Jessie Keane - Playing Dead

‘Spectacular,’ said Annie, and Layla sped off with her nanny. The door closed behind them. Annie turned to Constantine with a slow smile. ‘Do you think they’ll be happy?’ she asked, knotting his tie for him.

‘Who? The bride, Layla . . .?’

‘The couple.’ Annie completed the knot and smoothed her hands down over his chest.

Constantine’s mind was suddenly full of an image of Cara, in tears over the state of her marriage. He sighed. ‘I hope so.’

‘But you don’t think so?’ she asked.

He linked his arms around her waist, nuzzled her neck. ‘I know you haven’t found Lucco the easiest person to get on with.’

There was an unspoken world in that simple sentence. Lucco hated her: always had, always would. She tolerated him, no more than that. Constantine was no fool; he had seen the friction between them – he could scarcely fail to.

‘I hope they’ll be happy,’ said Annie. For Daniella’s sake.

‘Have you considered the diplomatic corps as a career?’

‘Since marrying you? About once a day.’

‘We met on Cara’s wedding day,’ he said. ‘You remember? In London.’

Annie thought of the grey rainy streets, the old Palermo club that was now called Annie’s. She thought of Dolly running it, with Tony ferrying her around town, and Ellie in charge of the Limehouse knocking-shop where once she herself had reigned as queen. A hard pang of homesickness hit her. She was having a baby in a foreign country with a Mafia boss. Her friends were far away and her new husband’s family had not welcomed her – well, Alberto had, but that was all.

Oh, she kept busy here. She was going to launch the club in Times Square next year, and meanwhile she saw to the running of this household, and to the elegant, sprawling New York penthouse by Central Park where she spent a greater part of her time when Constantine was busy. She’d made many acquaintances but no real friends. In fact, she felt she was viewed more as a temporary curiosity than a permanent fixture, accorded politeness and respect because she was Constantine’s wife, certainly; but the warmth was only a veneer, not truly felt.

‘I remember,’ she said. London was a world away. This was her life now. She sighed and put her head against his chest. He kissed her hair, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of it.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Something up?’

‘Nothing.’ She looked up at him. She was the luckiest woman in the world. She had Layla; she had this stunning man in her bed; she was carrying his child; she had her own business interests – funded partly with Mafia money, but so what? – and she lived in comfort and security. What more could any woman want?

Constantine glanced at his Rolex. ‘It’s time we were downstairs,’ he said. He turned her in his arms and kissed her mouth.

‘Ruining my lipstick,’ she complained against his lips.

‘Yeah? Sue me,’ he said, and kissed her harder.

Chapter 21

Lucco made an impressive bridegroom. He was as smoothly, slickly handsome as always, his dark hair gleaming, his elegant bearing showing off his white jacket and bow tie to its best advantage. Daniella, an averagely pretty girl, looked almost beautiful today, her face flushed with happiness. She had many gifts of money pinned to her bridal gown, in the Sicilian tradition.

‘She looks gorgeous,’ said Annie at one point to Cara as they were standing beside each other. ‘So happy.’

Cara turned her head and gave a tight little smile to her stepmother.

‘That won’t last,’ she said. ‘Not with Lucco. She’ll soon learn.’

Annie went to ask her what she meant – she thought she knew , anyway – but when she looked at her stepdaughter’s face, Cara was staring across the garden at one of Constantine’s men. Annie recognized him as one of several drivers who ferried the family around, a tall young man with a sullen look to him. Cara’s face was set in an expression of extreme dislike. The young man – Annie thought his name was Fredo – gave a sneering half-smile in return.

Before Annie could speak again, Cara moved away.

‘Stepmom,’ said a male voice behind her.

Annie turned. It was Alberto. She smiled. Alberto was so like Constantine to look at; nothing like him in character. Constantine was an authoritarian with an edge of fire; Alberto was smoother and, if he had aggression – and she knew he must – it was more rigorously controlled than his father’s.

‘Stepson,’ she greeted him.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Having a good time?’

‘Oh, spiffing.’

‘ Spiffing? ’ He laughed. ‘ What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means great.’ They stood side by side, looking at the happy couple at the high table.

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ marvelled Alberto, watching the bride. ‘Just think of it – Lucco, married. You know what, that’s scary. It’ll be me next.’

‘Anyone in mind?’

‘Would you divorce Papa and marry me instead?’

‘That’s a tempting offer, but no, I don’t think so.’

‘Then I don’t have anyone in mind.’

Annie smiled at him. She liked Alberto’s ways. In business he was polite and efficient. In his social life, she had found him to be the same. When he had women in his life – and there had been a few – he treated them well and somehow always managed to part from them on good terms.

‘Is Cara all right, do you think?’ she asked him.

‘Cara?’ Alberto looked over to where Cara was now standing, deep in conversation with Aunt Gina. ‘Why? Has she said something?’

‘No, nothing at all. It’s just a couple of times she’s seemed . . . I don’t know, sort of upset.’

‘She hasn’t said anything to me. I think maybe Rocco and she have been going through a rough patch again. Happens a lot, believe me.’

That probably explained it. Or did it? Annie thought again of the look that had passed between Cara and the young driver. Sick and furious on Cara’s part; sort of gloating on Fredo’s.

‘Well, better mingle,’ said Alberto, and was off among the crowds again. He met up with Rocco.

And there’s another miserable face , thought Annie.

Rocco was more than miserable. He soon made his excuses to get away from his brother-in-law. He was feeling too tense and unhappy to socialize, but he’d had to come today. It was expected of him; there was no way he could back out. Frances was making a thorough pest of himself. He’d only phoned at first, and then, when Rocco had blocked all his calls, he’d written letters, pouring out his heart, saying that he still loved Rocco, why had Rocco hurt him like that, why didn’t Rocco love him any more?

Rocco certainly did not. He ripped up all the letters and didn’t bother to reply. And then Frances had shown up at his door.

‘What the fuck do you want from me?’ he’d screamed at him, distressed by even looking at him.

My God, the ugliness of his face now. His mouth looked as though it reached his ears. There was purple mottled scarring, and the marks where the stitches had come out, and two of his fingers ended in stumps. Jesus, he was a mess!

‘I wanted to see you. That’s all,’ said Frances, trembling with the force of his love and desire for this heartless son of a bitch.

‘Well I don’t want to see you ,’ said Rocco coldly. ‘And I’m warning you . . .’

‘ What? ’ Frances couldn’t believe it. The man he loved, the man he’d thought loved him, had defaced him, and was now threatening him again?

‘You heard. Try to come anywhere near me again and you’ll be sorry.’

Then, shaking, Rocco had slammed the door in that repulsive face. Frances had stayed there for almost half an hour, hammering on it, begging, crying, pleading. Rocco had stood there listening to it all, trembling all over, chewing his nails, wondering how the hell he could get rid of this monster.