Black Widow

by Jessie Keane

  Tony shrugged. The gold cross on his earring glittered and his bald head gleamed in the dim light as he glanced back at her. ‘Well…he’s got Sicilian roots,’ he said.

  ‘I know that,’ said Annie. Although Constantine didn’t have anything other than a New York accent, she had noticed that his gestures gave away his true heritage: they were pure Latin.

  ‘There was some sort of big Mafia cleanup out there,’ Tony went on as he wove his way through the traffic. ‘Word I heard was, Barolli’s grandpa was a big don, the head of the family. Someone took out his son, Vito, who was a capo, a made man. Vito was Constantine’s father. And—I don’t know if any of this is true; it’s just word on the street, you understand?—the grandfather sent Constantine over to New York to stay with part of the family there, where it was safer. That’s where Barolli grew up. When he was twenty, he got married. About the same time, his mother—she was American, not Sicilian—and his brother got hit back in the old country by one of the other families. You know he’s got the hair, the silver hair?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Annie had wondered about that—Constantine was only in his early forties, but his hair was not so much silver as white.

  ‘It used to be black. Black like Mr Carter’s, you know? They say that when he heard about their deaths, his hair turned that way overnight. Can you believe that?’

  Annie had heard of this sort of thing happening before. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘And his grandpa died of a broken heart, they say.’ Tony’s eyes met Annie’s in the mirror. ‘Do you believe that, Mrs Carter? That a person could actually die of a broken heart?’

  Oh yes. Annie believed that all right.

  She nodded.

  They passed the rest of the journey in silence.

  The Holland Park house was quiet today, all the wedding festivities over and the pink ribbons and bows gone. Annie eyed the place as Tony parked the Jag outside. Tony then walked her up the immaculately clean path, although she didn’t ask him to.

  Taking no chances, thought Annie wearily. Someone had tried to run her down the other day and now Tony’s guard was up. He knocked at the door. One of the heavies she recognized from her last visit opened it and looked at Tony, then at her.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Constantine Barolli,’ said Annie.

  ‘This is Mrs Carter,’ said Tony, eyeballing the man on the door.

  But this time she didn’t have to sit on the front step and wait until Barolli felt she had waited long enough. This time the door was opened wide.

  ‘Mr Barolli is expecting you, Mrs Carter,’ said the man politely.

  ‘Wait in the car, Tony,’ said Annie as she was ushered inside.

  The same hallway. It looked bigger today, being empty. Still the same lush marbled floor, the huge sweep of the highly polished staircase, the chandeliers dazzlingly alight. All was quiet now. All was peaceful.

  The man led her across to the double doors of the study.

  So here she was again. Wasting time, she was sure of it. There was no way anyone could find Layla. She was probably dead already. Annie had to face that, had to force herself to acknowledge that cold hard fact.

  Her heart clenched and her stomach churned as she thought again of what had already been done to her darling little daughter. Dolly had taken Layla’s finger in its little white box and tucked it into the back of the freezer compartment in the fridge. She had shown Annie where it was, had told her that it would keep better in there.

  As opposed to rotting out in the air, thought Annie. Left out, Layla’s finger would go bad, decompose…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

  Dolly hadn’t pointed that out to her, at least. She hadn’t needed to. Annie knew. A picture of the finger rotting had crowded into her mind anyway, making her feel sick to her stomach, reminding her vividly of what had happened to Rufio and Inez. There couldn’t be anything left of them now in that heat…Poor bastards. Their only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The man knocked at the door.

  ‘Come!’ The same voice, American, confident, macho.

  The man opened the door. ‘Mrs Carter to see you, Boss,’ he said, and stood back to let Annie in.

  Annie stepped inside the study. In full daylight it still looked very much a man’s room. A big desk. Leather Chesterfields. Rows of books. You’d swear a lawyer was the sole occupant of this room. Not a mafioso.

  The door closed behind her. Constantine Barolli stood up behind the desk and moved smoothly around it, his hand outstretched, palm down.

  Annie walked forward.

  Again with the hand, she thought in bitter amusement.

  He seriously thinks I’m going to kiss it, she thought.

  Annie took off her glove and shook hands firmly. His grip was firm, neither crushing nor limp—a neutral, businesslike grip.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Barolli,’ she said, looking directly into his startling blue eyes. She released his hand.

  ‘Mrs Carter, it’s a pleasure,’ he replied, and she could see that little flicker of amusement around his mouth again at her refusal to kowtow to him.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, and moved back behind the desk again.

  Annie took a seat on this side of the desk and waited. She could be patient, calm, whatever was required of her in any given situation.

  Dig deep and stand alone, she thought.

  She was aware that Constantine Barolli was giving her a discreet once-over and was grimly pleased that Dolly had made her shape up despite all her troubles. She knew she looked good today. She had forced herself to make an effort, to take trouble with her hair and her make-up. She was wearing an elegant black scoop-necked shift dress beneath a beautifully cut black cashmere coat. A luminous string of pearls glimmered at her throat, pearl studs winked in her ears. She was drenched in Femme de Rochas and wearing killer suede courts and black gloves cut from leather soft as silk. She knew she looked good.

  And she was prepared to admit that Constantine Barolli looked good too. Only to herself, though. She was the wife of Max Carter and deep down she still ached for him.

  But he’s dead, whispered that insidious voice in her head.

  Suddenly she felt like crying.

  It came over her time and again, the stark realization of it all.

  Sometimes she could pretend that nothing had happened. And then it would crash in upon her like a tidal wave. Layla snatched. Jonjo shot. Rufio and Inez, her dear friends, butchered. Max…Max. Her husband. Thrown down a mountain, disposed of like a piece of rubbish.

  But it was weak to cry.

  She couldn’t afford to show weakness here, she knew that.

  She took a deep breath. He was watching her.

  The silver fox.

  In daylight he was even more imposing. Thick, light grey hair; light grey suit. Tanned face that was…yes, she could admit this to herself too…very attractive. More than handsome. A man at the height of his powers, intellectually and physically. Watching her as though she was of interest. Watching her as though she was a woman who was appealing, right now, right here, to him.

  ‘I hear that you want more information,’ she said, trying to get her wandering mind back on track.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry. We didn’t have much time to talk when you called.’

  ‘My fault. I didn’t realize there was a family occasion going on.’

  ‘What I want to know is the sequence of events. Everything that happened, step by step. Anything you can think of, anything you can remember.’

  Annie took a breath and cautiously started in. She told him about the pool house exploding. About being drugged. Coming to and finding Jeanette still there, Layla gone. She added the lie that Max and Jonjo had taken off the day before on business.

  ‘Where, on business?’ Constantine Barolli asked.

  Annie shrugged and lied again: ‘I don’t know. They didn’t say. Max never discussed business with me, but he said he’d be gone months rather than weeks.’
r />   Constantine Barolli sat quietly, listening as she ran through a carefully edited version of events. Edited or not, by the end of it Annie felt that she had relived the whole ghastly experience. She was pale and sweating.

  ‘Have a drink of this,’ said Barolli, pouring water from a decanter into two glasses. ‘Or would you like something stronger? Brandy?’

  Annie shook her head. She sipped at the water and forced herself to breathe deeply and steadily. Tried to convince herself that she was here in Barolli’s plush, comfortable study and not in the living hell that her mind had conjured up.

  ‘It must have been shocking for you,’ said Barolli after a pause.

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, thinking that it had been far more shocking than he would ever know. She thought of Jonjo, floating dead in the pool. And Max—one moment there, the next gone for good. She would never see him again. Never again know how it felt to be held in his arms.

  ‘And now your child’s in danger.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Annie unbuttoned her coat. God, she felt so hot.

  A wave of sickness hit her. She swallowed and the room faded to black.

  She came to with Barolli’s hand on the back of her neck; he was holding her head down between her legs. Instantly she tried to straighten, and immediately he took his hand away. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The room reeled. She groaned.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gasped out.

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Annie said stiffly.

  Fuck it. Going through it all again had been too much. It was still too raw, too painful. She made a gargantuan effort and got a grip on herself. She opened her eyes. Breathed deeply.

  ‘I’m okay now,’ she told him.

  She looked at him. He was crouched down in front of her, smoothing back her hair from her face, gazing at her in concern. A hot wave of embarrassment engulfed her. She’d made a fool of herself in front of Constantine Barolli again. It was getting to be a habit.

  Last time she’d been here she’d sat out on the front step like some demented vagrant and been a talking point for all the wedding guests filing past her. But this time was even worse. This time she had actually fainted in his study.

  At least I didn’t throw up all over his fancy suit, she thought. It was a miracle that she hadn’t.

  ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Annie coolly.

  She’d amused him again. She could see it on his face.

  Damnit, what did I have to go and do that for! Annie wondered in irritation.

  She stood up, annoyed with herself, furious with him.

  He stood up too.

  They were close. Constantine Barolli was looking directly into her eyes.

  ‘Max is dead, right?’ he said.

  Annie stared at him in total shock. Then she stepped back, away from him, her eyes moving away from his.

  Constantine grabbed her arms and pulled her back. Annie stared at him from inches away, startled, wrong-footed.

  ‘That’s the truth, yeah?’

  ‘No,’ said Annie.

  ‘Look, let’s cut to the chase here. My people have seen the villa, they can read the signs. And I know Max. If he was alive he’d be here, ripping up the entire country and everyone in it to get his daughter back. Shall I tell you what they think, what I think? Max died that day, and Jonjo too, on the very day your daughter was snatched. They didn’t go anywhere on business.’

  Annie shook her head. ‘Look, Max don’t know Layla’s missing,’ she said desperately. ‘There was no way I could get in touch with him.’

  Constantine looked into her eyes. ‘Liar,’ he said.

  He let her go and went back around the desk and sat down.

  Annie dragged a hand through her hair. She hadn’t bargained on this. Still, she put both fists on his desk and leaned in.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I need that money. Can you get it, or not?’

  Constantine looked at her. ‘Half a million pounds sterling,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘I know that. All I want from you is a straight answer. Can you get it, or not?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Constantine.

  ‘On what, exactly?’ asked Annie.

  And so Constantine Barolli told her the deal, and Annie stood there in a daze and listened to what he was saying. Finally, she picked up her gloves, rebuttoned her coat, and left the room—slamming the door shut behind her.

  ‘Ah—hello,’ said the man she walked straight into as she was crossing the hall for the front door. She just wanted to get out of here.

  She paused. ‘Sorry,’ she said automatically.

  Then she looked at him.

  It was the dark-haired young man from the restaurant. Annie hadn’t liked the look of him at a distance. Close up, he was no more appealing. He was the sort of slimy lounge-lizard type she would go a very long way to avoid, always smiling but ready to plant a knife straight between your shoulder blades when you turned your back.

  ‘We haven’t been introduced. I’m Lucco Barolli. You know my father, I believe?’

  He was taking her hand. For a minute, Annie thought the oily git was going to kiss it. There was something repugnant about Lucco Barolli, something glutinous and unpleasant. He looks as if he’d like to drag me off to a dark corner and kick the crap out of me, thought Annie with a shudder. His hand felt wet and soft, disgusting. It was hard to believe that this object was Constantine’s son.

  ‘I’m Annie Carter,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘You were here on Saturday, in a meeting with my father,’ said Julio. ‘I saw you. And then at the Ritz…we seem to keep coming across each other, don’t we?’

  ‘You don’t look like your father,’ said Annie.

  You look like a snake-oil salesman, she added to herself.

  ‘Everyone says that.’ His smile showed perfect white teeth but didn’t reach his black, black eyes. ‘Alberto—my brother—looks like him. He was with us at the Ritz, you remember? Cara, my sister—she’s just got married—she looks like my father too. But I look like my mother, everyone says so. Dark. Latin. A little like you. In fact—’ he drew back and eyed her, assessing—‘you’re very like my mother. Very like her.’

  ‘She’s a very attractive woman,’ said Annie, unsure where this conversation was leading. A neutral compliment to the woman she had seen with Constantine’s group at the Ritz seemed the safest path. She just wanted to get out of here, but his soft, clammy hand was still holding hers and she couldn’t jerk it away without seeming rude…

  Lucco laughed. It was a distinctly chilling sound.

  ‘Ah, no. You think Aunt Gina’s my mother. No, no. Gina’s my father’s sister. My mother Maria is dead.’

  His eyes were suddenly flat, unreadable, as they stared into hers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘She died five years ago. And of course my father is devoted to her memory,’ said Lucco. ‘Utterly devoted.’

  The little fucker’s warning me off, realized Annie.

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Annie stiffly.

  This time she didn’t care if she was being rude or not. She didn’t give a stuff. She wrenched her hand free.

  His eyes sharpened on hers, but she kept staring right back at him.

  ‘Nice meeting you,’ said Annie, and swept past him to the front door.

  ‘And you,’ he called after her, rather too loudly. ‘Likewise.’

  37

  ‘So what the fuck happened?’ asked Dolly when she got back to Limehouse.

  ‘It’s like sticking your hand in a pit full of scorpions,’ said Annie, collapsing into a chair in the kitchen and kicking off her heels.

  And did she want to do that again?

  Simple answer—no.

  Constantine Barolli could stuff his half a million quid. He could stuff his empty promises about looking for
Layla, too. Annie knew she was on her own. She was going to have to go to Plan B.

  Whatever the fuck Plan B was.

  She sank her head into her hands. ‘Christ, Doll, I need a drink,’ she moaned.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘Thanks, Doll’

  ‘Jimmy been back yet?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Darren and Ellie out?’

  ‘Darren’s at the doctor’s,’ said Dolly. ‘Feeling a bit below par, poor kid.’

  ‘He don’t look well’

  ‘Keeps having blackouts. Bit anaemic, maybe.’

  ‘And where’s Ellie?’

  ‘Over at your cousin Kath’s place, cleaning it up.’ Dolly slapped three spoonfuls of tea into the pot and pulled a face. ‘Jumped at the chance to do something different like we thought she would—but, my God, I wouldn’t wish that fucking dirty hole on my worst enemy. Sorry, I know she’s your family, but it’s true, ain’t it? Don’t know how she’ll get on there. Probably never want to go back again if I’m any judge.’

  ‘I told Jimmy to get a couple of the club cleaners on the job,’ said Annie, taking off her coat and gloves. ‘Don’t think he bothered, though. He don’t seem to take a blind bit of notice of anything I say.’

  Which couldn’t go on. Annie knew it. Jimmy was going to have to be pulled back into line. Trouble was, she didn’t have a clue how to do it at the moment. She didn’t have a clue about anything much at all.

  ‘Una behaving herself?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep. Can’t last. Keep your eye on her. She don’t seem the type to take a pasting lying down. She’s a brooder, that one.’

  Like Lucco, thought Annie.

  She thought back to their encounter in the hall at Constantine’s. Yes, she’d definitely been warned off. Tony had told her that Constantine and Maria had married when they were both just twenty, then had the three children in quick succession. They had remained together until Maria’s death five years ago. Lucco didn’t want his dear daddy taking any interest in a woman who looked like dear dead mummy, and Annie knew why. If Constantine remarried, if he fathered another child, then Lucco would see that child as competition—possibly for his father’s affection, definitely for his father’s position and his money.