His vile words and actions remained her secret.
She willed herself to put the disturbing memories out of her mind, but there were times the nightmares were too vivid to disappear.
Now she was a little girl in a big city, and at last she was learning how to survive.
Tuesday, July 10, 2001
Los Angeles
Never let ’em see you sweat, Madison thought, recalling the line from a stupid TV commercial. For a moment she almost smiled. Then she realized what a potentially dangerous situation she was caught in, and that a man had just been shot.
The gunman had herded everyone to the side of the room near the kitchen, and now they were taking stock of one another as the man continued to wave his weapon in the air. There were about twenty-five people in all. The oldest was the woman who’d been sitting next to them, and the youngest seemed to be a skinny teenage girl with freckles, who looked like she was about to burst into tears. And who could blame her if she did?
Madison glanced across the room at the burly man who’d been shot. He was lying on the ground quite still. “Do you think he’s dead?” she whispered to Cole, dreading the answer.
“Who knows?” he said, shrugging.
“Can’t we do something . . . maybe try to stop the bleeding?”
“Are you gonna get up and go over there?”
“No, but perhaps I can ask one of the gunmen to help him.”
“Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “I’m sure they’re ready to do that.”
Realizing that Cole was probably right, she tried to imagine how Jake would handle a situation like this. Hmm . . . knowing Jake, he’d probably whip out his camera and start photographing everyone.
Damn! She wished he were there with her. And then she began wondering if he was all right, and when she’d see him again. Jake was a very special man; she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. He was also a very smart man, and if he was in trouble in Colombia, there was nobody better at talking himself out of a bad situation.
“You okay, kid?” Cole asked.
“I’m okay,” she murmured, thinking how when she and Natalie were in college, Cole was just a punk teenager up to no good, and now he was calling her “kid.” Strange how things changed. “It’s your sister I’m worried about.”
They both glanced at Natalie, who still seemed to be in a catatonic state, which was so unlike her. Natalie was the one who usually couldn’t stop talking.
Reaching over, Madison squeezed her arm. “We’ll get through this,” she whispered. “You do know that.”
Silently Natalie nodded.
“Shut the fuck up!” the gunman yelled. “No talkin’. Down on the floor all of you. Down! Down!”
Madison sank to the floor with the rest of them. She was writing the story in her mind, aware that once they got out of this mess, it was important to remember every detail.
“It’s gettin’ hot in here,” Cole muttered, sweat beading his forehead. “They must’ve turned the air-conditioning off.”
“Who’d do that?” Madison asked, slipping off her jacket.
“The cops. They’ve probably got this place surrounded.”
“So we’re hostages?”
“Well, yeah,” Cole said, shooting her a look as if he couldn’t believe she’d said something so stupid.
“I know I sound dumb, but shouldn’t someone be trying to communicate with these guys?”
“They will,” Cole said grimly.
“Anyway,” she whispered, “why would the cops turn the air off?”
“ ’Cause they want to make it as uncomfortable as possible.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
“It’s not such a great plan.”
“How’s that?”
“ ’Cause it’ll mean these guys’ll have to take their masks off, an’ it’s better if we can’t identify ’em.”
“I guess I should applaud you on your great choice of restaurants,” she whispered, attempting to lighten the situation.
“Hey—I figured you’d had a boring time in New York, so I thought I’d make this evenin’ fly.”
“I’M NOT SAYIN’ IT AGAIN!” the gunman screamed. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
The older woman raised her hand as if she were in class. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said in a quavery voice.
“Piss your pants, lady,” the gunman growled. “ ’Cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Then, to everyone’s relief, they heard a voice on a loudspeaker coming from outside. “Put down your weapons, walk out, and nobody gets hurt. Do you hear me? Hands in the air and come out.”
“Mothafuckers!” muttered the gunman. “They got shit for brains if they think I’m doin’ that.”
No, Madison wanted to say, you’re the one with shit for brains.
But she kept quiet for once. She knew it was the only way to get through this.
“What is it you wanted to show me?” Andy Dale mumbled, already bored as he slouched around Vincent’s expensively appointed office.
Vincent sat behind his impressive mahogany desk and stared at the short, insignificant movie star. “My books, my pictures, my objects,” he said, gesturing.
“Yeah, well, does one of your objects have some coke sittin’ in it?” Andy asked with a maniacal little laugh. “ ’Cause if it doesn’t, you lost me.”
“Why do you do drugs?” Vincent asked, leveling the actor with a cold stare.
“Why d’you get up in the morning?” Andy Dale retorted, slumping into a leather chair.
“Here’s what I have to tell you,” Vincent said in a low, even tone. “You put your hands on my wife one more time, and I’ll break your chicken neck. Do you understand?”
“You talking to me?” Andy Dale said, startled, because nobody spoke to him that way.
“I don’t see anyone else in here,” Vincent said mildly.
Andy Dale narrowed his eyes. “You got any fuckin’ idea who I am?”
“More important,” Vincent replied coldly, “do you know who I am?”
“What?” Andy Dale said, nose twitching, face blank.
“Look in the mirror and who do you see?” Vincent said. “Because I’ll tell you who I see when I look at you. A moronic, coked-out movie star who thinks he owns the world. Only, I’m here to tell you that you don’t.”
“What the fuck is this shit?” Andy Dale spluttered.
“I’m making it real for you, Andy,” Vincent said. “I couldn’t give a damn how many people worship your skinny ass. My wife is not one of them, and if you touch her again, it’ll be a move you’ll live to regret.”
“Are you threatening me?” Andy Dale asked, outraged.
“No,” Vincent said calmly. “Simply telling you the way it is.”
“An’ I’m telling you, asshole,” Andy Dale retorted, leaping to his feet, “that when my manager an’ my agent hear about this, they’ll bust your freakin’ nuts.”
“How old are you?” Vincent asked.
“Old enough to do what the fuck I want,” Andy Dale replied belligerently.
“Nobody does what they want,” Vincent said. “There are always compromises.” He rose from behind his desk. “Now, you’re coming back to the table with me like a good boy, and when you get there you’ll behave yourself. Because if you don’t . . .” His words trailed off, the threat implicit.
“Whaddaya think this is, a freakin’ Pacino movie?” Andy Dale exploded, red in the face.
“Care to test me?” Vincent said, heading for the door. “Go ahead. Only, you’d better believe me, Andy. One more hand on my wife and we’ll see whose balls get crushed.”
“Where have you been?” Jenna asked, directing her question to Andy Dale, not her husband, which was a big mistake on her part.
Ignoring her, Andy clicked his fingers at his exotic model girlfriend, who was sipping an apple martini and wondering who a girl had to fuck to get out of there.
“Up!” Andy Dale said, glaring
at her, his voice tense.
“What?” Anais said blankly.
“We’re going.”
“Where?”
“For crissakes!”
Getting the hint, she slid from the booth, flashing plenty of well-toned, chocolate-hued thigh in the process, plus a whisper of well-trimmed pubic hair because wearing panties was so out.
“Why are you leaving?” Jenna asked, her voice a plaintive whine.
Anais shrugged. Andy Dale glowered. Jolie gave a knowing smile—she knew why they were leaving. Vincent had no doubt given the studly movie star the “hands off my wife” speech.
“They have someplace to go,” Vincent said brusquely, sitting down next to Jenna.
“Where?” Jenna persisted, her pretty face pouting with disappointment.
“Do you care?” Vincent said, fixing her with a steely look.
She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and shut up. Vincent was in one of his moods.
Andy Dale stormed off, girlfriend in tow.
“Nice work, Vincent,” Jolie murmured, caressing the stem of her champagne glass with elegant hands. “I’d bet money on you anyday.”
“Where does Nando find these punks?” Vincent asked, shaking his head. “And not only does he find ’em—he dumps them on me.”
“Jenna didn’t seem to have any complaints,” Jolie said, stirring the pot.
“Jenna’s too young for her own good.”
Meanwhile, Jenna had transferred into sulky mode, and was tapping her freshly manicured nails on the table, preparing to throw a fit. She didn’t know what Vincent had said to Andy Dale, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. After all, what harm was there in talking to a movie star? How many times did she have that kind of opportunity?
Damn Vincent and his jealous streak. She wasn’t his possession, she was his wife—big difference. And Jolie was so annoying with her smug smile and knowing expressions. Jolie was simply jealous because Andy Dale hadn’t come on to her.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” Jenna announced, getting up.
“Don’t be long,” Vincent said.
“Want to come with me?” she responded in a challenging tone.
“Y’know, sweetheart, a smart mouth doesn’t suit you,” he answered, thinking it was about time he knocked his wife up, got her good and pregnant so she’d stop this nonsense.
“So . . . ,” Jolie said, once Jenna was out of sight. “What did you say to him?”
Vincent shrugged.
“Having movie stars around is good for business,” Jolie remarked. “Nando won’t be pleased if you’ve frightened Mr. Dale all the way to another casino.”
“Perhaps if your husband had joined us, this wouldn’t’ve happened,” he said, ordering a scotch on the rocks. “Where is Nando anyway?”
“He had a business meeting,” Jolie said, wondering if Nando was telling her the truth. Perhaps “business meeting” was a euphemism for “assignation.” Vegas was crammed with beautiful, ambitious, easy women. She should know, she used to be one of them. And Nando was a big catch.
“Business, huh?” Vincent said, and their eyes met for a long moment.
“Oh dear,” Jolie sighed, trying to decide if Vincent was in on Nando’s infidelities. “Sometimes I think I chose the wrong partner.”
“Now don’t start,” Vincent said, fully aware of how Jolie felt about him.
“Start what?” she asked innocently, reaching for a cigarette.
Growing up with a brother eighteen years older had some advantages. Sofia remembered Vincent teaching her self-defense when she was a lanky eleven-year-old.
“Gotta kick ’em in the balls an’ gouge their face with your nails,” he’d informed her. “An’ don’t screw around. Be forceful.”
“Where are their balls?” she’d asked, with a puzzled expression, as if she didn’t know.
“Here,” he’d said, pointing between his legs.
Quick as a flash she’d kicked him hard. He’d roared in pain an’ as soon as he’d recovered, he’d chased her around the house yelling that she’d ruined him forever.
When he finally caught her, they’d rolled on the floor and he’d tickled her until she’d screamed for him to stop.
She’d never before had to use the “kick ’em in the balls an’ gouge their face” form of self-defense; however, tonight was obviously the night.
Paco had a hard-on; she could feel it digging into her thigh as he pawed at her breasts. The other one was shrugging off his white jacket and unzipping his pants, preparing for action.
Yeah, Sofia thought, remembering her big brother’s advice. Like, you’ve got no chance, morons. One way or another I am out of here.
The front door might be locked, but the double glass doors leading to the roof terrace were wide open—she knew that, because earlier they’d all been drinking out there. And as far as she could recall, the terrace overlooked a swimming pool.
There was no way she was going to allow herself to be sexually abused or, even worse, raped by these two jerks. It was unthinkable. She was Sofia Castle, she could look after herself. She always had.
As Paco lunged once more, she brought her knee up, jamming it into his balls. Surprised, he gave a yelp of pain. She followed up with a swift kick in the same direction.
Startled, the other man leaped forward. Without taking a beat she raked her nails down his cheek, drawing blood, and then, for good measure, kicked him too.
“Bitch!” he shouted. “American bitch!”
She was already running across the room, dashing out onto the terrace.
The penthouse was on the eighth floor. As she reached the edge and glanced over, the pool seemed farther away than she’d thought.
You can do it, she told herself. You can do it. Anything’s better than being trapped in this apartment with these two losers.
She could still hear the groans of the one she’d kicked in the balls. The other man was already chasing her out to the terrace.
What did she have to lose by jumping?
Only my life, she thought grimly.
Kicking off her shoes, she climbed onto the edge of the terrace railing, gauged the distance, held her breath, and jumped, propelling herself as far forward as she could.
As she flew through the air a hundred thoughts raced through her head—the main one being, Am I going to make it? Or will I be crushed to death on the concrete below?
Oh, God! she prayed. If I ever needed your help—it’s now.
Dean escorted Dani to the downstairs lobby of her apartment building. She said good night to him with a chaste kiss on his cheek.
“I suppose this means that you don’t want me to come up?” he said ruefully.
“Not tonight,” she said, always leaving a small amount of hope lingering in the air. “When will you be coming back?”
“When would you like me to come back?”
“Call me,” she said.
“That’s all I ever do,” he sighed, and left.
Her son, Vincent, had bought her a lavish apartment in a building with gates and guards, ten minutes away from the Strip. It had all the modern amenities—gym, sauna, swimming pool, restaurant. If she wanted to, she could live in great luxury and do nothing. Only, she preferred to work at a job she was good at, and putting together important PR events at her son’s hotel casino appealed to her.
The three-bedroom apartment she owned was on the twelfth floor. She’d wanted an apartment large enough to accommodate grandchildren—that’s if Vincent ever decided to procreate. The girl he’d married, Jenna, was hardly her favorite. Jenna was a pretty-baby blond with a spectacular body and absolutely no brains. Jenna was not smart enough for Vincent.
Unfortunately he’d married looks instead of brains. Wasn’t that the problem with most men?
She felt bad about dumping Dean tonight; he’d obviously expected more than just her company over dinner. The problem was that she had too much on her mind and wasn’t in t
he mood to listen to Dean’s never-ending declarations of love.
She got out of the elevator and put the key into the door of her apartment, stepping inside the cool marble foyer. As she reached for the light switch, someone grabbed her from behind.
Fear coursed through her veins.
She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
Michael—1962
The day after his sixteenth birthday, Michael dropped out of school and to the envy of his friends began working full time at the store.
“How come you get all the luck?” Max demanded.
“ ’Cause he’s a pretty boy,” Charlie snickered. “An’ his grandma lets him do anythin’ he wants.”
“Screw both of you,” Michael countered. “I’m a workin’ man now, so you losers better watch it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Max and Charlie said in mocking unison. “We’re scared!”
The three of them were best friends; they’d grown up together. Charlie, the son of a cop, was big and burly, with a solid Irish face and Elvis sideburns. Max was shorter and wiry looking, with crooked front teeth, a friendly smile, and floppy brown hair. Michael was simply dead-on handsome.
When Vinny found out his son had dropped out of school, he was angry, but since he’d also left school at an early age, there was nothing much he could do about it, especially as Grandma Lani welcomed the full time help. As she got older she was gradually slowing down, and having her grandson in the store was a big asset.
By the time Michael was seventeen he was almost totally in charge. He was smart and savvy, knew what he was doing, and the customers liked him—especially when he let them run up tabs and helped them out when things were tough.
Before long he figured out a way to make extra money because business was not booming, and he soon realized he had to do something. So after a while he began making side deals that Lani knew nothing about. For instance, she’d always refused to sell cigarettes in the store, which he thought was plain stupid. “This is the sixties, Grams,” he’d informed her on countless occasions. “People smoke, you gotta sell ’em what they want.”
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