She checked her makeup in her compact mirror. No one could tell she’d cried last night over losing her friend to Iowa and then breaking up with her someone.
“I’ll bring your bags to the servants’ entry. Feel free to step out here, Ms. Phillips,” the driver said in polite sternness. He didn’t get out to come around the car and open her door to the March chill, but that didn’t bother her.
The actual wintry wind that said hello the moment she stepped out of the warm private car? That got to her, penetrating her Burberry trench coat, which, accessorized with an umbrella, was all the real weather protection she’d needed for Nevada winters. Snow clung to bushes and tree branches that must be laden with fat leaves from spring through fall.
Astonishingly, she didn’t remember whether she’d ever climbed any of these robust trees. Pity if she hadn’t. They looked perfect for kid to climb.
Ten years was a long time to be away from home. Today she wore a deep gray midlength dress, stilettos, pearls, and a pair of tortoise-colored sunglasses. She wouldn’t be swinging and scaling her way up through the branches and limbs toward that pale blue sky. Too bad.
Clutching her sleek purse, she took the winding front walk fast, dodging spots of ice and playfully disturbing the snow-coated hedges she passed on her journey to the antique double doors.
A woman in a maid’s uniform welcomed her cheerfully, taking her coat and complimenting her dress as she led her into the interior of the mansion. People cut across their path busily, barely sparing a glance in her direction.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Izzie asked the maid, Tessa.
“No, it’s only your father’s campaign staff. Ignore them. It’s what they prefer,” Tessa confided.
The wide hallways and mahogany wood walls and the original artwork that her parents had proudly collected during her childhood all began to replace the optimism with trepidation. She should be excited to see her father and mother after ten years away from Illinois. Maybe it was because even though she’d called Daphne to update that she’d made it safely into town and was on her way, no one but a maid she’d never met had greeted her at the door.
They’re busy people. It’s not like I gave them much of a heads-up.
Izzie watched the maid step into a spacious room, speak with somebody, then return to the doorway. “Welcome home, Ms. Phillips. Ask for me if there’s anything you need during your stay. I’ll go fetch your luggage. Mrs. Phillips already requested that we prepare your childhood room.”
“That’s fine.” The formality had her palms feeling a bit clammy. “Thank you, Tessa.”
Tessa gave her a friendly wink then strode off.
“Come in,” a strong, deep male voice commanded, and Izzie startled.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said, finding him standing in front of a tall fireplace with two other men and a woman. Her mother, she realized, seeing that Daphne had allowed her dark hair to gray in silvery streaks throughout the short tresses. “Hi, Mom.”
Daphne’s gaze brushed her up and down. “Izzie, oh, get over here and hug your mother. I’ve never seen a more stunning woman.”
Izzie hugged Daphne, then moved over to Roscoe. The last time she’d seen him, he’d fired her from his campaign team and she was packing suitcases in a big dramatic scene that had left household staff in tears as they’d begged her to reconsider.
Illinois Democratic Senator Roscoe Rayburn Phillips hadn’t appreciated being outed as unfaithful to his wife, which Izzie herself had been instrumental in seeing happen. She’d known about the affair and when she’d tried to tell her mother, Daphne had shushed her and reprimanded her for saying such a thing without proof. So Izzie had obtained video proof and had it leaked so that even if Daphne refused to believe her, the general public wouldn’t.
Her father faced her in a crisp suit with an American flag pin stuck to a lapel. His deeply tanned skin was creased with shallow wrinkles. Still he had that strong, confident jaw, short and wavy hair, and secret-seeking eyes. “Izzie.”
“Hi, Daddy,” she said again, taking off her sunglasses to look him in the eye.
Roscoe banded his arms around her and she went gratefully, sighing into his chest because she could hear his heartbeat and it’d been much too long since she’d known either of her parents’ embraces. “How long before Las Vegas calls you back?” he asked her.
“I brought enough clothes for a few days,” she said, almost adding that she’d travel home again soon if he and Daphne wanted her back as family. If they could just try again…
“Roscoe, you have eternity with her. She’s your girl. What about the rest of us old fools?” someone said, and she leaned back to see Mort Jeffries, one of her father’s longtime friends.
“Uncle Mort!” She pecked his grizzled cheek.
“What the fuck was that? Kiss me like you mean it.”
Everyone laughed gently and Izzie gave him a noisy smooch.
“What are you doing with yourself now, young lady?” Mort asked, cutting his eyes at her parents. “Roscoe—Daphne—you’re supposed to keep an eye on your only child. Don’t let her stay away for another ten years.”
Daphne stood beside her. “Izzie’s very much a part of our lives. In fact, we’d like to include her in Roscoe’s presidential run.”
Presidential…what? Izzie shook her head. This had to be jetlag playing tricks. Her father had resigned from Congress when she was in college, shortly after the cheating scandal had jarred him out of the public’s favor. No longer America’s “Boy Scout,” he’d stepped back from politics and, the last she heard, was focusing on backing organizations that interested him and improving his squash game.
“You’re organizing a presidential campaign, Daddy?”
“I am, Izzie. It’s time to return to politics, to get in front again. I have influential supporters and I managed to twist Mort’s arm to head up the campaign. Mort’s campaigns are winners. His candidates have never lost. A fact,” he said with a grin for his friend.
“I thought you were done with politics, though,” she said, still confused. She didn’t like the pressure senatorial races and councilmen races had put on him, the strain it’d applied to the Phillips family, or the role she’d played in helping her father succeed. Especially that. “You and Mom are supposed to be enjoying your retirement.”
“I’m a volunteer,” Daphne piped up. “Three museums in the city.”
“And I’m always going to be a politician. Welcome home, Izzie. Let’s get you oriented with what we’re doing.”
Surprised that she hadn’t been released to visit her bedroom and unpack, Izzie took a seat in the office. Everyone else continued to stand.
“My platform is diversity,” her father announced in his booming vibrato.
“Really? Mom converted to Christianity and stopped speaking to Grandma because Grandma kept insisting that she and I would always be Jewish. You, Daddy, are as multiracial and multicultural as anyone I’ve ever met, but you identify as Polish.”
The others glanced around. A few people cleared their throats and someone whispered, “You said she wouldn’t be problematic.”
Daphne came closer. “Izzie, I know you didn’t take it especially well when my ma died and she and I had all those hurt feelings between us. But she loved you and was so grateful that you wanted to maintain a connection to her. You have her dreidel still, don’t you?”
“I do. I have everything that reminds me of where and who I come from.”
“Perfect. You’re the face of the…the modern American, Izzie. Your father would be in an excellent position should you work with him on this campaign and show your support for this family.”
“What if I don’t cooperate? What if I think you and Daddy are only exploiting my heritage for his political platform?”
“Izzie, politics is about gray areas,” her mother said gently. “You want to see your father succeed, don’t you? You love your daddy, don’t you? He depends upon you and I to
support him. I need your help.”
Izzie swallowed, her throat tight. “I’ll think about it. But did you call me because of this campaign assembly, Mom? Respect me enough to be honest, please.”
“Oh, Izzie.” Daphne laughed, as though it were absurd. “Oh, of course I called you because I was missing my daughter. You’re number one in our lives.”
Izzie soon afterward excused herself to freshen up and reacquaint herself with her childhood home. She encountered Tessa again and asked her to help her find the doors leading to the backyard. Wrapped in a black peacoat, Tessa accompanied her outside.
“What are you searching for?” Tessa asked.
“My swing. Daddy designed it and had it constructed on the day I was born. Isn’t that incredible? I’ve missed it all this time…” Izzie stopped walking midway across the enormous yard and began to turn. “Where is it?”
“There is no backyard swing, Ms. Phillips.” Tessa puffed her breath against her linked hands. “I apologize. If I’d known that was what you were looking for, I would’ve told you before you walked out here in your lovely shoes.”
Izzie cared little for her shoes when the swing—her swing—was gone. “Uh, don’t worry about it. It was just a silly childhood thing.”
“But it was built the day you were born. To undo such a gesture,” Tessa said, tsking.
“I was a miserable child and if we’re being fair, I haven’t been home in ten years.” Because they never welcomed me back.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Phillips. Would you like to go inside now?”
“Sure.” Because if she stayed out here alone, she’d cry and the tears would freeze on her face. She couldn’t let a swing break her composure. She joined the maid in the kitchen and was all too delighted to be able to stay in the cozy room listening to Tessa talk. The maid was as friendly as all the staff Izzie had known when she’d lived here before.
“I’m afraid your mother and I will be gone for a bit this afternoon. I’m accompanying her to her doctor’s appointment.”
“Is she okay?”
“Why, yes, she is. I’ll be there to offer moral support. Menopause isn’t easy to adjust to.”
“Menopause?”
“Yes, she was officially diagnosed a few weeks ago. Poor thing. And she and Mister Phillips were so hoping for a child.”
“A child?” She was their child. She was their idea of the face of the modern American.
Realization slapped her hard. “Mom called me after she found out she won’t be able to have more kids.”
“I can’t speak to that,” Tessa said, setting a mug of tea in front of her.
“Thank you, Tessa, but I’ll pass on the tea. I really would like to speak to my parents.” Izzie traced her way back to the office. Only Roscoe and Mort remained. “Where’s Mom?”
“Not in here,” Roscoe said, “but, Izzie, would you step inside for a moment? Shut the door behind you.”
Izzie closed the door. “What is it, Daddy?” She noticed the television was on, the volume muted. Only after a double-take did it sink in whose picture was featured on the screen. “Turn up the TV. Hurry. That’s Luca Tarantino.”
Roscoe raised the volume and the words attempted suicide grabbed her.
“Oh, God.”
Roscoe turned off the television promptly. “That’s not your worry anymore. You’re here now. Mort’s driving into Chicago for a late lunch. If you want to get reacquainted with the area, there’s no better guide.”
“No. I need to go back to Las Vegas.”
“Luca Tarantino is not your fiancé anymore. He ended the engagement and left you with nothing. There’s nothing you can do for him.”
“I can be there for his son. We-we’re close.”
“Izzie,” her father cautioned, “don’t be rude. Mort has agreed to run my campaign. We owe him some hospitality.”
Izzie’s entire form stiffened. Both men watched her, and her mind slid back through the years. Age eighteen, at a political celebration in her father’s honor.
“Mayor Dougal is a good friend,” Roscoe had said. “I give you permission to ride into the city with him. Be friendly, Izzie.”
“Friendly” had meant willing, and she’d protested, “Daddy, he tried to kiss me. I’m not going anywhere with him.”
In the end, her father had convinced her to take the ride, insisting she would be proud to have supported his career. When she’d come home late that night, she’d been dazed and sore, and she’d passed a strange woman outside on the lawn. Inside, her father had been waiting in the study, his shirt unbuttoned, and he’d asked, “Izzie, were you friendly to Dougal?”
“Yes,” she’d whispered, shaking.
“Did he use a condom?”
“No. I begged him and he refused.”
“Bastard,” he’d said. “He got bare access to my kid. Well, now he’s in my pocket for life. Good trade.”
She’d tried to hug him, thinking maybe he’d be proud of her.
“Take a shower, Izzie.”
“I took one before we drove back.” She’d shivered. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too. Take another shower and go to bed. Don’t wake up your mother.”
Mayor Dougal had been the first, but there’d been others over the following two years. She’d begun to feel numb. Now, at age thirty, she was angry enough to stop a pattern that never should have started.
“No,” she said to both men. “I will not go into Chicago with anyone. Uncle Mort, you were like a second father to me.” She shook her head. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Izzie,” her father began, “think rationally.”
“You’re disgusting. Did all your politician friends report back to you or something? Did they tell you what an obedient little whore I was? Did they boast about their kinks? Did they describe in detail how they used me, how they fucked me?”
“You never refused,” he countered. “Clearly you liked their attention.”
“Oh, my God. I was afraid of what you’d do if I said no to having sex with all those men.” Drawing back, she went on. “I should’ve fought you then, but I’m doing it now. Stay away from me—both of you.”
The doors opened and Daphne entered with two other people wearing flag pins. “Izzie, have you started unpacking?”
“No, and I’m glad I didn’t. I’m not staying. In fact, I’m leaving now. Daddy wants me fuck Uncle Mort, if you can see how messed up that truly is. And you, Mom, you don’t have to stay with him and try to conceive another child to help his presidential campaign.”
Daphne’s mouth worked like a fish out of water. “That’s crazy.”
“You don’t believe me? That’s fine. I know plenty of people in the media who will.” Izzie faced glares from both parents. “Daddy? I’d hate for a man like you to represent this country.”
Standing strong, Izzie collected her luggage, let her childhood go, and said to the driver, “Take me back to the airport, please. I’m going home to Las Vegas.”
Chapter Eleven
Milo and his brother monitored Luca in shifts. Switching shifts with Jeremiah meant battling the media as he got out of his truck at the Las Vegas hospital where Luca had been transferred the day before. He still hadn’t seen his father or spoken to him since he’d been brought in with a parade of crowd control police units, hundreds of avid onlookers with recording devices, and the press.
Luca, under twenty-four-hour police and nurse supervision, wasn’t allowed more than one visitor at a time and was considered high-risk. Many suicide attempts were followed by successful suicides. If his father was as ambitious in ending his life as he’d been in building it, then the Tarantino family hell wasn’t close to being over.
A preliminary mental evaluation had been completed, but there were more extensive follow-ups to come. Alzheimer’s hadn’t been ruled out, depression had been the preliminary diagnosis, and schizophrenic disorders were still possibilities
.
Luca had admitted to delusions of seeing his deceased first wife, Anne. He’d hallucinated her likeness and voice and thought he’d been interacting with her while hiding in Italy. Rescued from some market in Sicily, he’d suffered severe blood loss from slashes to his wrists and Italian authorities had worked with the hospital to extradite him to the United States immediately after stabilization.
And Milo’s godfather, Antony Grimaldi, had been arrested on a warrant granted following the authentication of a video recording of Luca recanting Antony’s involvement in running a criminal gambling ring out of his casino and his arrangement of Luca’s escape from Nevada when he’d been restricted from traveling across borders.
At five-forty, Milo had another twenty minutes left of his dusk-to-dawn shift in the waiting room outside the hospital’s psychiatric ward. He wondered what difference there was between a privately funded psychiatric ward and any other. Better-tasting coffee, maybe.
Hazarding a cup of brew, he grimaced but drank it down black anyway. Once his brother arrived, he’d need the extra shot of caffeine to calmly wade through the mob outside and drive home to rest. Chances were he wouldn’t sleep in the middle of a sunny day, but he’d get himself to relax and try to ease his brain, which was sprinting a goddamn marathon.
“I held up my end of the bargain.”
Milo instinctively crushed the empty foam cup he held. Remy wore a baseball cap and flannel shirt over a black outfit similar to what he’d worn when he’d approached Milo in February. “What the fuck do you want? He’s already in police custody.”
“I put him in custody, Milo. I found him in Italy and got his confession.”
“Instead of turning him over right off the damn bat, you let him psyche himself until he thought the best way out was to gut his wrists? He almost died.”
“If he hadn’t cut himself, he would be dead. His old friend Antony Grimaldi was done following up behind him and wanted him eliminated. Your question’s how did I know that, huh? I had him watched. To get my clean indisputable proof, I put a few of my boys in place in Italy and Grimaldi hired one of them as the doer.”
The Hook: The End Game Series (Book 4) Page 18