Jessie Keane - Playing Dead

‘Cara?’ Annie caught her arm as Cara was about to pass right by her without a word. ‘Are you all right?’

Cara’s eyes met hers and in that instant before her guard went up, Annie saw something there; something bruised, something covert and uncertain. But then the shutters were in place again and Cara just stared at Annie coldly.

‘Like you care,’ she said, and looked pointedly at Annie’s hand resting on her arm.

Annie removed it. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.’

But Cara was right: Annie’s words were a lie. There was just something about Cara’s own personal fuck-you demeanour and the swanky pea-brained friends she hung around with that put Annie’s back up.

‘I told you. I’m fine .’

Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba , thought Annie. But fuck it. Did she really want to know what petty concerns went on in the life of someone so vacuous, spiteful and vain?

Answer: no.

Cara hurried on by. Annie heard her go into the bathroom at the head of the stairs, slamming the door behind her – and then she heard retching.

Annie paused there on the stairs, frowning. Maybe Cara was pregnant? But Annie sort of doubted that. So maybe Rocco had upset her . . . but then, Rocco was so mild, so practically invisible as a personality, that Annie couldn’t imagine him upsetting anyone , far less his notoriously difficult wife.

In the downstairs hall, Annie found Nico sitting patiently on guard outside Constantine’s study.

‘Is he free?’ Annie asked him.

Nico rose to his feet and gave her a smiling half-bow. ‘For you, yeah – he’s free.’ He turned and tapped at the door.

‘Come!’ came from inside the study.

He looked up as she came in. She stood there leaning against the door. He pushed himself back from the desk and stared at her.

‘Mrs Barolli,’ he said, his eyes playing with hers.

‘ Mr Barolli,’ Annie greeted him.

‘And to what do I owe this unexpected honour?’ Constantine made a ‘so come here’ gesture with his hand.

Annie went over to the desk.

‘Closer,’ said Constantine.

Annie stepped nearer.

‘Not close enough,’ said Constantine.

Annie went around the desk, sat in his lap and put her arms around his neck. ‘Close enough now?’ she asked.

‘Barely,’ he complained, nuzzling her neck with his lips. ‘Something bothering you?’

‘Not really.’ Annie thought briefly of Cara’s face, but then it was gone, forgotten.

‘The baby?’ said Constantine, anxiously. He glanced down, concerned, at the small neat bump beneath her light lilac shift dress.

‘I just wanted to see you.’

‘Mrs Barolli, I love you very much,’ he said, and kissed her, and Annie found herself remembering her first pregnancy, when she had been expecting Layla; and Max had been so delighted, just as Constantine was now.

A sharp pang of sadness and regret struck her heart as she hugged her second husband and whispered her love for him, because once there had been Max, owner of the East End streets around Bow in London; Max Carter, gang lord, lover – and her first husband, her first true romance. And she had loved him too. Oh, so much.

She shivered, and clung to Constantine.

Chapter 17

Rocco got called to the hospital at two in the morning. Cara was asleep beside him when the phone rang. He flicked on the bedside light. She stirred sleepily and looked at him as he spoke into the phone. When he put it down, his face was ashen.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Cara.

‘It’s . . .’ Rocco paused, shook himself. His eyes were distant. He looked like a man who had seen a brief glimpse into hell. ‘It’s one of my friends. He left the poker game and he’s been attacked in the street.’

Now Rocco was throwing back the sheets, getting out of bed, hurrying to pick up his trousers and put them on.

‘Is . . . is it bad?’ asked Cara innocently. She knew exactly how bad it was. Here was the reward for all her suffering; here was her revenge. Fredo had slashed up Rocco’s little fag friend . . . before driving her home and then forcing himself on her once again in the garage. She shuddered to think of it.

She had told Fredo that this would be the last time. And, chillingly, he had laughed and said fuck that , not unless she wanted her father to hear all about what she had made him do to her husband’s fag boyfriend.

Now she was in a mess and she knew it. She despised Fredo for all that he’d done to her, but worse than that was the fact that she despised her father too, for making her sink to such levels of depravity with his refusal to help.

Would Fredo really dare tell her father? She didn’t know. And if she told Constantine first, blaming Fredo rather than carrying the blame herself for the attack, would her father believe her? She couldn’t take the risk, because Constantine would be so angry if he discovered she’d wormed her way around his warnings and found another way to get to Rocco.

‘This don’t stop until I’m ready,’ Fredo had told her, crudely slapping her on the arse as she emerged once again, shaking and abused, from the back of the car.

The bastard!

But the deed was done. And here was the result. Wasn’t it worth it? Yes, she knew it was.

Now Rocco was fastening his shirt and almost running for the door.

‘I hope your friend’s all right . . .’ Cara called after him, but he was gone, slamming the door closed behind him.

Cara lay down, a catlike smile playing over her pretty features.

So Rocco Mancini thought he could make a fool of his wife, did he? He was about to discover how horribly he had miscalculated her capabilities.

Rocco got to the hospital at nearly three a.m. They let him in and Rocco had to hide his shock at the state Frances was in. His face – oh, his beautiful face! – was a mess of stitches and bloody smears and bandages. His mouth had been slashed almost neatly on both sides, widening his lips so that they were hideously elongated. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing.

Rocco tried to cover his disgust at the sheer ugliness of Frances’s appearance, but he couldn’t quite conceal it from his wounded lover. He sat down beside Frances and, while Frances sobbed, each sob muffled beneath the wadding and stitches around his mouth, Rocco asked him who had done this to him, who could have done such a thing?

‘You’re saying you don’t know?’ said Frances indistinctly. His eyes were red and accusing. ‘It was you, you fucker.’

Rocco looked aghast. His eyes went to Frances’s face, and he had to look quickly away.

‘What? No, I swear—’

‘It was a man,’ said Frances. ‘You must have paid him. He said it was from Rocco and Cara Mancini. For the love of God, you only had to say if you wanted to end it. You didn’t have to do this.’

Rocco sat back in his chair, feeling dizzy from the shock.

Cara must have instigated this. Cara must have known about their affair. He felt his insides clench with fear. If Cara knew, had she told her father? My God, if the Don knew . . .

Clearly, she had somehow discovered his secret. He felt consumed with horror at that thought, at the dangers inherent in this situation for him. Again his eyes strayed to the damage she’d wreaked on his once-exquisite lover, and again he had to look away, frightened that he might actually be sick. He was no good in hospitals. His grandmother had been an invalid for much of her life, languishing in bed; he had a horror of sickness. And as for any sort of disfigurement . . . well, he knew it was shallow. He knew it was bad. But he couldn’t help it. Just to look at Frances, the repulsive state of him, was making his stomach heave.