see to it that the Carter bitch got what she deserved.
‘Let me help you,’ he said, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I swear I’ll do whatever it takes.’
Orla gazed at him, her eyes mad with the hunger for vengeance. Finally, she nodded. ‘Good. I’m going to destroy Annie Carter, I’ll make her pay for what she’s done – and then I’m going to kill her. And this time she won’t get away.’
New York, 1988
Annie Carter was standing among the gravestones in St John’s Cemetery in Queens, New York. She was holding a wreath. She came here every time she crossed the Pond, to visit the grave of Constantine Barolli. It was a hot day, New York was sweltering, baking in summer heat. Oblivious, she was staring at the elaborately carved headstone.
Here lies Constantine Barolli
Despite the heat of the day, she shivered. She could still see him in her mind’s eye, so clearly – the silver hair, the dark tan, the brilliant blue eyes, a collection of sharp suits worn with elegance and panache. He’d loved her. Constantine had steadied her, made her calmer. Whereas Max…
Ah God, what was the point of thinking about that? She laid the wreath of red roses and green laurel upon the grave, then straightened with a sigh. She was tired and feeling low. She’d spent much of the past week at Annie’s, the club in Times Square, making sure that everything was running smoothly. Which of course it was. She needn’t have bothered really. She knew she was only killing time.
Her marriage to Max had been over for eight years and her relationship with their now adult daughter was still not good. She was just wondering what to do next with her life. Pestering Sonny Gilbert was unnecessary. For the past fifteen years, gay exuberant Sonny had been in charge of operations at her New York club, and with him at the helm all her concerns were rendered superfluous.
Maybe she ought to stop coming to the cemetery. It always depressed her. It had been a long time ago, so long ago and so far away. Constantine was gone. He wasn’t here.
‘Hey,’ said a soft male voice, breaking into her thoughts.
She turned. And there was Constantine standing there, in the flesh.
Only of course it wasn’t. Miracles didn’t happen. Shit happened. Still, her heart gave a lurch as she saw the man standing a couple of paces away, tall and handsome as ever. He was wearing a thousand-dollar suit. His fair hair was lifting slightly in the hot breeze. His laser-blue eyes were smiling into hers.
As usual he had a bodyguard on either side. Sandor, of course – Eastern bloc, huge and black-haired, with only a rudimentary grasp of English but an unswerving devotion to his boss; the other man was slightly smaller but no less dangerous. Two more heavies were waiting by a long black car. Make one suspicious move towards him, and you’d be dead before you hit the ground.