Deadly Embrace (51 page)

"I thought we were spending this weekend together?" he asked
quizzically, when she was missing for yet another lunch.

"We are," she said. "Only I met this friend from school, and we're
having such a great time exploring. You don't mind, do you?" she
added innocently. "That's what us writers like to do."

He didn't mind at all. Madison's absence allowed him to spend
plenty of time with Dani and the adorable Sofia, who looked like
Madison had at the same age. There was something in his genes that
produced matching kids.

Meanwhile Madison was experiencing an adventure she could only
have imagined in her wildest dreams. Frankie Medina was teaching her
everything an aspiring writer needs to know. And her education was
not
taking place between the pages. Far more exciting—it
was taking place between the sheets.

Madison was a very willing pupil indeed.

* * *

Back in New York, Marcie informed Michael that Vito Giovanni needed
to see him urgently.

Vito never changed. When Vito wanted something, he wanted it
immediately. He was not a patient man.

Michael gave him a call. "What's up, Vito?"

"Gotta see you, Michael," Vito replied in his familiar gravelly
voice. "Come by the house."

"How's six o'clock tonight?"

"That'll suit me."

Michael skipped going home and had his driver take him straight
from the office to Vito's brownstone. He hadn't seen Vito in several
months; it wasn't necessary, since they conducted most of their
business by phone.

Vito was sitting in his favorite chair in his living room. He
looked like he'd shrunk and his chair had grown larger.

"Mike, come in," Vito said, waving him into the room. "You want a
drink? Jack Daniel's. I never forget a man's drink."

"Yeah," Michael said, feeling right at home. "I'll have a
Jack."

"I'd have one with you, only my doctors say I shouldn't drink.
Fuckers!" Vito said morosely. "Always tellin' me shit about what I
can't do."

A henchman fixed Michael a drink, while Vito indulged in a short
coughing fit.

"You okay, Vito?" Michael asked.

"I got a few health problems. Nothin' major. Had oral surgery the
other day—that's what they call it now when they yank your
fuckin' teeth out, oral surgery."

Michael was well aware that over the years, Vito Giovanni had
risen to become very high up in the hierarchy of mobsters. Michael
was glad that he'd made it on his own and had never had to ask Vito
for any favors—although Vito had always played fair with him,
and in return he'd made the old man a lot of money in investments and
the stock market. Legitimate money.

"How's everythin' goin', Mike?" Vito asked. "A kid like you from
the streets, you did well for yourself."

"Took a lot of hard work."

"Yeah, an' you had your setbacks along the way. But I'm glad you
took my advice."

"About what?"

"About that girl of yours who got shot," Vito said, adjusting his
oversize reading glasses. "You could've gone chasing after whoever
you thought was responsible. You didn't, an' that was smart. Like I
told you at the time, you was even."

Vito
still
didn't get it. He was not even. He would
never
be even. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night and
there was Beth, sitting at the end of the bed staring at him.
What
are you doing about getting revenge for my murder
? she always
asked, her dark eyes vengeful. You need to do something, Michael. One
of these days you need to do something.

And one of these days he would. He didn't know where or when, he
only knew that the opportunity would present itself.

Marnie had moved to Los Angeles, so had Bone. Every time Michael
flew to Vegas, he thought about making a side trip to LA. and blowing
their fucking brains out.

He didn't, because he had responsibilities. Madison, Vincent, and
Sofia. His three wonderful children. And Dani, of course. He could
never risk letting any of them down.

He'd amassed dossiers on both Marnie and Bone. He knew exactly
where they were and what they were doing. Seven years ago they'd
gotten married—his two archenemies. It made him sick to imagine
them together. Not only had they gotten married, but they'd entered
the business of moviemaking, partnering with a porno king who made
explicit sex videos for Japan and Europe. Apparently, it was a
business that suited Marnie just fine. Bone took care of the finances
and Mamie was involved with the creative side. Yeah, he could just
imagine.

As if that wasn't enough, they'd also opened a series of sex shops
across the country.

Vito never mentioned Marnie anymore, so Michael didn't either. As
far as he knew, Vito considered her history.

"You gotta do somethin' for me next week," Vito said.

"What's that?" Michael asked.

"Be best man at my wedding."

"Your
wedding
?" Michael said, somewhat surprised.

Vito was over seventy years old and looked it. "Who are you
marrying?"

"Western, of course," Vito said, chuckling happily. "The old broad
is finally makin' an honest man of me."

"Congratulations."

"You'll be my best man," Vito said.

Michael understood that it wasn't so much a request, more like an
order. He didn't mind, he was used to Vito's ways.

"You planning a big wedding?" he asked.

"Nah, we'll do it privately. Just a few friends. No fuss."

"I'll be honored to be your best man," Michael said, wondering if
that was the only reason Vito had requested his presence.

"There's somethin' else you gotta do for me," Vito said.

"If I can."

"I'm gonna have the guys put a coupla locked suitcases in your
car. I'll give you the combination."

"What's in them, Vito?" Michael asked, not embracing the thought
of lugging around a couple of Vito's suitcases filled with God knows
what.

"Money," Vito said. "Two million bucks in cash. You'll make it
legitimate for me."

"Wait a minute," Michael said. "Two million in cash. I
mean—"

"You'll keep it until I give you instructions," Vito interrupted.
"I trust you, Mike—I trust you as if you was my own son."

"Jeez, Vito, I don't know..."

"You'll do it.
Capisce
?"

Michael nodded. He felt seventeen again. Besides, why argue? He
always ended up doing whatever Vito wanted.

It was their dance. And it never changed.

Wedged in the front seat of the van, her hands braced on the
dashboard ready for impact should they crash, Madison began reviewing
her life. This was all so surreal. How had she ended up in this
position?

Just luck, I guess
, she thought wryly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, desperately trying to take
herself to another place, just like she used to do when she was a
child visiting the dentist.
Close your eyes and it will all go
away—Michael used to tell her that.

This last year had been such a mess. Finding out that Stella
wasn't really her mother. Shortly after that, Stella's murder. And
then her tortured relationship with Michael. One moment she loved and
trusted him, the next she didn't know what to think because he'd made
up such stories about her past. It wasn't fair of him to do that, he
had no right to play God with a person's life. She might be his
daughter, but she deserved to know the truth.

Then there was her relationship with Jake. A roller-coaster love
affair with an extraordinarily sexy and interesting man. Now, for all
she knew, he could be lying dead, or kidnapped by Colombian drug
dealers.

She missed her apartment in New York. She missed her dog, Slammer.
She missed her friends, her work. She missed everything.

The van was racing down dark side streets. She had no idea where
they were, although the gunman seemed to be aware of their
destination.

Fifteen minutes after getting off the freeway, he instructed Cole
to pull over. They were in an industrial area—a dimly lit
backstreet filled with tall, deserted warehouses, somewhere
downtown.

"You mean stop the van?" Cole asked.

"What the fuck you think I mean?" the gunman snapped. Everyone's
patience was wearing thin.

Madison felt dread in the pit of her stomach. Was he going to kill
them? Was that his plan?

Where are the police? Where's the fucking helicopter? Where are
the hostage negotiators
?

This was a bad joke.

They were totally on their own, and there was nobody to help
them.

* * *

They were sitting in what Leroy and Darren referred to as their
office, although Jolie considered that it looked more like a
flophouse for drug addicts. She was trying hard not to breathe,
realizing that if she took one more breath, she'd be as stoned as the
rest of them. The scent of marijuana hung heavily in the air. And
Nando, being Nando, had immediately accepted a joint.

That's not the way to do business
, she wanted to warn him.
If Vincent was here, you wouldn't have dared
.

The reason Vincent and Nando were such excellent partners was that
Vincent knew how to keep control of a situation. Nando didn't. Her
husband was one of life's great adventurers. He saw something he
wanted and he grabbed it. Unfortunately, he'd never learned the word
"no."

Now he wanted to make this dump into the hottest strip club in
Vegas. Why? They had the hotel and gambling casino. Vincent and he
were doing great.

Personally she agreed with Vincent—why move into the sleazy
side of the business when they didn't have to?

She also knew that however involved she was, it would not sit well
with her if Nando was dropping by a strip club every night, even if
that club belonged to them. She'd installed a stripper pole in their
bedroom. What more did she have to do to keep him home?

Darren kept on shooting her sneaky sideways looks, as if he were
summing up her potential as one of his girls. He looked like a pimp.
He acted like a pimp. He probably
was
a pimp.

What the hell were they doing here?

And why had Nando brought
her
along for the ride?

* * *

The phone was ringing when Vincent walked into his apartment. He
grabbed it quickly before it woke Jenna.

"Good news," Dani said.

"What happened?"

"Sofia called. I told her to get the next plane home."

"That
is
good news," Vincent said. "By the way, I've sent
someone over to stay outside your apartment. Don't get alarmed if you
see him."

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"If Michael says it is, then it is. We can't take risks."

"I find this excessive," she complained. •"Hey—you know
him better than anyone."

"That's true," she said ruefully.

"Then don't argue. Michael gets what he wants. He always has."

"Oh yes," she agreed. "
That's
certainly true."

"I'm home now if you need to reach me. I'll stay here until I hear
from Michael."

He put down the phone, went to the bar, and fixed himself a
drink.

Maybe he'd been too hard on Jenna earlier. She was only a kid,
after all; the truth was that she didn't know any better. Christ! He
had so much to teach her. That was the problem with marrying an
innocent girl who didn't understand the rules.

He walked into the bedroom ready to forgive her.

Their large double bed was empty.

He opened the door to her bathroom. She was not there.

For a moment he thought about raging out of the hotel, tracking
down Andy Dale, and beating the crap out of the dumb little movie
star.

Then he thought better of it. Jenna had a lesson to learn. And
that lesson was, do not screw around with Vincent Castle.

* * *

Sofia had decided that the only sane thing she could do was skip out
on Mrs. Flynn and her demand for the late rent. She simply didn't
have any money. The deal was to casually walk out as if she were
going to work, then not come back.

She collected a few precious things that meant something to her,
stuffed them in her oversize shoulder bag, then casually yelled at
Mrs. Flynn, "I'm going out. I'll be back later with your money."

"Good on you, dearie," shouted Mrs. Flynn, the trusting old dear,
already on her second glass of wine.

As soon as she got outside, Sofia realized she had no idea where
the American Express office was. Damn! She should have made a
call.

Then, to her surprise, up rolled Gianni in his gleaming
chauffeur-driven Bentley.

The car pulled to a stop beside her. Gianni lowered the back
window. "Jump in," he ordered.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Jump in. We're on our way to Rome."

And it seemed silly to argue, because at least with Gianni by her
side, it would be so much easier to get back to America.

What did she have to lose?

Absolutely nothing.

* * *

"I think I'm going to throw up," Jenna wailed.

"No, you're not," Andy Dale said, pumping away on top of her.

"Yes... I think I am."

"Then don't do it all over me."

She managed to shove him off and run to the bathroom, whereupon
she threw up in the sink. She retched for several minutes, feeling as
though she'd been punched in the stomach by a mule.

When she was finished she lay down on the cold marble floor,
rolling herself into a tight naked ball. Nobody came in to see if she
was all right. Not Andy, not Anais.

From the other room she heard the sounds of music, laughter, and
tinkling ice.

She had never felt this bad. "I want to die," she groaned.

Where was Vincent? Where was her husband when she needed him?

"Oh God, she couldn't let him see her like this, sick and having
just made love to Andy Dale—if "love" was a word she could use
in connection with the way Andy Dale had treated her.