Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘I have to kill her,’ said Orla, her lips drawn back, baring her teeth so that she seemed almost to snarl. In that moment, she seemed more animal than human. ‘She took Redmond away from me,’ she spat. ‘It’s her fault he’s not with me now. I want to do to her what she’s done to me: snatch her family from her, hurt her so that she wishes she were dead.’

Rufus said nothing. He knew now how much she had lost when Redmond was taken from her, how deep and damaging that hurt must be. He couldn’t punish the other hurt she’d suffered; Pat and Tory were beyond his revenge. But he could see to it that the Carter bitch got what she deserved.

‘Let me help you,’ he said, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I swear I’ll do whatever it takes.’

Orla gazed at him, her eyes mad with the hunger for vengeance. Finally, she nodded. ‘Good. I’m going to destroy Annie Carter, I’ll make her pay for what she’s done – and then I’m going to kill her. And this time she won’t get away.’

New York, 1988

Annie Carter was standing among the gravestones in St John’s Cemetery in Queens, New York. She was holding a wreath. She came here every time she crossed the Pond, to visit the grave of Constantine Barolli. It was a hot day, New York was sweltering, baking in summer heat. Oblivious, she was staring at the elaborately carved headstone.

Here lies Constantine Barolli

Despite the heat of the day, she shivered. She could still see him in her mind’s eye, so clearly – the silver hair, the dark tan, the brilliant blue eyes, a collection of sharp suits worn with elegance and panache. He’d loved her. Constantine had steadied her, made her calmer. Whereas Max…

Ah God, what was the point of thinking about that? She laid the wreath of red roses and green laurel upon the grave, then straightened with a sigh. She was tired and feeling low. She’d spent much of the past week at Annie’s, the club in Times Square, making sure that everything was running smoothly. Which of course it was. She needn’t have bothered really. She knew she was only killing time.

Her marriage to Max had been over for eight years and her relationship with their now adult daughter was still not good. She was just wondering what to do next with her life. Pestering Sonny Gilbert was unnecessary. For the past fifteen years, gay exuberant Sonny had been in charge of operations at her New York club, and with him at the helm all her concerns were rendered superfluous.

Maybe she ought to stop coming to the cemetery. It always depressed her. It had been a long time ago, so long ago and so far away. Constantine was gone. He wasn’t here.

‘Hey,’ said a soft male voice, breaking into her thoughts.

She turned. And there was Constantine standing there, in the flesh.

Only of course it wasn’t. Miracles didn’t happen. Shit happened. Still, her heart gave a lurch as she saw the man standing a couple of paces away, tall and handsome as ever. He was wearing a thousand-dollar suit. His fair hair was lifting slightly in the hot breeze. His laser-blue eyes were smiling into hers.

As usual he had a bodyguard on either side. Sandor, of course – Eastern bloc, huge and black-haired, with only a rudimentary grasp of English but an unswerving devotion to his boss; the other man was slightly smaller but no less dangerous. Two more heavies were waiting by a long black car. Make one suspicious move towards him, and you’d be dead before you hit the ground.

He was holding two large bunches of red roses. On his index finger glinted a ring, the gold one glittering with diamond stars. Annie had a flashback then, men bending to kiss the hand of the godfather who would help them, grant their wishes, ease their pain – at a price.

She took a gulp of air and stepped towards him. ‘Hi,’ she said.

He pulled her in tight against him, hugged her. Annie closed her eyes.

‘How are you, Stepmom?’ asked Alberto, Constantine’s youngest son.

‘Fine,’ she lied.

‘Going home today?’

‘Yeah. In -’ she glanced at her Rolex – ‘about three and a half hours.’

‘Give Layla my love then.’

Annie sighed, thinking of her lovely, problematical daughter, still as hostile as ever, still keeping her at arm’s length. Unlike his siblings, Alberto had never resented her, never shown any hostility towards her. She had never said it – she never would – but he had been the main reason her marriage to Max had foundered. Max had never believed that her trips to the States were purely business. He’d been convinced that she went there to see Alberto, that she was having an affair with him. Because Alberto was almost the same age as her. And because he looked so much like her old love Constantine that it hurt.

Because, because, because …

She had fought tooth and nail to convince Max that this was not true, that it was him she loved. But slowly, steadily, his insane, stupid jealousy and his refusal to believe her had gnawed away at her patience, exhausted her, eaten away at her love.

She would not be confined. She would not live in a box of his devising, watched and worried over like some bloody possession . When she had finally snapped and flung the divorce word in his face, his eyes had been so hard, so implacable. He had said, ‘OK, that’s what you want? That’s what we’ll do. Then you’ll be free to fuck whoever you damned well like .’

Even now, eight years on from all that hurt, that agony, she still felt sick, dizzy and dangerously near to tears when she thought of it. It had taken her a long time to get to grips with her grief over Max.

Of course Layla blamed her , not him. Layla thought that if her mother had stayed in London more, there would have been no divorce.

Annie sighed heavily. She had found some comfort here in the States with Alberto, but for God’s sake, how could Max have thought such an absurd thing? Alberto was not her lover, she had never wanted that. He was like a son, a little brother maybe, to her. There was nothing sexual in their mutual affection.

Looking at Alberto’s face, she could see that he too had suffered. He had aged in the few years since she’d last seen him. Time and knowledge and bitter experience had carved their indelible lines in his handsome face, making it harder, tougher: more fearsome. Now he was even more like his father. He was no longer the readily smiling youthful charmer. He had become the godfather.

‘Just visiting the grave,’ said Annie, indicating Constantine’s last resting place. ‘You?’

‘Yeah. I come here to see them every week.’

Alberto walked forward and laid one of the bouquets in front of his father’s headstone. He placed the other one on another of the graves there. Away in the distance, Annie saw a priest walking, hurrying between the headstones.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

Sandor and the others were scanning the graveyard. They watched the priest vanish from sight, then cast around for any other movement. Dangerous men, she thought. Her life had been full of them. If there was one thing she hoped for, it was that Layla would one of these days – soon, with luck – fall for some nice straight guy. That the lure of bad boys wouldn’t affect her life as it had her mother’s.

‘You look tired,’ she said to Alberto as he straightened up.

‘Do I?’

‘Everything OK?’

‘As OK as it ever is,’ he said.

‘Alberto, what is it?’

He gave a smile. ‘I’ve been thinking, that’s all.’

‘About what?’

‘That this whole house of cards is about to come crashing down.’