing would blow like dynamite. There’d be fire at Folkstone and fire at Calais, roaring out like the mouths of dragons. It would be fucking spectacular. I really want to do it, but there’s no way out. We’d both burn to death.
Would it be worth it for the rush?
“Nino,” I ask, resting my hand on his shoulder. I can feel the heat from his body rise through the leather. “Do you want to die?”
“What? Right now?”
“Yeah. Right now.”
He thinks about this for a second. I can hear the cogs in his brain go whirr. “We’ve got two million euro in a suitcase, a bag full of diamonds, and a classic Lamborghini. No, Betta, I want to fucking live.”
Fair point.
“OK. Just checking.” He forgot about the villa. When all this is over, I’m going to sell it. It’s got to be worth a ton and a half. “Shall we buy a mansion in Beverly Hills?”
“No. I want a villa near Naples by the sea.”
Nino’s still scowling. I like it when he’s angry. I like the way his eyes burn a hole in your head like bullets or a drill or the edge of the curb and his gold tooth flashes like gunfire. I like the guttural growl of his voice. I wonder if he’ll propose when we get to London. If he does, I’ll say yes.
When we get to England, I’ll make a plan: a cunning plan for me, Ernie, and Nino. That’s just what we need, a magnificent plan! A genius strategy. We can travel the world, just the three of us, killing and fucking and sailing and speeding and shopping and tanning and building sky-high sand castles on coke-white beaches with vodka-clear waters and stars in our eyes. We can forget about Beth and Ambrogio. And Salvatore. And those other guys. Oh, and that priest, I forgot about him.
◆
St. James’s, London
“Yeah, but why has it got to be the Ritz?” says Nino.
I’m stuck in first gear in bottleneck traffic, bumper to bumper on Pall Mall.
“It’s fucking expensive,” he says.
“I know it is. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“What do you do? Bathe in Champagne?”
“If you want to . . .”
“Do they feed you gold?”
“Probably, actually . . .”
“Unless Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell are going to suck my dick, then I don’t think it’s worth it. . . .”
“You probably don’t get sexual favors from supermodels included in the price of the room, no. But what do you need them for? You’ve already got me.”
Nino snorts. I think it was a laugh.
We turn onto Piccadilly and stop the car outside the hotel. It says THE RITZ in big, flashy letters. There’s a colonnade. A Union Jack.
I toss the car keys to the valet and step out of the Lambo.
“Don’t crash it.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Or lose it.”
“Ma’am.”
The doorman bows low—black bowler hat with a golden trim, long black overcoat, big gold buttons; you can see your face in his shiny shoes. He opens the heavy, glass-paneled door. We step inside the Ritz: a bright, light-filled atrium. Buckingham Palace or Versailles. The air is filled with the scent of roses, an enormous bouquet in the center of the room. Beth liked roses. She would’ve loved those. I guess this place is Beth’s kind of scene. Nino and I walk through the entrance toward the reception.
“How’s your arm?”
Nino looks up and grimaces. “It still fucking hurts, but it’s a little bit better.”
“Cool,” I say.
The men at reception stop talking and look up as we approach. They’re wearing three-piece suits in a light shade of gray with matching ties. They probably think we’re underdressed.
“Good evening, madam, sir,” says a man.
“Hi,” I say.
There’s an enormous, floor-to-ceiling mirror behind reception, an ornate, antique golden clock. Roman numerals read 11:30 p.m. Wall lam
ps cast a warm, gold glow. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: eyelashes extended, eyebrows waxed, long blond hair a honeyed hue. I look like Beth.
“Madam? Madam? How can I help you?”
“Hmm?” I say. I must have gotten distracted looking at Beth.
“We need a room,” Nino says. I look over at him, standing there in Ambrogio’s baby-soft leather jacket. There’s a little fleck of red on his neck by his jaw. It looks like he’s cut himself shaving.
“The Royal Suite’s the only room we have available,” says the man, studying his computer screen, clicking a mouse.
“Oh, that sounds lovely,” I say. My voice sounds funny: breathy, husky. I sound like Beth.
“That particular suite is £4,500 per night, plus VAT.”
“Ma quanto?” says Nino. I think that’s Italian for I’m not paying that.
I grab the suitcase from Nino and slam it down on the desk. The man jumps. “Do you take euro?” I say.
“Oh, you don’t need to pay now. You can pay in the morning,” says the man. He smiles with relief. “There’s a bureau de change in the hotel. Could we please swipe a card for confirmation?”
I’m not giving him my debit card, there’s no money on the account. And I’m not giving him Beth’s either; the cops might be tracking it. I take a stack of €500 bills and thrust them into the man’s hands.
“We paid,” I say.
The man nods and takes the money.
“That’s perfect,” I say. It’s strange, I could have sworn that was Beth talking. I shake my head and look at Nino. He hasn’t noticed. Perhaps I’m going nuts?
“Would you please be so kind as to show us some identification so we can sign you in? A passport or a driving license?”
“Of course,” I say with a smile.
I hand the man a passport. Then I realize that it’s Beth’s.
“Very good,” says the man. “Sign here please.” I hope the cops aren’t searching London for Elizabeth. That would be just my luck. I sign the paper: Elizabeth Caruso. I even use my right hand; I’m getting pretty good. I glance over at Nino, but I don’t think he’s noticed. He’s examining his messed-up arm. “Here are the keys to the Royal Suite. My colleague, Matthew, will be your butler for the duration of your stay. If you need anything at all please don’t hesitate—”
“That won’t be necessary,” says Nino, his voice a growl.
“Please allow Matthew to take your cases up to your room.”
“I’ll take them,” says Nino, intercepting. He grabs the cases, one in each hand. I see him wince in pain.
“Very good, sir,” says the man.
Shame, I would have liked a butler. That would’ve been fun. We follow Matthew along a corridor—red carpets, cut-crystal chandeliers, curtains embroidered with golden thread—toward our suite. Matthew presses a button and we wait for the lift. It’s an old-fashioned one with polished wooden panels, a portrait of a lady in Victorian dress, and a shiny brass handrail. I study Matthew’s youthful features: floppy blond hair, clean shave, pale blue eyes. His starched white collar digs into his chin. He looks like every member of every boy band you’ve ever seen. There’s even a dimple in his chin. He doesn’t look a day over twelve. He sees me looking and smiles; I look away, study the floor: white marble tiles, a golden “R.” The lift pings and we’re there.
“This way, sir, madam,” he says.
Nino and I follow Matthew down yet another corridor, until we come to our door: Room 1012. He slips the key card into the handle and the door clicks open. He pushes through into a vast, palatial sitting room, with period furniture and an enormous painting in a wrought bronze frame. There’s a marble fireplace with miniature statues of Grecian women on either side. A mantelpiece with what look like urns and shining, twisting candelabras. Nino gives Matthew a wedge of €500 bills as a tip. His blue eyes widen. He hesitates, then takes it.
“Don’t let anyone up here,” says Nino, grabbing Matthew’s forearm with a viselike grip.
“No, sir. Of course, sir.”
“No one,” says Nino.
“Sir.”
Matthew bows again and turns to leave. Nino places the suitcase with the euros on the bed next to the suitcase with our clothes and the diamonds. I walk through the suite, as though in a dream, float through the sitting room, dining room, bedroom, bathroom, dressing room, study. The suite is even bigger and better than the villa in Taormina. Perhaps we could just live here?
“Oh, wow! We did it! We really did it!”
I grab the suitcase and flip it open.
“Look at all this money. And it’s ours, all ours! No mobsters, no priests, no Salvatore!”
I grab fistfuls of banknotes and fling them up high, way up high into the sky. I spread them out all over the bed. They feel smooth and sleek, almost silky.
The banknotes flutter and fall through the sky like purple snowflakes. I tip the suitcase upside down and empty the money out onto the bed. It looks like a swimming pool at sunset: the banknotes are ripples on the water, violent purple and fuchsia pink. I want to dive in, splashing around like a hot girl in a porno, get soaking wet. I can almost feel it, the cool of the water, the warm sun rays caressing my back.
“Just look at it, Nino! Fuck!”
I turn to face Nino and see the fire spark in his eyes.
“I’m looking,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine.
“We did it,” I gasp. I can’t believe it.
“We did it,” he says. “Minchia.”
I grab Nino and throw him back onto the bed. I sit on top of him, pulling off his shirt. The buttons pop and fall onto the floor. The fabric tears, rips.
I pull off my top and unfasten my bra, move down his legs to unfasten his fly. I kiss his chest from the little dip at the base of his neck all the way down to his hip bones. I unbuckle his belt and yank down the zip. Oh my God . . . he’s already erect.
“The car, the money, the diamonds: we’re rich! We can do whatever the hell we like!”
I straddle Nino, looking into his eyes and ease on top. He feels amazing. I can feel him up hard against my G-spot, full and wide and deep inside. Nino reaches and grabs my breasts, teasing my nipples, pinching, hurting. I ride him slowly, then faster and faster. My palms press down into his palms; hot and slippery with sweat. Our fingers slide and intertwine. I push his hands above his head.
He feels so good as I sit down deeper, filling me up, making me whole. He grabs my hips to pull me in closer, his fingernails digging into my flesh.
“Say my name.”
“Betta.”
And I ride him and ride him and ride him and ride, sweat dripping down my back, sweat sliding down my chest. Breathless. Panting. Weightless. Hot. I feel the heat rising up in my body, and I’m burning, floating like ashes and flame. I am the smoke and Nino’s the fire. My head feels light; my shoulders float. I feel free. I feel fucking invincible.
“You’re a bad boy, Nino. A bad, bad boy. A bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad boy.”
And I feel him coming in waves inside me, over and over and over again. I lean back on his cock, breathing hard. And I’m coming and coming for what feels like forever, my mind expanding, my body floating, my heart exploding like gunfire.
Chapter Forty-Three
I step out of the shower and wrap myself up in a fluffy white bathrobe, towel-dry my hair, and leave it over one shoulder. Mmm, I smell good. That complimentary shower gel’s delicious. Citrus and grapefruit; I’m good enough to eat. It’s the Ritz’s own brand, just like at Tesco’s. I’m going to steal a few of the miniature bottles. And the bathrobe. And slippers.
When I get back in the bedroom, I see Nino is sleeping, sprawled out on the bed in exactly the same position I left him. He looks serene. He looks peaceful. He reminds me of my baby Ernie, or Ambrogio, perhaps when he was dead.
Ther
e’s an antique bureau up against the wall, I walk over and take a look. There’s a writing desk with an old inkwell and headed paper. The paper looks expensive, creamy and thick. There are “Ritz London” pens and some “Ritz London” postcards: a photo of its magnificent facade, its columns and flowers bathed in sunlight. I pull open a little wooden drawer to find a beautiful letter opener: ivory handle, shiny silver blade. It’s not a knife, but it looks nice and sharp. I wonder how sharp exactly. I left that Swiss Army knife in Sicily.
“Nino?”
Nothing.
“NINO!”
“MERDA!”
Nino jumps. I think I scared him. At least he woke up.
He opens his eyes, but when he sees it’s just me and not some kind of monster, he closes them again. Rolls over. Snores. I sit down next to him on the bed. I grab his wrist and slice open his finger in a deep, clean line with the letter opener. The blood pours out and spills over his hand, drips down heavily onto the sheets.
“ARGH!” says Nino. “What the fuck?”
Nino’s clutches his hand to his chest. That definitely woke him. . . .
“Hold still,” I say. “Give me your finger.”
He shakes his head. He looks freaked out.
“Give me your finger or your balls are next.”
We look down at his cock. He’s still stark naked. Nino decides it’s not worth the risk.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
I grab hold of his finger and reach for a little glass vial tucked away in the pocket of my bathrobe. (I bought it a long time ago at a flea market in London; I just never had the chance to use it.)
“You don’t think I’ve bled enough from this arm?”
His eyes are glued to his bleeding finger, to the blood gushing out and snaking down his wrist to his elbow, running fast along his forearm, in long red lines the color of wine.
“Look, it’s a necklace!” I say, clutching the vial and filling the small bottle up with his blood. “I’m going to wear it around my neck forever and ever. Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton had ones just like it!”
The vial fills to overflowing with Nino’s blood. I screw on its tiny lid.
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