Jessie Keane - Ruthless

Annie looked at him in alarm.

He shrugged lightly. ‘Sometime soon, I might have to take off somewhere.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

Alberto’s eyes were smiling into hers. ‘Stepmom, I’m a very bad man. The Feds have levelled a lot of accusations against me. And my attorneys are working hard at batting them away, as usual. But I get the feeling, the strong feeling, that before long the game’s gonna be up.’

Annie stared at him, worried. ‘And these accusations are…?’

‘How long you got? Money laundering, evading tax, sale of stolen goods, conspiracy, racketeering… oh, and maybe murder. If they can make it stick.’

‘They can’t – can they?’

‘They move slow. We move faster. But some day, the axe is gonna fall. Regan wants a clean sheet, and that means taking care of outstanding business. And that’s people like me.’

‘The murder charge…’

‘It’s not a charge. Not yet.’

‘Is that… would that be Lucco?’

‘And others,’ said Alberto.

Lucco was Alberto’s older brother, Constantine’s eldest son. He had vanished years ago, presumed dead. After that, Alberto had taken over the reins of the family firm. Annie hated Lucco, but nonetheless she had always wondered what happened to him.

Alberto’s eyes grew colder. ‘Lucco had no respect for anyone, living or dead. Everything our father had worked for, slaved for, he would have run straight into the ground.’

And you couldn’t let that happen , thought Annie.

‘You know, once I thought you and Daniella…’ she started.

Daniella had been Lucco’s wife.

‘I thought that too.’ He gave a small sigh. ‘But what you just said about Lucco – obviously you think I had a hand in whatever happened to him. Well, Daniella thought the same thing. She couldn’t live with that. It ate at her. She’s a fine, honest woman, Daniella. Not long after he went missing, she returned home. She’s remarried. And she’s a mother.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Another world,’ he said, and gazed off across the graveyard, his eyes wistful.

Annie watched him. Maybe he was seeing the sunlit island of Sicily, his ancestral home – the lemon groves, the hot sun beating down on dusty roads and lush vineyards. And Daniella, dark-haired and lovely, laughing, kissing her husband, playing with her children.

Annie reached out, touched his arm. She didn’t want to see him come to grief.

‘How long…?’ she asked, meaning how long would it be before the Feds picked him up and charged him.

‘Months, I think. Maybe weeks.’

Annie was horrified. ‘You must have contingency plans?’

He shrugged. ‘Aunt Gina’s gone to Sicily. But me… I’d miss New York. I was born here.’

‘Better an open sky and freedom,’ said Annie. ‘Are you winding things up?’

‘Stepmom…’ He turned to her with a smile. ‘Don’t ask. That way you know nothing, and it’ll be safer for both of us.’ His gaze intensified. ‘You know what I wish?’

‘No. Surprise me.’

‘I wish before all that hits the fan, you’d move on. Find a nice guy. I’ll have to approve him, of course.’

Annie shook her head. ‘I don’t want to move on, Alberto. The fact is, I’ve no desire to get serious with anyone, ever again. I have the Times Square club to run, and I have Layla. That’s enough.’

He was staring at her.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘I can’t believe that would ever be enough, not for you.’

‘No? Well, you’re wrong. Come on,’ she said, reaching out to take his arm. ‘Let’s get some coffee, I’m parched.’

‘Coffee? I thought you English only drank tea?’

Annie caught the teasing note in his voice and hugged his arm against her as they walked towards the cars. His foot soldiers followed them.

God, how could she bear to lose him? She couldn’t. It hurt her even to imagine it.

‘I’m becoming Americanized,’ she said.

And maybe she was. Maybe London wasn’t home to her any more. Back in Britain, Margaret Thatcher was in her third term as Prime Minister, and Annie sensed there was big trouble brewing. Soon it might erupt on the streets of London. But… she knew that as long as Layla was there – no matter how cool Layla was towards her – that was where she had to stay.

‘Americanized? You? I don’t believe it.’ He smiled.

By tomorrow she’d be back in Holland Park, in her home. With her daughter. Her heart didn’t lift at the thought, even though she knew it should.

London, 1988

They were watching Layla Carter like cheetahs about to run down an impala.

‘That’s her,’ said the man in the driver’s seat.

The two men stared out of the steamy windows of the car, parked at the edge of the park. Thin sunlight was beginning to penetrate the dull grey clouds. They’d been waiting for over an hour; she was late this morning. They’d started to wonder if she was coming at all, but it was unlike her to break her routine.

Finally, here she was. A dark-haired young woman dressed in navy shorts, white sports bra and trainers was jogging steadily around the perimeter of the park, kicking her way with long easy strides through the dewy grass, her breath pluming out in the cool morning air.

‘She’ll check her watch when she reaches the shrubbery,’ said the one behind the wheel, his eyes on the woman. ‘One, two, that’s it…’ The woman slowed to a walk, looked at her watch. The driver, a big man with pudgy features, the build of a rugby prop forward and a shock of long curly red hair, turned to his companion. ‘See that? A creature of habit.’

‘So shall I do it, Rufus? Can I?’ Dickon was getting excited. The coast was clear, there was no one else about. Perfect timing. She wasn’t, he was disappointed to see, that young – not as young as he liked them – but he was still eager to get on and do it.

‘No.’ Rufus savoured the sight of the woman, the feeling that she was within his grasp. His for the taking, whenever he was ready. Orla would be pleased with him, he knew it.

‘I could do it now,’ said Dickon.

Rufus sent him a cold glare. Dickon was a kiddy-fiddling piece of shit who was bound straight for hell, but in the meantime he had his uses.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’ll run again in a minute. Let her. Then she’ll be too tired to get away.’

Layla bent double, hands on knees, until she got her breath back. She was slow this morning. It irritated her. She could feel her heart pounding, and her head was thumping too. Last night’s company dinner hadn’t gone well, she’d drunk too much and now she felt awful.

Looking back, she was annoyed with herself. She hadn’t even wanted to attend the dinner, but she knew she had to make the effort. After all, Bowdler and Etchingham, Chartered Accountants and Registered Auditors, had given her a chance, hired her despite all the whispers about her family background: the least she could do was turn up at their annual bash. But now, she wished she hadn’t.

That moron Paisley, a trainee who had joined the firm at the same time as her, had been goading her for ages. He’d started in again last night, his whip-like tongue worse than usual because of the drink. And for the first time ever – yes, probably also because of the drink – she had risen to the bait.

‘Caught your finger in the till, did you?’ he’d asked her, his face red from too many mojitos.

Layla stared down at her left hand. She had only three fingers and one thumb on that hand. The smallest digit was missing. And Paisley thought that was very funny. Paisley knew, everyone knew, that her family background was… well, not exactly law-abiding. Hence the crack about the till.