Born of Corruption (7 page)

I swallow back my nausea. “It was you. You killed Reggie.”

She nodded. “It was an accident. But that nosy bitch Eugenia saw, and the jig would have been up if Nico hadn’t taken care of her. We actually did you a favor. Remember the phone calls? That was her. I caught her making the last one from your own kitchen.”

I put my hand over my mouth, sickened, but then shake my head. I have bigger worries. I have to keep them talking until someone comes looking for me. Surely Anna will sense something. My stomach sinks. Of course, no one knows where to find me.

Olivia’s holding my gun like she knows how to use it. I stand and move my head like I’m getting a crick out of my neck instead of moving a bit closer to her. “Where did you learn to shoot?” I ask.

“I told you I had five brothers.”

Olivia isn’t nearly as alert as Nico, though. She keeps darting looks at him as if waiting for instructions on what to do next.

I have to get my gun back. Distraction, distraction. A sudden idea hits me and I go with it before even thinking it through. Heart thudding in my ears, I widen my eyes as if looking at the door behind them. “Jack! No!” I scream.

They both turn at the same time and I bring my clenched fist down on Olivia’s hand. Her fingers loosen and I snatch the gun from her hand. Nico sees what’s happening, but it’s too late. I point my gun at him and pull the trigger without hesitation. His gun explodes out of his hand like a rocket and he stumbles backward, screaming like someone had, well, shot his fingers off.

“Watch out!” I shout, but it’s too late.

A split second before Nico “the Knife” Giuliani falls five stories to his death, I see the awareness of his own demise in his eyes. And then he’s gone.

Bile rises in my throat as Olivia’s screams shatter the early-morning silence.

Crawling to the edge of the roof, I peer over the low wall. Nico is lying sprawled like a capital
X
on the pavement below.

Shutting my eyes, I turn away with a sob as the horror of the last fifteen minutes washes over me. It’s over. Then I hear the click of a hammer and my heart stops beating. Olivia has Nico’s gun trained on me.

“You killed him.” She sobs, the gun shaking in her hand. “Why did you kill him?” She doesn’t seem to care that my gun is on her or that we’re in a Mexican standoff.

Then it dawns on me. She doesn’t care if she dies. Nico is dead and all her dreams are dead with him.

I see a movement at the door a split second before I hear Jack yell. “Cynthia!”

Olivia jerks around only to find herself face-to-face with Anna. Something glints in an arc and Olivia screams as Anna’s knife slashes down on her forearm. The gun falls from Olivia’s hand and she crumples to the roof.

How on earth did Anna get there so fast?

The next moment Jack sweeps me up into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against my ear. “This is all my fault.”

I shake my head. “No. It was Olivia. She and Nico were in it together.”

I look to where Olivia is crouched in a heap, hugging herself. It’s hard to believe that yesterday afternoon we were planning a party together. I trusted her more than almost anyone. Except for Jack. Who’s been hiding things from me.

“No. You don’t know. . . .” He tries to explain, but I put a finger on his lips.

“I do know.” I look at Anna. “How did you find me? Did you have a feeling?”

She shakes her head. “When Olivia returned without you, she was agitated. It didn’t take a psychic to know that something was wrong, so when she excused herself again, I followed her to the back stairs. The police released Jack and he arrived just before I was going to follow her. See? No hocus-pocus.”

The trembling begins in my toes and spreads throughout my entire body. Al rushes out onto the roof. “The boss is on his way. The body has already been removed. Thank God it was too early for anyone to be out and about.” He stops when he sees Olivia. His scarred eyebrow rises.

Jack steps in. “I’m going to need to talk to Uncle Arnie when he gets here. I have some explaining to do.”

“Right now, I need you to take the women downstairs. Me and Miss Barnhill need to have a little discussion.”

“Don’t hurt her.” As much as I hate Olivia I can’t bear to see her hurt. Enough people have been hurt over this whole mess.

Al shakes his head. “Don’t worry, miss.”

Jack holds out his hand, trepidation written on his face. I put my hand in his, knowing that everything is going to be all right. He isn’t cheating on me and he still loves me. That’s all that matters. My uncle, Olivia, the Morelli shipment, and everything else that happened at this wretched party will sort itself out.

I give Jack a long kiss. Then I follow Anna and Al off that cursed rooftop.

Epilogue

I
’m standing in front of the window of my balcony, looking out over the park in an effort to conquer my fear of heights. My silk nightgown swirls around my legs and Jack is standing behind me. I pause before stepping out onto the balcony. Before me, Gramercy Park is spread out, the stark tree branches rising upward toward the gray skies.

“It’s lovely,” I say, turning back to him.

He laughs. “Why do you think I bought the house, kitten? The view. I think you’re being very brave after all you’ve been through.”

His voice is apologetic, and I turn and burrow into his chest, smelling the clean scent of him.

“Because of me, because of my boredom, three people are dead. How could something that started as a lark go so very wrong?”

I couldn’t tell my husband that involving yourself in the mob was a good way to get yourself burned. We could have lost everything if my uncle hadn’t protected us from the Morellis. But Jack had no way of knowing. Something still puzzles me though. “I just don’t understand how it all came about,” I say.

His dark eyes stare off into the distance before he finally looks down at me. “Like I said, it started out as something fun to do. Something different, but then . . .”

He pauses and I prod him. “And then?”

He looks down at me, his eyes bleak. “I guess I wanted you to be proud of me. I know how much you adore your uncle and his friends. I’m bland and boring compared to the exciting men you’re used to.”

My mouth falls open. “How can you say that? You’re wonderful and I love everything about you and our life. You’re educated and polished, and that’s exactly what I wanted. It’s not like I couldn’t have married into the mob if I’d wanted to. But I wanted you!”

His arms tighten around me. “I won’t forget that again.”

I place a finger on his lips. “See that you don’t. Now let’s not speak of it anymore.”

“Then what shall we talk about?”

I smile, once again resolving to put that horrible night out of my mind for good. “Let’s talk about our trip to Europe this spring, shall we? We should totally keep it hush-hush and surprise Anna on her tour! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

He kisses the top of my head and I turn back to the window, ignoring the fluttering of my stomach. Instead of mind-numbing fear, the panoramic view seems full of possibilities, and I plan on exploring each and every one of them.

Excerpt from
Born of Illusion

Turn the page for a sneak peek at

One

T
he hair on the back of my neck prickles even before I spot him rounding the corner ahead. He saunters toward me, swinging his billy stick, tipping his blue cap here and there to passersby. My spine stiffens automatically and my pulse races. My fear of policemen is as much a part of me as the deep brown color of my hair, and for good reason.

Fortune-telling laws are getting stricter and stricter, so all it takes is one disgruntled client ratting us out to the authorities and we’re in deep trouble. They allow us to hold our magic and mentalist shows because they’re considered harmless entertainment. It’s the private séances the authorities object to, but the amount of money we get is worth the risk.

The officer nods at me and I return his gesture casually, my eyes sliding away from his as he passes. Sometimes I forget how respectable I look now. My green Chanel-style suit, with its boxy jacket and calf-length pleated skirt, doesn’t raise suspicion (or eyebrows) like the gaudier costumes I used to have to wear when money was tight. After several moments, I take a deep breath of relief and slow my pace, enjoying the bustling activity around me.

I’ve only been in New York for a month but have already noticed that everyone acts as if they’re frantically busy. Even the little girls and boys in their bloomer dresses and sailor suits look harried. Office girls, with their modern bobs and tight cloche hats, hurry off to work, and the sidewalk newsstand vendors scream out headlines as if they’re going to change at any moment. I stop and buy a paper for my mother, who has become obsessed with the new crossword-puzzle craze. I’m briefly tempted by the mouthwatering scent of meat pies coming from a nearby pushcart.

But before I can decide, I spot a young man striding toward me. He too must have just bought a newspaper because he’s studying the front page, a studious frown across his solemn features. But it’s the way he walks that captures my interest: confident and self-assured, each foot firmly and properly placed in front of the other. I’m so caught up in watching him that I don’t notice we’re on a collision course until it’s almost too late. I swerve to avoid him at the last moment, the sleeves of our coats brushing as we pass.

“Excuse me,” he says without looking up.

My face reddens. At least he didn’t catch me staring. What’s wrong with me, gawking at a stranger in the street like that! At sixteen, you’d think I’d be more experienced, especially considering how much time I spend around theaters. But most of the men I’ve known have hardly been the marrying type. I snort, thinking of Swineguard the Magnificent, One-Eyed Billy, and Lionel the Lobster Boy. Not the marrying type is an understatement.

A tingling in my stomach distracts me from my thoughts. It grows more and more insistent, spreading to my chest and legs, and that’s when I know.

It’s happening again.

In public.

Painful red stars erupt in front of my eyes and the world around me dims. I reach for a lamppost to steady myself, hoping no one on the busy street notices. The strong aroma of burned sugar plays around my nostrils. As always, the horror of my visions is served up with the sweet smell of a candy shop.

My heart pounds in terrified expectation of what’s to come. The visions are never pretty images of happy endings. When I’m asleep, I can brush these episodes off as nightmares, even though I know better. When awake, I’m treated to the full, excruciating experience.

I clutch at the lamppost as electric flashes, like a distant lightning storm, illuminate a series of pictures. Some are clear; others are obscured behind an impenetrable mist. A burst of light reveals a picture of me running down a dark street. I see empty warehouses flashing by as I run past. It’s so real; I feel the rasp of my breath and the sticky, crawly sensation of blood trickling down my cheek. The next image is of my mother’s face, her eyes wide with fear, her bow-shaped lips pinched with an effort not to scream. . . .

“Excuse me, miss. Do you know you have a nickel sticking out of your ear?”

The words break through the hammering in my head, and the darkness in my sight recedes as I whirl around. The vision is interrupted, but the horror at what I saw still swirls in my stomach. Then again, fear has been a part of my life as long as I can remember. Visions of the future aren’t the only psychical ability I’ve been “gifted” with.

Nausea rises up in my throat. It takes several blinks before my eyesight returns to normal. My oblivious savior is a short, round man with a handlebar mustache and dark bowler hat. He is patiently awaiting my response. I swallow a couple of times before I can speak. “Pardon?” I tighten my grip on my shopping basket full of the produce and groceries I bought this morning. You can never be too careful.

Around us, pedestrians go about their day with barely a glance. It takes something special to capture their attention, especially in this aspiring working class neighborhood of brownstone apartments and shops.

Flashing a nubby-toothed smile, my companion reaches up and pulls a nickel out of my ear. A few steps away, a small boy in frayed knee pants, holding a sheaf of flyers, hoots with laughter.

Understanding dawns, and the tension along my neck and shoulders loosens—I’ve been around stage promoters my whole life, and though they’re a shifty lot, they generally pose no immediate threat. Whatever the vision was about, it had nothing to do with this stubby bit of a man.

“Thank you!” I tell him, taking the coin with my left hand. I make a show of switching my basket to the other hand and, with one fluid motion, reach my empty right hand up to the side of his head. “And do you realize you have an onion in yours?”

I smile at the boy, whose mouth forms an O as I pull a long, thin green onion out of the man’s ear.

The man’s eyes widen, then he grins in appreciation. I relax. Most male magicians resent girls who practice magic. Obviously, this little man isn’t one of them.

“Wait! There’s more!” Not to be outdone, he reaches up and begins pulling brightly colored scarves out of my other ear. Around us, a small crowd forms, and excitement kicks my pulse up a notch. My mother says I’m a show-off, but I prefer to think of myself as a performer. Plus, it’s been weeks since I’ve done any street magic. It doesn’t go with the shiny new image of respectability we’re trying to cultivate.

“Wonderful,” I tell him, taking the scarves and crumpling them into a tight ball. I wink at the people gathering around us. “I was looking for those.”

They laugh appreciatively. With a snap of my wrist, I flick my fingers open toward the man’s face. There’s a small gasp and scattered applause as they realize that the scarves have disappeared.

“Hey!” the man protests good-naturedly. “Those were mine.”

“I’m sorry.” I set the basket by my feet to free up both hands. Now I
am
showing off, but performing in front of an audience is so much fun, I can’t resist. “Perhaps you would take these in trade?” I whisk three silver bangles off my left wrist. They were made especially for me by a silversmith in Boston, and, along with my deck of cards and the balisong in my handbag, I never leave home without them. Working them expertly between my fingers, I juggle them a bit to show everyone they’re three separate circlets. Then I catch them one at a time with the same hand and clutch them together. Moments later, I hold them up and the onlookers gasp. The bracelets are now connected like a chain. 

The man throws up his hands, laughing. “I give up; you win!”

The boy adroitly maneuvers through the dispersing crowd, passing out flyers.

I replace my bangles and pull the ball of scarves out of the basket where I’d secreted them. “Looking for these?” I ask.

He takes the scarves and shoves them into the pocket of his baggy trousers. “You’re quite good—for a girl.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, ignoring the girl remark. If I argued with every male magician who made a snide comment about my gender, I’d never have time to do magic. I prefer to outperform them onstage, where it really matters. “My mother and I are opening tomorrow night at the Newmark Theater.”

“Swanky! A magic show, I take it?”

My stomach sinks a bit. I wish it
were
just a magic show. “I do a bit of magic in the show, but Mother’s a mentalist. I mostly assist her. If you’d like to come, I’ll leave you tickets at the box office. Just tell them Anna Van Housen sent you.” I nod toward the boy. “I’ll leave one for him, too.”

“That would be grand! My name is Ezio Trieste.” He holds out a grubby hand and I shake it firmly. “You and your mother might be interested in this show Sunday night. Dante!” he yells at the little boy still handing out flyers to anyone who will take one. “Give the lady one of those.”

I take the proffered paper with a smile, then hand the man back his coin.

I glance down at the flyer and everything around me dims as I read the headline.

DO SPIRITS EXIST?
HOUDINI SAYS NO AND PROVES IT!

“Thank you,” I whisper, and turn away, forcing my heavy limbs to move. The ringing in my ears drowns out the sound of the automobiles on the street as I hurry down the sidewalk. After half a block, I slow and crumple the paper in my hand. Tossing it into the gutter, I stop and take a measured breath. My mother’s sharp eyes see everything, and the last thing I need is for her to find out that Houdini’s in town.