Читать книгу Fatal - Jacqui Rose, Jacqui Rose - Страница 15

Franny Doyle yawned as she made her way along the glass-panelled corridor of the Sheraton Hotel located in downtown Denver, Colorado. She was hot and tired after travelling for the past two days. It hadn’t helped that her flight had been a particularly turbulent one, or that opposite her – in the usually staid business class – a very large, noisy Greek family had insisted on breaking into the occasional champagne-fuelled song. Then, to make matters worse, the cab driver who’d picked her up from the airport had, for some inexplicable reason, shouted at every passing car before refusing to make his way around the roadworks, causing her to get out and walk the whole of the mile-long pedestrian strip in the searing Denver heat. Still, at least she was here, and ultimately that was all that mattered.

As she walked along the thick brown swirl carpet, grateful for the air conditioning that blasted out near sub-zero temperatures, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket, letting her know she had a voicemail.

She listened as she waited for the lift to make its way down from the twenty-second floor. It was Alfie … again:

Pick up, for God’s sake! I don’t know how many bleedin’ messages I’ve left, but you can’t keep ignoring me. For fuck’s sake, Franny, why are you doing this to me, darlin’? Just call me and let’s sort this out. I get that you could be mad at me. Maybe I didn’t give you as much attention as I should’ve done, or maybe you think I don’t tell you that I love you enough. But I do love ya. From the minute I knew ya, I started falling for ya. But Jesus, Fran, whatever it is I’ve done, don’t take it out on our future. Vaughn’s future. You want me to come and find you, Franny? Is that what you want, darlin’? To show you I care? Cos I do, but I just haven’t got time for these fucking games at the moment!… Franny!

Stepping into the lift, Franny clicked off the phone, smiling sadly to herself as she fought hard not to feel the devastation and guilt of what she was doing to him, because there was no getting away from it, she loved Alfie with all her heart, he was her soul mate. But the fact was, she just couldn’t afford to let her feelings for him change what she had to do, no matter how hard it was.

She knew he was hurting as well. The variety of messages from him since she’d texted him about the change of plan had ranged from calm to bewilderment then to anger before returning to calm in a merry-go-round of mystified emotions.

She didn’t blame him. Not one little bit. How could she? She’d taken his and Vaughn’s money, and the only explanation he’d had was a short, swift text. He deserved better, but she couldn’t explain, mainly because he wouldn’t understand. Yes, he’d appreciate the principle of it – caring and looking out for family – but she knew that Alfie saw this money as his one chance, his last chance at making it back on top, so there was no way, if he’d had his choice, he’d let her spend it on getting Cabhan out of trouble.

And of course, Alice Rose. Sweet Alice Rose whom Cabhan had only learnt of in the last couple of years.

Alice had been conceived following a brief affair Cabhan had had during a short business trip to the States sixteen years ago. Although Alice’s mother, Clara, and Cabhan had parted on good terms – friends even – and had kept in contact over the ensuing years, Clara had never told Cabhan anything about Alice until it’d been completely necessary for her to do so. And that had only been in the most extreme situation, when Clara had been diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of multiple sclerosis.

Cabhan had been thrown into the deep end: he had only learnt he was the proud father of a beautiful young girl two months before Clara had died. Alice, of course, had been devastated. The other thing she had been was naïve for her age, having grown up in a tiny farm community in George County, Mississippi. Clara had not only protected her from the world, but had brought Alice up in a highly religious environment, which was certainly at odds with Cabhan.

Though not knowing how to get through to a teenager who had not only lost her mother but had been brought up as if God were her best friend, Cabhan had asked around and found a small and exclusive boarding school at a girls’ convent – as nuns and the religious community were something Alice understood. Business allowing it, Cabhan had visited her every day, then after a while a smile had slowly returned to Alice’s face.

What followed was the blossoming of a beautiful loving bond between Cabhan and Alice Rose. He loved Alice as Alice loved him. Completely and absolutely. In fact, Franny didn’t know anyone who’d met Alice and hadn’t fallen in love with the sweet, innocent, kind-hearted girl, who somehow had been shielded from the world turning upside down.

Suddenly, Franny shook herself out of her thoughts. She didn’t want to start feeling sentimental, she had a job to do: somehow she had to get Cabhan out of the mess he’d found himself in, before the Russos began to point the finger of blame.

Quickly looking along the corridor, making sure no one was coming, Franny tapped lightly on door 493. ‘Cab! Cab! It’s me.’

It took less than thirty seconds for Franny to hear the locks of the hotel room unbolt. Then, looking stressed and tired, Cab opened the door, giving her a quick, grateful smile before his expression immediately turned pensive as he glanced up and down the hallway. ‘You made sure no one followed you?’

Saying nothing, Franny nodded as she walked into the large Presidential suite, which looked out west across the city, over the Broncos’ ‘mile high’ stadium to the snow-capped Rocky Mountain National Park.

She turned to Cabhan, who was pouring himself a large bourbon at the bar in the corner of the freshly decorated room, and gently spoke, her large emerald eyes imploring him and full of kindness. ‘How about you leave that drink for a minute until you give me a hug … It’s good to see you, Cab.’

With her mane of thick, glossy chestnut hair falling over her beautiful face, skin like a porcelain doll, she smiled at Cabhan, though it was tinged with sadness. For a long time now, he hadn’t been himself. He’d been withdrawn, troubled, and each time they had spoken she’d also got the sense he was on edge. Nervous. She’d even go so far as to say he seemed afraid, and the man she’d known all her life had never been afraid of anything. But that was before. Before he’d started working for the Russo brothers.

She’d warned him. Begged him to think carefully about getting involved with them, because she knew, knew how dark and dangerous they were. Her father – who at one time had done business with the brothers – in the end refused to do so, which spoke volumes, because the game they were in was filled with sewer rats, scumbags, thugs, but the Russo brothers? They were on another level entirely. They had no moral code. Anything went. She’d heard the stories and wished she hadn’t. Nico, Salvatore, Bobby. All three brothers as twisted and dark as each other.

But there’d been no telling Cabhan back then. After what had happened with her father, he’d retreated and put a whole ocean between them. It’d hurt her and she’d missed him, but although she’d never been happy with him heading off to America, she’d understood that was Cabhan’s way of dealing with things. Though what she’d never grasped was why he’d gone to work with one of the most notorious families on the East Coast. The only reason she ever came up with was that it was some kind of self-imposed punishment, Cabhan’s guilt over her father; though when she’d put that to him, Cabhan had simply laughed it off.

Now, however, he’d realised that he needed to come home, and nobody could’ve been more delighted than her. It was the right thing to do for everybody, but after what happened to Ally, to get Cabhan away from the Russos would be harder than ever.

Welling up with emotions, Cab’s voice broke. ‘Fran, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Thank you. I’m indebted. I—’

She cut in. ‘Cab, stop. You don’t owe me anything, and truthfully, there’s nowhere I would rather be. Okay, maybe under different circumstances, but you, me and Dad, we were always a team, weren’t we? So, me being here certainly doesn’t need any thanks.’

Absentmindedly patting down his short, boxed Afro, Cab asked, ‘What about Alfie? Was he all right about you coming?’

Franny’s pause, although only a millisecond, was long enough for Cabhan, who knew her so well, to say, ‘You haven’t told him, have you? Franny, don’t ignore me.’

Franny’s tone was slightly irritated. ‘I’m not a child, Cab.’

‘That’s right, so you can start off by telling me why Alfie’s in the dark.’

Putting her bag down on the tangerine orange furniture, Franny decided to take a bourbon herself. ‘Look, it’s just best like this. The fewer people who know where you are, the better.’

Cabhan pulled on Franny’s arm, turning her round to face him. His Irish accent was always more pronounced when he was passionate. ‘Don’t give me that, Franny Doyle. This is Alfie we’re talking about. There’s no way he’d say anything to anybody. We both know that. So, come on, tell me what’s really going on.’

‘Cab, I love you, but I know what I’m doing, so leave it, please. Besides, I think you’ve got more to worry about than what I do or don’t choose to tell Alfie.’

Before Cabhan had time to reply, his phone – which was sitting on one of the dark wooden deck chairs on the balcony – began to ring.

Stepping outside, he gazed at it, his expression becoming strained again. ‘It’s Salvatore.’

‘Have you spoken to him since the accident?’

Cabhan shook his head. ‘No, you told me not to, but he knows about Ally. Actually, the whole of the American press seem to know. It was splashed across all the papers yesterday. The headlines all say the same thing: notorious crime boss’s daughter dies in accident. The only reason I left my phone on was in case you needed to get hold of me, but Salvatore’s been calling day and night. I haven’t listened to the messages, I thought it was probably best not to, though I doubt he’s wishing me well.’

‘Give it to me.’ Franny gestured with her hand, her manner and her authority reminding Cabhan of her father, Patrick. But then that wasn’t surprising: Patrick had taught Franny everything he knew about the business they were in. He’d started her off young, knee-high, showing her everything from how to pick pockets like she was the Artful Dodger to cracking safes and locks. And when she was old enough he’d gone on to show her how to run large business empires built on handshakes with dangerous men and dangerous deals.

Taking the phone, Franny looked at Cab, then, giving a tight smile and taking a deep breath, she swiped the answer button.

‘Salvatore. It’s me. Franny Doyle. You need to listen to what I’m going to say, because there are a few things we have to talk about …’