Deadly Embrace (53 page)

"I can assure you that it's not going to be my mode of dress every
day. Only when I visit my son's construction site."

"Can you believe it?" Vincent said, shaking his head as if he
couldn't quite believe it himself. "Our own hotel."

"I must say, much as I disapprove of Nando, the two of you deserve
it. You've both worked hard to achieve this."

"You're telling me," Vincent agreed. "It's taken two years to
build, and when it's finished—man, it'll be worth all the
stress and hard work."

"How much longer?" Dani asked.

"I reckon another six months."

"Incredible," she said. "And you
do
know I'm ready to help
you in any way I can."

"Good, Mom. 'Cause I'm depending on you to sit down with the
interior designer, see he doesn't get carried away. You have great
taste."

"It's all in the finishing touches," she said modestly. "I can
help choose the paint colors and the fabrics. I want the rooms to be
stylish and comfortable."

Vincent nodded. He wasn't really concentrating. He had too much on
his mind—so many details, and everything had to be perfect,
there could be no mistakes. Nando and he were risking everything on
the success of their hotel, which Nando had generously suggested
should be called the Castle Hotel and Casino. "That name's got a
lucky feel to it," Nando had said, displaying a refreshing lack of
ego. Vincent felt the same way.

A group of investors had-put up the money to build the hotel,
including Michael, who'd insisted that he be involved. Reluctantly
Vincent had agreed to his father's participation. If the hotel was a
flop he would simply kill himself. There was no way he could let
Michael down.

"It's exciting, huh?" he said as he walked Dani back to his
car.

"It would be even
more
exciting if you found yourself a
nice girl and settled down," she remarked.

"What's with the settling down?" he said, knowing that was the one
thing he had no intention of doing. "I'm perfectly happy the way I
am."

"I know you are, Vincent," she said, wishing he'd listen to her.
"But wouldn't it be nice if you had a baby?"

"Oh, c'mon, Mom," he said, laughing. "You're not the grandma
type."

"I'd be a sensational baby-sitter."

He grinned at his beautiful mother and wondered how she'd managed
all these years by herself. Michael's visits were becoming less
frequent, and he knew it upset her. He felt like
he
was the
man of the family now, because Michael had this whole other life in
New York.

It was weird knowing that he had a half sister out there
somewhere, a sister who, if Michael had his way, he'd never get to
meet.

His other sister, Sofia, was twelve. She was into Madonna, makeup,
and lots of girly clothes. She already looked like a teenager, so
Vincent was very aware that he had to keep a strong watch over her,
especially since Michael wasn't around to do so.

"Inspection over," Dani said, removing her hard hat and getting in
his car. "Can we go to lunch?"

"I always like buying my mom lunch," Vincent said, settling behind
the wheel. "She's the hottest date in town."

"I wish," Dani said wryly.

"I remember when I was growing up. God! Every boy in school had
the hots for you."

"Vincent!"

"They did. And then one night someone's parents spotted you in the
show. The next day I was
so
embarrassed. It was all over
school that my mom took her clothes off."

"Sorry if I embarrassed you," she said dryly. "Don't forget that
taking off my clothes paid all our bills."

"Listen, Mom," he said sincerely, "I
know
better than
anyone how hard you worked,
and
the sacrifices you made."

"It didn't seem like making sacrifices at the time."

"How come you never married Dean?" Vincent asked curiously. "He
was always around. Still is."

"Because I don't love him," she said patiently. "I love Michael
and I always will."

"Then why didn't you and Michael get married?"

"You
know
why, Vincent. I don't have to explain."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. He has a wife and daughter in New York."

"That's right," Dani said, reluctant to discuss it.

"So why the hell doesn't he divorce her?" Vincent demanded.

"I'm not complaining," she said quietly.

"Perhaps if you complained, he'd do it."

"I'm not sure if it's what I want anymore. Lately we've been
drifting apart. Michael doesn't come here as much as he used to. I'd
like him to see more of Sofia, but what can I do? I can't force him
to spend time with her."

"Don't worry about Sofia," Vincent said. "She's a tough little
cookie."

"I realize that," Dani said. "Both of you have lots of your father
in you."

"We're not alike at all," Vincent said quickly. "I'd never string
a woman along the way he's done with you."

"Well, you
look
alike. And I might point out that Michael
has never strung me along. We have an arrangement, and I'm perfectly
happy the way things are."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, Vincent," she said firmly. "I've never wanted for a thing.
Michael pays all my bills, he bought me a lovely house, I get a new
car every year. What more could any woman ask for?"

"How about a man beside you to protect you? You deserve that,
Mom."

She turned away so that he couldn't see the tears that suddenly
filled her eyes. Vincent meant well, but his words upset her.

"I'm very excited about your hotel," she said, gazing out the car
window. "And I'm sure your father is too."

* * *

The following week Michael flew in. "I can only stay for a coupk of
days," were the first words out of his mouth.

"Then you'd better spend all your time with Sofia and Vincent,"
Dani said. "They both miss you."

"I miss them, too."

"Vincent is dying to show you his hotel. It's almost
finished."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Are you trying to make me feel
guilty?"

"Take it any way you want," she said, tossing back her long blond
hair.

He obviously took it to heart, because he spent every minute with
his two children, and when he departed, Dani realized it was the
first time he'd come to Vegas and they had not made love.

After he left she was depressed. Perhaps Dean had been right all
these years. Was it possible that Michael
was
using her?

She decided it was time to make some changes. Sofia was growing up
fast, Vincent was long gone from the house—living in his own
apartment—and it was prudent to start thinking about her
future. She needed a career, something to do with her time. She could
hardly go back to being a showgirl; she was too old, and besides, the
idea did not appeal to her.

Vincent had asked her to help with the design concept of the
hotel, and that was interesting and fun. Maybe when that job was
completed she could get into the PR side. She knew plenty about
publicity and how to present things.

Yes, that was it. She decided she'd ask Vincent and Nando if she
could handle special events at the hotel.

At least it would take her mind off Michael.

One day Michael came home and discovered that Stella was gone.
Just like that. The house in Connecticut was empty. Her clothes were
gone. She'd emptied the safe of her jewelry. And that was it. No
note. Nothing.

He was not surprised, although when he discovered she'd run off
with a twenty-six-year-old struggling artist, his ego was slightly
deflated. Only slightly, because what really pissed him off was the
fact that she obviously didn't give a shit about Madison's reaction.
Which meant that she didn't care if Madison discovered the truth.

Now he'd have to tell Madison. Whether he liked it or
not—the time had come.

First he'd have to summon the courage, and that was not going to
be easy. It might take a while.

* * *

A few days later, sitting around in Vito Giovanni's old brownstone
drinking Jack Daniel's on the rocks, Michael felt as if he was a kid
again. He felt melancholy, too, because Vito was in extremely bad
shape. The old man had lost about fifty pounds and was a skeletal
figure. It was upsetting to see him that way. His jaw seemed to have
caved in, his eyes were hollow, and his paper white hands shook
uncontrollably. Now his favorite armchair completely enveloped
him.

"You're lookin' good, Vito," Michael lied, knowing how vain Vito
was.

"You always was a lousy liar," Vito replied, indulging in a
vigorous coughing fit. "I'm a sick old man. I ain't got much
longer."

He'd been suffering from prostate cancer for the last three years.
Chemotherapy and radiation treatments had completely debilitated him,
but he still knew how to bitch. And bitch he did—about his
treatments, his doctors, the hospitals, and the nurses. The only
person he had a good word for was his wife, the former stripper
Western Pussy, now officially Western Giovanni.

Western was a cheery soul who obviously made him very happy.
Unlike Vito's former wife, Marnmie, Western did not have a bitter
bone in her body. Oblivious to criticism, she sailed through life
with her 46D boobs and her cheery smile.

"How's my baby boy?" she said, sweeping into the room, smelling of
cheap scent and pizza. Western never
had
learned to spend
Vito's money; she still preferred the small pleasures in life.

"Did ya say hello to Michael?" Vito asked, coughing again.

"I
always
say hello to your handsome friend. How's it
shakin', Michael?"

"I'm good, Western. How about you?"

"Can't complain." She turned to her ailing husband. "Look what I
bought you in the sale at Bloomingdale's, honeybunch," she said,
digging into her shopping bag and producing a most unsuitable pink
V-neck sweater. She waved it in front of him. "It's cashmere," she
said reverently. "
So
soft and cuddly."

"That's nice, babe," Vito said. "Now run along. Me an' Michael got
business to discuss."

"Business at your age," she scolded. "You gotta give it up,
Vito."

"Scram," he said affectionately.

She blew him a kiss and left the room.

Vito turned to his nurse, who was sitting in the cbrner. "Wait
outside," he commanded.

"But Mr. Giovanni-"

"Go!"

The woman went.

"They try to keep me-in bed," Vito confided. "I ain't havin' that
shit. I'm no fuckin' invalid. I got prostate cancer. Big fuckin'
deal."

"I guess they feel you should get plenty of rest," Michael
offered.

"Rest for what?" Vito demanded. "My fuckin' grave?"

"Look, Vito, I'm glad you saw me today. We've got to discuss what
you want me to do with your money."

"Oh yeah. My money," he said vaguely. "How much is it now?"

"About three times as much as you gave me."

"You always was good at makin' dough," the old man guffawed. Then
he frowned. "I sure as shit don't want the tax man gettin' it."

"
Then what
?"

"Here's what you do. Western can't manage nothin', so it's no good
givin' it to her. Once I'm gone, you arrange a monthly income for
her. Somethin' that goes straight into her bank."

"Okay."

"Then I want ya t' take a coupla million an' give it to
Mamie."

He said it so casually that Michael didn't register what he was
saying for a moment. When it hit him, he was outraged. "What?"

"Marnie—remember her, my ex-wife?"

"What the fuck would you want to do that for?"

"I promised her that when I went, she'd get it."

"From what I hear, she's doing okay with her porno empire."

"She was with me a lotta years, Mike," Vito said.

"I think she deserves it."

"You do, huh?"

"Yes, I do," Vito said, his gruff voice hardening. "So Mike, I can
trust you, right?"

Michael nodded. He had no intention of giving one dime to Marnie.
By withholding the money, he could finally exact a very small
revenge.

And that's exactly what he planned on doing.

* * *

Fresh back from LA and an exciting assignment interviewing a powerful
superagent, Madison lunched with Jamie in a Manhattan restaurant.

She was at the top of her game now. "Profiles in Power by Madison
Castelli" was a big deal. Publicists were clamoring for her to sit
down with their clients. In the magazine publishing world, she was a
star.

Jamie leaned across the table. "What's the best sex you ever had?"
she asked.

"Huh?" Madison said.

"You know," Jamie said. "Mind-blowing, down-and-dirty sex. The
kind where you never want to see the guy again, but at the exact
moment you're doing it, anything goes. And I
do
mean
anything."

"Well. . ." Madison said, wondering where Jamie was heading with
this. "Miami," she said at last. "Remember that weekend I spent with
my dad when I was sixteen? Well, I met this guy, a forty-something
major playboywith all the toys—penthouse, Porsche, and an
oversized water bed covered in rose petals. Also ..." She paused for
effect. "An extraordinarily talented tongue."

"Damn!" Jamie exclaimed. "You never told me."

"It was my secret," Madison said, laughing. "His name was Frankie
Medina. I'll never forget him. He taught me plenty."

"You
sly
one," Jamie said. "I didn't know we kept secrets
from each other."

"Just one."

"Ha!"

"What's with all this sex talk anyway?" Madison asked.

"
I
think Peter might be having an affair," Jamie blurted,
mentioning her husband.

"You've only been married a few years," Madison pointed out. "Give
the guy a
chance
to get bored."

"Thanks a lot," Jamie said huffily. "What makes you think he'd
ever
get bored?"