Playing Dead

by Jessie Keane

  They returned to New York, to the Fifth Avenue penthouse. As she made to pass the front desk in the lobby of the palatial building, the concierge, Michael, called Annie to the desk.

  ‘Mrs Barolli.’

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ she greeted him, steeling herself against the words she knew were coming. I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do? Empty, meaningless words.

  He looked awkward and unhappy, of course he did – people would cross the street rather than talk to the bereaved, but this poor sap had no choice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Barolli, I’ve been told you’re not to go up.’

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked faintly.

  He looked away from her. This was a man who had seen her coming and going for well over a year, had joked with Layla, told her all about his big Irish family in the Bronx. Now he was looking at her as though he didn’t even know who she was.

  ‘Um, the owner . . . Mr Barolli . . . he said no one’s to go up to the penthouse.’

  Annie felt dizzy with the shock of it. ‘Mr Barolli?’ she echoed. She had expected sympathy, not this.

  ‘Mr Lucco Barolli . . . the new owner.’

  Nico was silent at her side. Layla was cuddling in against her, oblivious to the fact that her mother was being denied entry to her own home.

  Annie felt something stir in her gut: a sick, consuming flare of anger. After all she’d been through, Lucco was still playing his cruel games and she’d be damned if she’d stand for it.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said, and stormed over to the lifts.

  Nico followed with Layla. Ignoring Michael’s shout, they all three bundled inside the lift and ascended to the top floor.

  Annie took the key from her handbag and, with fingers that trembled with rage, she put the key in the lock. The door wouldn’t open. She tried the other key, the spare. That wouldn’t open the door either.

  ‘He’s had the locks changed,’ said Nico.

  ‘Thanks for stating the bleeding obvious,’ snapped Annie. She kicked the door in fury.

  That jumped-up little shit, she thought. He’s cutting me out. Well, we’ll see about that, too.

  Chapter 33

  Annie had Nico drive the two blocks over to Lucco’s place. She was certain he would be there. For the new godfather, it had been very much business as usual since Constantine’s death. And if he wasn’t, by some chance, then she would wait. However long it took, she was going to speak to Lucco today, thrash this out.

  She left Layla in the car with Nico and went into the plush brownstone building. Another concierge, beautifully turned out and briskly polite. She gave her name, said she was here to see Mr Barolli but that he wasn’t expecting her.

  ‘I’m his stepmother,’ said Annie, revelling grimly in the announcement. She had always tended to flaunt the title ‘stepmother’ whenever she could, knowing how much it rattled Lucco.

  Now she thought that maybe she shouldn’t have taken such delight in putting in those tiny barbs, because Lucco was being obstructive. Maybe she should have tried to charm him.

  Ha! Frankly, I’d rather charm a snake.

  She waited patiently at the desk as the concierge phoned up to Lucco’s apartment. Probably the bastard wouldn’t see her. But she was surprised when the concierge directed her up to the twenty-fifth floor. She went over to the lifts, and pressed the button for twenty-five. The doors closed on her and the lift went up.

  As the lift doors slid open, Lucco was standing there flanked by two heavies. As usual she was struck by how handsome he was, staring at her with his hooded black eyes. Also as usual she found him oily and offensively slippery – not attractive.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, and she noted that, as always, he avoided using her name. And as for ‘stepmother’ – forget it.

  Welcome, my arse, thought Annie. I’m as welcome here as typhoid.

  ‘Hi, Lucco,’ said Annie, and followed him and his guards across the hall. They took up station outside the door, while she and Lucco went into the apartment that looked out over the stunning skyline.

  She followed him over a large tan-and-white cowhide rug between two vast terracotta-coloured sofas that stood in front of the huge picture window. New York was spread out there like a multifaceted jewel, bathed in warm spring sunlight.

  ‘Some view,’ she said, as Lucco joined her there.

  ‘Of course, you haven’t been here before, have you? May I take your coat?’ he asked, icily polite as always.

  Yeah, he’d never say a thing to my face, thought Annie. Everything this bastard does, he does when you’re not looking. And of course I haven’t been here – I’ve never been invited.

  ‘No thanks, I’m not stopping,’ said Annie.

  ‘This isn’t a social call?’ He was watching her, sneering at her. He knew damned well why she’d come here.

  ‘Is Daniella here?’ she asked.

  ‘Cara’s taken her shopping.’

  Well, that was good. Annie thought of Daniella, with her frightened, naïve eyes, and was glad that she was going to be spared a front-row seat at this particular shindig. She hoped that Cara was being nice to the poor little cow – but she doubted it.

  ‘You’ve had the locks changed on my apartment,’ said Annie. ‘Why? What right do you have to do such a thing?’

  Lucco gave a slight smile. ‘Ah, that. Are you sure you won’t take a seat so we can discuss this in a more civilized fashion?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Really, she would have loved to sit down. She still felt weak, she was still grieving, but she didn’t want to show that in front of Lucco. ‘Why, Lucco?’

  ‘I own that apartment now.’

  ‘No you don’t. That’s my home.’

  Now Lucco was smiling. ‘It may have been your home, but it’s my property. I own it.’

  Annie stared at him. ‘Constantine told me that the apartment would be mine. He said it was all in his will. The apartment, and the London house, and his club shares.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ said Lucco.

  ‘But . . . the will hasn’t even been read yet.’

  ‘Yeah, it has.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, did no one tell you? The family gathered and the will was read.’

  The family. Not her. They hadn’t even told her it was happening, far less invited her to attend. Not even Alberto!

  ‘But I’m your father’s next of kin,’ she said, her words stumbling over one another with shock. ‘I’m his wife.’

  Lucco stared at her. ‘You’re nothing. I am his heir, and things have been changed around to make sure I get all that I’m entitled to. But I’m not an unreasonable man – you can keep your controlling share of the new Times Square club.’ He gave a smile full of venom. ‘We’ll be partners. How’s that? Everything else passes to me,’ said Lucco, his dark eyes glittering as they held hers. ‘Everything. The Montauk house. Which is still a crime scene at the moment, but I will see that it’s rebuilt, if only as a sad memorial to a great, great man. The penthouse apartment you’ve been living in. The olive groves in Sicily. The vineyards and chateaux in the Dordogne. The orange and lemon groves in Majorca. The Barbuda mansion. The stables in Kentucky. You know how much Papa loved his horses.’

  Annie knew. Constantine had kept racehorses both here and in England, had attended race meetings all over the world; he’d loved best of all to go to Ascot and Goodwood.

  ‘Then there’s the house on Martha’s Vineyard. All the properties my father owned all around the world. They’re all mine now, as he willed it.’

  As he willed it.

  But Constantine would never have left her out of his will. She knew he wouldn’t.

  This was all bullshit.

  ‘You sneaky little arsehole,’ said Annie through gritted teeth. ‘What have you done? Thrown a scare into the lawyers? What have you done?’ she shouted. But of course she knew the answer to her own question. He had control now; he could do whatever he liked. And what he
liked was to cut her out of his father’s life, and his family’s life too.

  Lucco gave a light shrug. He looked very sure of himself, very smug.

  ‘All I have done is taken over my inheritance,’ he said. ‘I understand how bereft you must be feeling at this sad time, and it was tragic – really tragic – that you lost the baby you were expecting . . .’

  Annie stood there feeling sick and powerless.

  ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you dare mention the baby to me. You must be absolutely fucking delighted I lost it.’

  Lucco looked wounded now. ‘Delighted? No, I don’t think so. Of course it would never have been a proper member of the Barolli family, that’s out of the question.’

  Now Annie was spitting mad. ‘That baby was a Barolli. Your half-brother or half-sister. Your father’s child.’

  Lucco cocked his head to one side and stared at her.

  ‘Yes, but can we be entirely sure about that? You have to admit that your history is colourful in the extreme . . .’

  Annie flew at him, wanting to wipe the smirk off his face. He grabbed her and held her. She struggled, crazy with rage, needing to inflict damage, but she was as weak as a kitten.

  ‘You shit,’ she gasped out, her face inches from his.

  ‘Shh,’ said Lucco, and he was smiling, really smiling now.

  His father’s dead and he’s standing here looking like he’s won the lottery. And guess what? He has.

  ‘Hush now,’ he insisted, holding her tightly against the front of his loathsome body even while she struggled and squirmed, trying to get free, trying to kick, trying to hurt him any way she could. She raised a knee, but he turned his thighs sideways so that she missed his groin.

  She was wearing herself out, what little strength she had evaporating. Finally, she just stood still, filled with hate for him, wishing he was dead so she could stamp on his grave.

  ‘Now listen,’ he said close beside her ear.

  Annie gave a desperate heave; but it was no good. She couldn’t break free.

  ‘Hush! Listen. Life has to go on and I’m afraid that apartment where you spent your time here has only very sad memories for me following my father’s death. So I’ve decided it’s to be sold. Sorry.’

  ‘You bastard,’ said Annie, her voice hoarse with fury.

  ‘But listen,’ he said, and she could feel his breath tickling her cheek now, he was so close. ‘If you’re nice to me . . . then we’ll see, yes?’

  Annie’s eyes glared into his. ‘You little runt.’ ‘I’m sure you could be nice to me . . . if you tried.’ ‘Yeah,’ sneered Annie. ‘If I could be arsed. Which I can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘I like the fact that you fight me,’ he said, grinning happily at her. ‘You know what? I really like it.’

  ‘Make the most of it, sunshine,’ said Annie coldly. ‘You won’t get away with this. I’ll contest the will.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He gazed at her for a moment. She felt his hands tighten, just for an instant, on her waist. ‘I know you’re angry now, but take a step back. Think about what you’re doing. Think of your daughter.’

  Then he pushed her roughly away from him. Annie staggered, taken unawares. She righted herself, stared at him like he was something nasty she’d stepped in. He was threatening her. Threatening Layla. A woman, and a child.

  ‘You’re not even fit to lick your father’s boots,’ she told him in disgust.

  His smile dropped. ‘Careful,’ he warned.

  ‘Or what? I’ve had the crap kicked out of me, Lucco. I’ve lost the man I love. I’ve lost my unborn child. You’ve shut me out of my home. What next?’

  His smile was back in place. She longed to smack it straight off, but she had already tried and failed to do that. No use pushing against the tide when it was clearly too powerful for her to cope with.

  ‘If you were so foolish as to try to contest the will? Oh, I don’t know. Try it. And then . . . let’s just wait and see, shall we?’ he asked her, his smile loathsome and gloating.

  No, thought Annie. Let’s not.

  She’d had a shed-load of shit dropped on her head. Someone had already tried to smother her in the hospital. Maybe one of Lucco’s people. Who knew? Lucco was the Don now. She was out of her depth here.

  The only thing she did know was that she felt frighteningly alone.

  Chapter 34

  She was still in the hospital bed, a drip attached to her arm. Just waking, feeling heavy with all the bandages and the cramping in her stomach; ah, God, she felt so weak, so drained. And there was Constantine, standing at the end of her bed . . . only it wasn’t Constantine at all, it was a blackened shell of a human being; there was smoke coming off this poor semi-incinerated thing, this monster. Its mouth opened, and dust and ashes poured from it.

  She tried to scream; couldn’t.

  Hey, wonder what’s in this one? it said in a voice like gravel, the words echoing around inside her head; and then the awful thing seemed to fall apart, its form disintegrating, breaking down, twirling into nothing but skeins of black smoke. She could smell it, the burning, the powder, it enveloped her where she lay, choked her.

  ‘Constantine!’ she shrieked, and all at once she was awake.

  ‘Mrs Barolli?’ Nico’s big face loomed in front of hers.

  There were bright lights behind him, there was a background hum going on; they were in a machine, in a plane, they were . . . oh God, now she knew where they were. Light grey leather seats in front of her. A small, cylindrical cabin. People turning, looking.

  ‘Mummy?’ Layla was sitting beside her and her face was white with anxiety.

  ‘You all right, Mrs Barolli?’ asked Nico. ‘You’ve been asleep. Think you must have been dreaming. You cried out.’

  They were flying back to England.

  After the run-in with Lucco, she’d retreated; rented a place in the city and tried to get her head around all that had happened to her. She’d felt that Nico’s stoic presence, and that of Gerda, Layla’s nanny – who looked after Layla when she felt too weak, too grief-stricken to do so – were the only things keeping her sane.

  She’d wanted to talk to Alberto, to phone Dolly or even Ellie, but she couldn’t do it. There was no way she could talk about losing Constantine and the baby without crumbling, without shrieking aloud. Her pride was all she had now, and stubbornly it wouldn’t let her break down in front of anyone, not even her closest friends.

  Nico had tried his best to jolt her out of it. He’d driven her over to Times Square one day to look at the new Annie’s club venue, but she could only stare blankly at it, without interest.

  ‘You want me to have one of the boys get some staff on board – site foreman, a manager . . .?’ he’d suggested.

  She’d turned to him with a sigh. ‘Yeah, why not? That would be good.’

  ‘You still going to open in September? Have you talked to the boss about it?’

  Annie had given a shrug. ‘No. I haven’t. Maybe I’ll go ahead with the September date, I don’t know.’ She hated that Lucco was co-owner, even if she did have the controlling share. She didn’t want to see him, or speak to him, or even know the bastard was breathing.

  ‘So what would you like to do now?’ he’d asked, watching her with concern.

  Annie looked at him and all at once she knew what she wanted.

  ‘I’d like to go home,’ she’d said.

  ‘Home?’

  ‘To England.’

  Nico had said he’d get one of the Gulf Stream company jets organized, but Annie had said no; she didn’t want the potential embarrassment of turning up at the airport and finding that Lucco had blocked that, too. So instead she’d asked him to book them on Concorde, which he’d done; and furthermore he’d said that he would travel with her, Layla and Gerda.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she’d said.

  ‘Bullshit,’ retorted Nico. ‘Constantine told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to take care of you. I mean to do th
at.’

  Annie felt almost weak with gratitude. Even from beyond the grave, Constantine was looking out for her. She’d thought of the penthouse then, the place where she and Constantine had made a life together.

  Oh, he had often been away on business. So often he had arrived home weighed down by the worries of the world, to find her waiting for him, ready to make him smile. She never asked him about his business; she always kept it light; she was used to doing that. She had been married to another powerful man, another man with dubious connections; she knew how to play that particular game. You asked no questions and were told no lies.

  She thought of the penthouse. She’d loved that place, been happy there. All right, she’d been homesick – horribly homesick – when she had first gone out to the States with him; but she had settled into life there because he was with her. Maybe she would even have stopped there, given the choice. But she’d had no choice at all. Lucco had seen to that.

  ‘I had to tell him what you’re doing, you do understand that, Mrs Barolli, don’t you?’ said Nico.

  Annie had nodded. Of course Nico would have to tell Lucco what was happening, that she was going back to England, because Lucco was the boss now. To do otherwise would be both disrespectful and dangerous.

  ‘We’re just coming in to land,’ said Nico, and Annie gave Layla’s hand a reassuring squeeze. She looked out of the window. Loads of scudding grey clouds, they were flying blind . . . and then – suddenly – there was mild sunshine, a brilliant patchwork of small fields in tones of green, yellow and ochre. They were home, in England. It was only then, seeing the sweet little fields, the changeable skies, that Annie realized how much she’d missed it.

  ‘Take your seat sir, and put on your seat belt, please,’ said the stewardess, hurrying up behind Nico.

  He patted Layla’s cheek and sat down across the aisle beside Gerda.

  The stewardess went off to the front of the plane. They heard the aircraft’s wheels lower into place with a resounding clonk.

  Annie stared out of the window.

  All right, she had to start again. Find her feet. She felt a little better now, just a bit stronger. Her life in the States was over. She would go back to open the Times Square club in September; she was still the majority shareholder, so technically she was still in charge of that, if nothing else. Maybe she’d even take her old mate Dolly with her for support, because, oh shit, she hated admitting this, even to herself, but the idea of coming up against Lucco again scared the crap out of her. He was right. There was nothing left there for her, not any more.