“I believe you.”
“Just like that?” He looked as if he couldn’t take it in that she’d capitulated so quickly.
“Hardly ‘just like that.’ I believe you,” she said again. “All right. I’ll stay with you for a while.”
Marcus wondered what “for a while” meant.
“You said Dominick’s vanity is enormous; it’s also obvious that you don’t like him. In fact, I’d say you’re close to feeling like he’s scum and dirt. Why, then, are you risking everything to find the group who tried to kill him? Still trying to kill him, for that matter.”
“Good question.”
“You got an answer?”
Marcus’s agile brain failed him. He just looked at her. Her lipstick was long gone, her mascara had smeared beneath her eyes, her hair was hanging over her right eye, and he was so afraid she might not be safe with him that it made him mute.
“I know,” she said, poking him in the ribs. “Trust you. Have patience. Make love to you in the swimming pool, ankle-deep in the Caribbean, on your front lawn—”
“I wasn’t all involved that time, if you’ll recall.”
Rafaella looked out the small window. “Do you think we’ve reached our cruising altitude yet? Usually it’s over forty thousand feet to Europe. It’s a long way down.”
“You know, you might consider quality rather than quantity. For example, just the other night you—”
She held up her hand. “You win. I’m retreating. And since I have no choice but to trust you, I’ll pretend that I do. The truth, you know, Marcus, might not be too bad.”
“Sometimes the truth is the very devil.”
When he was right, he was right, Rafaella thought. She fell asleep three minutes later, and the grandmotherly flight attendant just clucked as she viewed the beautiful rare sirloin steak that had to go back to the galley.
Eighteen
Giovanni’s Island
April 2001
Dominick let out a yell, and Merkel, terrified, dashed into the library, coming to a stunned halt. Dominick was seated behind his desk, and in his hand he was still holding the phone. It was buzzing loudly. He let out another whoop for Merkel’s benefit, then waved him to a chair. “I can’t bloody well believe it,” Dominick said, and Merkel wondered for a moment if the strain had been too much and Mr. Giovanni had gone berserk.
“No, it’s the best news I’ve had in more years than I can count.” He beamed at Merkel.
Merkel was dying to ask what had made Mr. Giovanni so happy, but he knew better. Mr. Giovanni never liked to be questioned. Merkel waited.
Dominick clapped his hands, threw back his head, and laughed deeply, showing a molar that needed to be capped. “Pour each of us some champagne, Merkel. Don’t stint. Get the best stuff we’ve got. We’ve got some celebrating to do. My dear father-in-law, that interfering old bastard, Carlo Carlucci, is dead. He’s finally dead. Dead! In his bed, of heart failure. I hope he rots in hell. You can’t imagine, Merkel, you can’t believe—I was beginning to think he’d live forever.”
Then Dominick laughed yet again, a deep, rich laugh that made Merkel smile even though his skin crawled at the same time.
“Dead! The old fool’s dead. Dead. Get the champagne.”
When Merkel returned to the library carrying a silver tray with champagne and fine crystal flutes, Dominick was standing by the wide French windows, looking out.
“Here, sir.”
Dominick turned slowly, and the look in his pale blue eyes was frightening as hell itself. “I’m free now, Merkel, or I soon will be,” he said very softly. “Free. After all these years, I’ll be free of my drunken, unfaithful wife.”
Merkel carefully poured the champagne and handed the flute to Dominick.
“Pour yourself a glass, Merkel. Quickly, man.”
After they’d drunk two glasses, Dominick said, “Send Lacy to me. Tell him I’ve got a wonderful job for him.”
That evening at dinner, Dominick announced that he and Lacy were flying to Chicago on Thursday to attend his father-in-law’s funeral. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Dominick said. “Besides, I think my wonderful wife just might be there as well. It’s been years. Years since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing her.”
“Mother would be at the funeral,” DeLorio said thoughtfully. “I think I’ll come as well, Father. I haven’t seen her for a long, long time.”
Dominick looked startled, then smiled, shaking his head. “No, my boy, you’re needed here on the compound. Both heads can’t leave the body, DeLorio. No, you stay here and I’ll attend to this unpleasant business.” He paused a moment and smiled toward Paula. “You keep Coco company, my dear girl. You understand?”
The threat hung implicit in the silence. Merkel knew the threat was very real, and he hoped that Paula realized it too. She did. She was alarmingly pale. DeLorio was frowning at his father, and Merkel didn’t like the look on his face, his very young face that didn’t look young at all at times.
“How long will you be gone?” DeLorio asked.
“Just three or four days.”
“You must be careful,” Coco said, leaning forward, her hand on his forearm. “It’s dangerous for you away from the island.”
“I know. Lacy will be with me, won’t you, Frank?
He’ll keep any bad guys at a goodly distance.” Dominick laughed again, and continued laughing even as he dipped some lobster in hot butter and chewed on it.
Late that night, just as the downstairs grandfather clock struck twelve times, Dominick was saying very slowly to his son, “No drugs, DeLorio. I’ve told you this more times than I care to count. No drugs. I won’t get involved with the Colombians or the Cubans or the trash from Miami. Never. I’d have to do more than burn your money if you tried it again. You got that, kid?”
“I don’t see the difference. Death by illegal weapons or death by drugs. The suckers are dead either way.”
“No drugs. Since when do I have to explain things to you? You’ll obey me and forget about this. Trust me, DeLorio.”
“The money—there’s so much money, and the damned DEA, they don’t have enough people to check even a tiny fraction of incoming boats and planes. It’s so easy, and I’ve already been contacted, in fact I’ve already—”
“No drugs. You try anything, you try going against me, kid, and I’ll cut your balls off.”
DeLorio stared at him, mute.
Dominick ruffled his son’s hair. “You’re a good boy, DeLorio. You’re not like your mother. Don’t blow it.”
Hicksville, New York
April 2001
Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni wasn’t drunk. She hadn’t had a drink since that awful night when her beautiful young Tommy Ibsen had been high on cocaine and had struck that woman—that poor woman who was still in a coma in the hospital. She could still see Tommy’s white face as he told her what he’d done, how he’d been singing as he drove, and he’d been feeling so wild, so powerful, and then suddenly there was this BMW driving just down the road, and he’d hit it, straight into the driver’s side. He could still see the woman’s face—her surprise, her utter astonishment, her terror. And he’d thought somehow that she’d known him, but he didn’t recognize her at all. The woman had known she was going to be hit, hard. It was as if, as she’d stared at him, she’d somehow accepted the fact that she would die.
Sylvia shook it off. It was over, the woman would live, she had to. Sylvia had found out that it was a Margaret Rutledge, the wife of a very wealthy newspaper magnate, Charles Rutledge. She had the best medical care—she’d live. Sylvia was safe; Tommy was safe. The cops didn’t know a thing.
Sylvia looked down at her two-year-old hybrid roses. She’d tended them faithfully, sung opera to them, mostly an aria from Madama Butterfly, and yet they weren’t as deeply red, their petals as velvety soft as she’d wanted. Of course, it was still very early in the year, but the promise she’d held for them, the awards she’d dreamed of winning at the Lo
ng Island Flower Festival—all seemed for naught now.
She looked up to see her Taiwanese houseboy, Oyster Lee, approach, a frown puckering his ageless forehead.
It was a phone call. Very urgent, Oyster told her. And when she, her own forehead puckered with a frown, took the call as she was stripping off her gardening gloves, she turned white as a sheet.
“Oh, God,” she said, and fainted.
The Bennington Hotel, London, England
April 2001
The call went through immediately.
“Hello, Merkel? It’s Marcus. I need to speak to Dominick. It’s important—What? You’re kidding. Don’t let him off the island! No, I know you can’t do a bloody thing. All right, get him. I’ll try to talk some sense into him.”
Rafaella was making hand signs at him, and he covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said, “Carlucci died and Dominick’s going to the funeral in Chicago. There’s also his wife, Sylvia, who—Hello, Dominick?”
“Marcus. You’re in London?”
“Yes, and there are two things I need to talk to you about. The first is that I’ve got Ms. Holland with me.”
Rafaella strained, but of course she couldn’t hear what Dominick was saying. Marcus’s face remained expressionless, curse him.
“If you’d just hold it a minute, I’ll tell you,” Marcus broke in. “Listen, her mother is fine. It was an overreaction. I talked her into taking a bit of time away from the island and the book, and I’ll provide her with some background information. Sorry you don’t approve, but there it is. She’s staying with me for the time being—Yes, Dominick, with me.”
Dominick stared into the phone, wishing he could see Marcus’s face, and knowing, even without seeing him, what his expression would be. Determination in that hard jawline, the usual faint amusement in his eyes. Damn him, he’d taken Rafaella! He was sleeping with her, he’d freely admitted it. And Dominick had plans for her. The moment she returned from Long Island, he’d fully intended to take her to bed. If that had gone as well as he had guessed it would, well, then he’d planned to marry her.
Just like that.
Once Sylvia was dead.
Once he was a widower, he could marry again. Coco was too old. He was sorry about that, but she was. Her years of use were nearly over. Soon he’d send her on her way. He remembered the abortion she’d had some three and a half years ago. But it had been a girl. What else could he have made her do? And she hadn’t seemed to mind. She hadn’t said much about it.
Rafaella was the perfect age. Even if she had a girl child first, she was young enough to bear him a battalion of boys.
Now she was with Marcus. Sleeping with Marcus. And there was possible danger if she stayed with Marcus. He thought of Roddy Olivier and blanched. The man was a treacherous snake. There was nothing to be done about it, and he hated to feel powerless.
He jerked back at the sound of Marcus’s smooth voice. “You what? Say that again, Marcus.”
“I said, Dominick, that I think you’re crazy to leave the island. Wait until I catch the man or men behind the assassination attempt, behind Bathsheba. There’s no way Lacy can guard you completely, no way at all. And you’re talking Chicago here. Who cares about Carlucci? You hated his guts for the threat he made, but now you can just—” Marcus broke off as he realized Dominick’s motive. The man was insane, certifiable, if he thought he could get away with it.
Dominick would do it. He’d lived on the island too long; he was king there, the feudal lord, the entire justice system rolled into one. He’d forgotten how very vulnerable one could be off that wretched little island. Marcus said very mildly, “You plan to see Sylvia in Chicago? Will you ask her for a divorce?”
Dominick laughed. “Marcus, you never cease to amaze me. See Sylvia? More than likely—that is, if my little wife isn’t afraid to come to Chicago. If she doesn’t show, well then, we’ll see, won’t we?”
Marcus felt helpless. He rang off, knowing Dominick Giovanni would do precisely as he wanted; he also knew that Dominick was enraged with him for taking Rafaella. He turned to face her now.
“Well?”
She still wasn’t very happy with him, and after adding a goodly dose of jet lag, she looked ready to tear him to shreds. Her hair was limp, her clothes a wrinkled mess, but he smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
It was nice to outsmart someone like her every once in a while.
“Well, Dominick didn’t tell me to send you his love. He is, to put it bluntly, pissed. With me, not you. Like the true macho man I am, I shouldered all the blame, not even hinting that you were the one who continually seduced me. Dominick realized there was nothing he could do about it.” Marcus stopped, running his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
Rafaella chuckled.
It was so unexpected that Marcus just stared at her.
“You’re a mess, and now you’re even more of one.”
“Go take a look in the mirror yourself.”
“I already did. You should get me a large paper bag. Now, this other thing. What is it about Dominick leaving the island?”
Marcus told her. “—he’s always hated the old man. He’s responsible for Dominick still being married to Sylvia.”
“I know all of that. He told me.”
“Maybe you don’t know this. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. Now that Carlucci’s dead, Sylvia’s not far behind.”
Rafaella just looked at him. “You think he’d kill her? That’s absurd. He could just divorce her. You’re losing it, Marcus. It’s jet lag.” But of course she knew he was perfectly right. She looked around the smallish room. “You really know how to pick hotels. The lobby is infinitesimal, the staircase is really quite beautiful, to be fair about it, but this room, Marcus, it—”
Marcus said easily, “Forget the Savoy, Ms. Holland. I want us out of sight, the essence of discretion. Just consider yourself in the enemy camp. You don’t want to be out front doing the dance of the seven veils.”
“I couldn’t even manage one veil right now.” She sighed. “Sorry I jumped on you.”
“You’re tired. We both are. You wanna sack out for a while?”
“With you, I suppose.”
“I’m too tired at the moment to do more than twitch. Which wouldn’t get me very far at all.”
“All right. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
He thought of her naked in the shower and did more than twitch. He stretched out on the bed, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. When she did, ten minutes later, he was snoring. Rafaella looked down at him and shook her head. Dead to the world. Dead as Sylvia would be?
Rafaella shook her head. No, Dominick couldn’t be that—that corrupt. Besides, it wasn’t logical to kill his wife. But what did that matter?
Dominick would do whatever took his fancy, and there were years of resentment and hate for Sylvia.
Yes, he would kill her, without blinking.
She pulled the covers over Marcus, then slipped in beside him. She was asleep within minutes.
Chicago, Illinois
April 2001
April in Chicago could have been beautiful, the air fresh with spring, flowers bursting with scent and color. But it wasn’t. It was gray and cold and drizzling. The service was held at FairLawn at graveside. There were some seventy-five people there, mainly old men, and at least three Chicago cops, come, Dominick thought, to wish the old man a speedy trip to hell. Dominick kept his head down while the priest intoned an epitaph that sounded far more suited to a man like Father Sabastiani than a villain like Carlo Carlucci. Carlucci’s buddies had probably paid the priest to extol the obscene old fool. The rain suddenly thickened, thudding loudly and obscenely on the coffin lid. Scores of black umbrellas snapped open. Faces disappeared. A convention of crows, Dominick thought, all come to pay respects to Carlucci’s rotted carcass.
Where was Sylvia? His wife had probably been too afraid of him to come.
He saw a flash of blond
hair and tensed up. The woman turned her head suddenly and looked straight at him, and he saw that she was young, not more than thirty, and ugly as sin. But her hair was pretty, like Sylvia’s used to be, like the other women’s used to be—soft blond. Like Coco’s used to be until she’d started fooling with it. It was too light, too white, not a soft-enough blond. She’d told him she was beginning to look faded—
Where was Sylvia?
Frank Lacy sneezed beside him. Dominick smiled at his henchman. A man with Lacy’s credentials shouldn’t have something as paltry as a cold. But he did. Leaving the warm island in the Caribbean and coming to cold, dank Chicago had done it to Lacy. But it didn’t matter. For what Lacy had to do, he could be sneezing his head off and it wouldn’t affect anything.
The priest was finally drawing to a close. A woman, heavily veiled in black, stepped forward and tossed a singularly beautiful red rose with petals as soft-looking as velvet on the coffin. Then a man scooped a shovelful of dirt onto the coffin lid. Then the priest blessed the assembled company, rain dripping off his fingers as he made the sign of the cross. It was over.
The woman turned on her high heels, then made the mistake of looking furtively back toward Dominick. He smiled at her. It was Sylvia. He had her now. He waved at her and she scurried away toward a big black limousine. Quickly and quietly, Dominick made his way through the tangle of black umbrellas until he reached her side at the limousine.
“Hello, Sylvia.”
She’d known he’d be there, of course. To gloat over her father’s grave. She’d been a fool to come, but how could she have avoided it? “Hello, Dominick. It is good of you to come.”
“Why? I came just to see the old bugger finally laid underground. He’s dead, and if it weren’t raining, I swear I’d do a dance right now. So, dear Sylvia, I hear from Oyster that you’ve knocked off the sauce.”
She stared at him. “That’s right. I don’t drink anymore.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. Never would she tell him that her lover had struck a woman and she felt responsible because she’d provided him the coke. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d do with that information.
Impulse Page 28
