Deadly Embrace (7 page)

She was already running across the room, dashing out onto the
terrace.

The penthouse was on the eighth floor. As she reached the edge and
glanced over, the pool seemed farther away than she'd thought.

You
can do it
, she told herself.
You can do it.
Anything's better than being trapped in this apartment with these two
losers
.

She could still hear the groans of the one she'd kicked in the
balls. The other man was already chasing her out to the terrace.

What did she have to lose by jumping?

Only my life
, she thought grimly.

Kicking off her shoes, she climbed onto the edge of the terrace
railing, gauged the distance, held her breath, and jumped, propelling
herself as far forward as she could.

As she flew through the air a hundred thoughts raced through her
head—the main one being,
Am I going to make it? Or will I be
crushed to death on the concrete below
?

Oh, God
! she prayed.
If I ever needed your
help—it's now
.

* * *

Dean escorted Dani to the downstairs lobby of her apartment building.
She said good night to him with a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"I suppose this means that you don't want me to come up?" he said
ruefully.

"Not tonight," she said, always leaving a small amount of hope
lingering in the air. "When will you be coming back?"

"When would you
like
me to come back?"

"Call me," she said.

"That's all I ever do," he sighed, and left.

Her son, Vincent, had bought her a lavish apartment in a building
with gates and guards, ten minutes away from the Strip. It had all
the modern amenities—gym, sauna, swimming pool, restaurant. If
she wanted to, she could live in great luxury and do nothing. Only,
she preferred to work at a job she was good at, and putting together
important PR events at her son's hotel casino appealed to her.

The three-bedroom apartment she owned was on the twelfth floor.
She'd wanted an apartment large enough to accommodate
grandchildren—that's if Vincent ever decided to procreate. The
girl he'd married, Jenna, was hardly her favorite. Jenna was a
pretty-baby blond with a spectacular body and absolutely no brains.
Jenna was not smart enough for Vincent.

Unfortunately he'd married looks instead of brains. Wasn't that
the problem with most men?

She felt bad about dumping Dean tonight; he'd obviously expected
more than just her company over dinner. The problem was that she had
too much on her mind and wasn't in the mood to listen to Dean's
never-ending declarations of love.

She got out of the elevator and put the key into the door of her
apartment, stepping inside the cool marble foyer. As she reached for
the light switch, someone grabbed her from behind.

Fear coursed through her veins.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

The day after his sixteenth birthday, Michael dropped out of
school and to the envy of his friends began working full time at the
store.

"How come
you
get all the luck?" Max demanded.

" 'Cause he's a pretty boy," Charlie snickered. "An' his grandma
lets him do anythin' he wants."

"Screw both of you," Michael countered. "I'm a workin' man now, so
you losers better watch it."

"Yeah, yeah," Max and Charlie said in mocking unison. "We're
scared.'"

The three of them were best friends; they'd grown up together.
Charlie, the son of a cop, was big and burly, with a solid Irish face
and Elvis sideburns. Max was shorter and wiry looking, with crooked
front teeth, a friendly smile, and floppy brown hair. Michael was
simply dead-on handsome.

When Vinny found out his son had dropped out of school, he was
angry, but since he'd also left school at an early age, there was
nothing much he could do about it, especially as Grandma Lani
welcomed the full time help. As she got older she was gradually
slowing down, and having her grandson in the store was a big
asset.

By the time Michael was seventeen he was almost totally in charge.
He was smart and savvy, knew what he was doing, and the customers
liked him—especially when he let them run up tabs and helped
them out when things were tough.

Before long he figured out a way to make extra money because
business was
not
booming, and he soon realized he had to do
something
. So after a while he began making side deals that
Lani knew nothing about. For instance, she'd always refused to sell
cigarettes in the store, which he thought was plain stupid. "This is
the sixties, Grams," he'd informed her on countless occasions.
"People smoke, you gotta sell 'em what they want."

Eventually she'd agreed, and he'd cut a deal with an acquaintance
who was able to deliver cartons of cigarettes that happened to have
fallen off the back of a truck. He bought the cigarettes for cash,
then sold them in the shop at the going price, making a healthy
profit, which he put back into the business. Another acquaintance
supplied him with jars of coffee, and sometimes he'd score a whole
truck-load of canned goods that had never quite made it to their
intended destination.

Grandma Lani didn't notice what was going on, and since he was now
in charge of the books, it made things easy. Her arthritis was so bad
that she could barely use her hands, plus she was becoming vague and
distracted. She was still smart enough to appreciate her grandson's
active interest in the store, because Vinny certainly didn't give a
damn.

Michael didn't consider what he was doing illegal; it was merely
good business. Still, he made sure not to confide in Max or Charlie,
because he was well aware that neither of them would approve. They
came from families who
carqd
about what
they
were up
to.

He got a kick out of being in charge, and since he looked much
older than his age, nobody questioned his authority.

His sex life was also going well. Shortly after dropping out of
school, he'd broken up with Tina. She'd found out about Polly and
confronted him. He'd admitted that yes, he
was
seeing someone
else, and then, as gently as he could, he'd suggested it was best
they stopped seeing each other.

She'd screamed, sulked, and several weeks later taken up with
Max—who couldn't believe his luck, because Tina
was
the
prettiest girl in school. Also the most virtuous. No sex before
marriage—Michael could vouch for
that
.

Perhaps if she'd been a little more forthcoming in that
department, they might have stayed together.

Max had asked him if he minded. "Go ahead," he'd said
magnanimously.

Privately he considered it a revenge move on Tina's part. She
couldn't have him, so she'd go with his best friend to try and make
him jealous.

News flash: it wasn't working.

He met regularly with Polly. Even though she was almost twenty-one
and he was only seventeen, they spent many a sweaty night in the back
of the local movie house, where he found he was able to perform some
of his best work.

Sometimes Polly's girlfriend Sandi lent them her apartment. Those
were the best of nights. And there was always the hotel, although Max
no longer worked there, so paying for a room wasn't something he
wanted to do too often.

Polly freely admitted that she still saw her steady boyfriend,
Cyril, which didn't bother Michael at all. They both knew they were
in it for the sex—and as long as the sex was hot, why should it
concern him?

Things were pretty good all around. He worked hard, hung out with
his friends, and Polly was there whenever he needed sex which was
most of the time. He certainly had nothing to complain about.

One day two men sauntered into the shop. The shortest man put up
the closed sign and hovered by the door, while the other man came
over to Michael, leaned his elbows on the counter, and said, "Hey,
you. Hear you're runnin' plenty of business here."

"Maybe," Michael said, recognizing the man as a known wiseguy.

"It's your lucky day," the man said, scratching his chin. "'Cause
I'm here to make things run even smoother."

"How's that?"

"How's that?" the man repeated. "Well, sonny, you'll pay us a
little somethin' every week, and for that you ain't gonna be
bothered."

"Bothered by what?" he asked.

"Don't act dumb," the man said irritably. "You know who I'm
representin' here."

It occurred to Michael that he could stand up to them—that
is, until he remembered what had happened to several other store
owners in the area who had resisted paying protection. He thought
about the smashed windows in the bar next door. The fire in the dry
cleaners. And old Mr. Cartright from the pawnshop getting beaten up.
The rumor on the street was that all the stores were now paying.

"I guess we can work something out," he said slowly.

"Smart," the man said, picking up a pack of cigarettes from the
counter and breaking the seal. "My boss likes smart ones who don't
give him no trouble."

"Who's your boss?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he
already knew.

"Ain't
that
a stupid question," the man said, shaking out a
cigarette.

"Vito Giovanni," Michael blurted out. "An' I'd like to meet
him."

"A punk like you?" the man said, snorting his amusement. "Forget
it."

But he didn't forget it, and a few weeks later when he and Polly
were snogging in the back of the movie house while the previews
played, he was excited to observe the entrance of Vito Giovanni,
surrounded by several henchmen and his brassy blond wife.

He quickly shoved Polly's hand out of his crotch. "Quit it," he
said tersely.

"What's the matter?" she asked, quite put out.

"You see that guy sittin' over there?" he said, leaning forward to
get a better look. "That's Mr. Big."

"Mr.
Big
?" she sneered. "What does
that
mean?"

"He's the man who runs this neighborhood."

"What is he—the mayor or something?"

"No," Michael said impatiently. "He's Vito Giovanni."

At last she got it. "The mob guy?" she asked curiously, her
interest piqued.

"Not so much a mob guy as a man who does things his way," Michael
explained.

"And what way is
that
?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Any way he wants."

The movie playing was
Birdman of Alcatraz
, starring Burt
Lancaster. Suddenly he'd lost all interest in seeing it. All he could
think about was that sitting a few rows in front of him was Vito
Giovanni, and he was desperate to meet him. Ever since he was a kid
he'd heard stories about the man who ruled the neighborhood. Vito
Giovanni was rich. He was powerful. He was everything Michael aspired
to be.

The movie started and Polly obviously expected the usual goings-on
in the back row, but he wasn't in the mood to touch her; he had
other, more important things on his mind.

"What's with you?" she asked after a few minutes.

"I wanna
see
this movie," he lied. "Do you mind if I
concentrate for once?"

"
Sorry
," she drawled sarcastically. "Didn't know we came to
the flicks to actually
see
the film."

"Thought you liked Burt Lancaster."

"Wouldn't kick him out of bed," she admitted with a sly
giggle.

As soon as the movie was finished Michael was on his feet,
standing in the aisle just as Vito Giovanni and his entourage were
about to pass.

"Excuse me, Mr. Giovanni," he said, blocking the way of the short,
heavyset man who was famous for favoring cashmere overcoats and
flowing white silk scarves.

"Out the way, punk," one of his bodyguards said, shoving him
aside.

"All I wanted t' do was meet him," Michael said indignantly,
almost losing his balance.

"Get lost," the henchman growled as the group moved on.

The following day Mrs. Giovanni walked into the shop. Michael
immediately recognized her. She looked like an overblown Hollywood
starlet, with her teased blond hair and enormous bosom. She was
wearing a skintight white dress and was accompanied by her cousin
Roy, who stood outside the shop smoking a cigarette.

She sauntered over to Michael and came right to the point. "You
Vinny Castellino's kid?"

"Uh ... that's right," he said, trying not to stare at her big
breasts.

"What did ya wanna talk to my husband about?"

"I pay him protection," Michael said, startled by her visit. "So I
kinda figured we should meet."

She threw back her head and roared with laughter. "You're a ballsy
little one, ain't cha?"

"Not so little," he answered boldly.

"You look like Vinny," she said, squinting at him through heavily
mascara'd eyes. "
And
you got a mouth, which is more than I can
say for him."

"Where do
you
know my dad from?" he asked, quite shocked
that she'd mentioned Vinny by name.

"It was a long time ago," she said, thoroughly checking him out.
"How old're you, anyway?"

"Twenty."

She gave a derisive laugh. "No way, sonny."

"Nineteen," he lied.

"Try
seventeen
," she said, tapping her long red nails on
the counter. "Am I right?"

"Maybe," he answered cagily.

"Yeah, I'm right," she said, very sure of herself.

"How well did ya know my dad?"

"Well enough," she replied with a secretive wink. "If you get my
drift."

"And my mom, did ya know her too?"

"Oh—
her
," she said dismissively. "Wasn't good enough
for your old man. He dragged her over from Italy on account of the
fact that he knocked her up. I guess
you
was the bun in her
hot little oven."