Jessie Keane - Playing Dead

‘It . . . Papa, it wasn’t a woman,’ he managed to say.

Enrico was silent. The teams were rampaging around the pitch to the cheers and shouts of the crowd. Slowly, Enrico levered himself out of his armchair with an elderly grunt of effort. Then he leaned down and struck Rocco, very hard, across the face.

Rocco recoiled in pain and surprise. His cheek stung. He sprang up, furious.

Enrico looked him dead in the eye.

‘Oh, you think you want to hit me back, uh?’ he scoffed, his eyes running over his son with contempt. ‘You ain’t hard enough to even try it. Now I understand. You deserved that. And Rocco, you deserved to have your fag boyfriend worked over. I always knew there was something off about you, you little . . .’ Enrico looked disgusted. He flicked his ear in the Italian sign for homosexuality. ‘How’s any woman going to take that, her husband playing away with another man ? You know Cara’s nature. And you’re surprised she did this?’

Rocco was almost crying with humiliation. ‘I think the Don himself ordered it,’ he panted. ‘If he knows, I’m as good as dead.’

‘Yeah, maybe he did. For this? Maybe he’d feel his daughter had been insulted; maybe you’re right.’

‘Well, what are you going to do?’ demanded Rocco.

‘ Me? ’ yelled back his father. ‘I’ll tell you what I am going to do: precisely nothing. You think I’d raise a hand against one of my oldest friends over a little fucker like you?’

Rocco’s mother came into the room and stood just inside the door, looking anxiously from one to the other. ‘What’s going on here?’ she asked.

‘What’s going on is that your milksop little baby has had his nose smacked and he don’t like it. Well, he had it coming,’ Enrico told her sharply. He turned to Rocco. ‘Now get outta here. I got a game to watch.’

And he sat back down in his armchair and gazed once more at the screen.

Rocco’s mother stood there, staring at her son. After a second, Rocco managed to get his legs working, and he pushed past her, out of the door, out of the house. He heard her concerned cry drift after him but he ignored it. He got in his car and drove back to the city.

His father was going to do nothing to help him – so what else was new? His father never had. Cara must have told the Don about this. After all, who among Constantine’s soldiers would dare do her dirty work for her without first securing her father’s permission? No one would do that, would they? No one would risk incurring Constantine’s wrath by acting without his say-so. The Don must know. And if he knew . . . then he was just waiting to pick Rocco off at his leisure.

Chapter 19

Cara was shopping, as she often was, when the man with the scarf hiding the lower part of his face came up to her.

‘Cara Mancini?’ he asked, his voice muffled.

Cara was both startled and puzzled. How did he know her? He sounded English. And why the hell was he wearing a thick knitted scarf on a summer’s day? He looked cloak-and-dagger, like a spy in one of the old movies. Now she wished she’d had Fredo come in with her today, but she hated his guts, hated him anywhere near her; she hadn’t wanted him trailing after her.

‘You’re married to Rocco Mancini, that’s right?’ he said, and she was struck now by how attractive his clear grey eyes were, how thick and glossy his chestnut-coloured hair. But the scarf . . .?

He saw her looking at it.

‘Neuralgia,’ he said, patting it. ‘I’m a martyr to it, sadly. I’m an old friend of Rocco’s. Can we go somewhere and talk for a moment?’

Cara suppressed an impatient sigh. She didn’t want to sit somewhere with this weirdo and talk about the cheating yellow-bellied shit she was married to.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’ She was moving past him, moving away.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

‘Please,’ he said desperately. With fumbling fingers – two of them were no more than stumps, she noticed in horror – he pushed the scarf aside.

‘Oh my God,’ whispered Cara as she saw the puckered purple slits on either side of his mouth.

She pulled back, revolted. And then she thought, oh shit, it’s him. It’s Frances Ducane, that actor Fredo cut up, Rocco’s lover.

All the blood left her face and she felt as if she was going to faint. He’d found out she’d instigated that. He knew she’d set Fredo on him. She started to pull away, to flee. He was going to hurt her, scar her too. She’d been through so much, had to tolerate Fredo pawing at her, sliming over her, and for what? Now it was all backfiring on her, it was all going bad. She opened her mouth to scream, but she was so terrified that she couldn’t even draw breath.

‘Please don’t go,’ said Frances, and something in his voice arrested her, made her freeze to the spot. She looked into his eyes, which were brimming over with tears.

‘You see what he did to me?’ he sobbed. ‘You see what that son of a bitch Rocco had someone do, just because he’d had enough of me?’

Cara took a breath as his words sank in. He didn’t think she was responsible; he was blaming Rocco .

Cara gulped in air, composed herself, tried to get her racketing heartbeat back under control.

‘How could he have done anything so awful?’ she demanded. ‘Look, there’s a café over there. Let’s go get a drink, and you can tell me all about it . . .’

Chapter 20

Annie Carter-Barolli was slipping on a pale blue silk shift in front of her dressing-table mirror. She turned sideways, slid a hand over her full belly.

‘Shit,’ she said as she glanced at her reflection.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Constantine, coming through from the dressing room shrugging on his jacket, shooting his cuffs. His tie was hanging loose around his neck.

‘I won’t be able to wear even these slightly fitted things soon,’ she sighed.

The day of Lucco Barolli and Daniella Carlucci’s wedding had dawned bright and clear, as if the gods were smiling upon Long Island. The bride, with her mother, her sisters and her cousins, was up in the guest wing, putting the finishing touches to her ensemble. The house was in happy chaos, with the garden being set out for the ceremony with elaborate rose arches all the way up the pathway leading to the altar, where the priest would perform the ceremony. Small gold chairs had been set out in neat rows; florists were hurrying around. The caterers had arrived and taken over the kitchen. At the side of the house, long trestle tables were being covered in pink damask. Elaborate floral arrangements were placed down the centre to form a cascade of white, cream and lemon. The best silverware was being laid out with military precision; glasses were being polished by uniformed waiting staff until they sparkled in the sunlight.

By early afternoon the guests were taking their seats for the ceremony. As Annie checked her appearance, Constantine came and stood behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘You’ll look beautiful when you’re as big as the side of a house, too.’

Layla came running in. She was wearing a long pink taffeta dress with a matching headdress of pink and white roses. She was going to be flower girl today, scattering rose petals beneath the feet of Daniella the bride. Her dark green eyes, an exact match for Annie’s, shone with excitement. ‘Mummy, I’ve lost my flower basket!’

The nanny, Gerda, a thin, solemn-faced Nordic blonde, came dashing in after Layla, looking embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Barolli. Come on , Layla, I know where it is.’

‘You like my dress?’ asked Layla, twirling around.