The Scarlet Thread (14 page)

It was she. He couldn't be mistaken. Looking at her in the adjacent room, he recognized every movement, every gesture. “Try Drummond,” he had said. It was the last chance to prove that the woman wasn't Angela. If she was some incredible look-alike, she wouldn't respond to the name. The message would be meaningless.

He watched as Louis went to the table and murmured to the blond woman. The senator stopped in the middle of a sentence. Falconi was paying no attention. He was staring at a couple across the restaurant. The woman was on her feet, her partner rising only to be waved back.

Steven saw the anxious expression on her face as she hurried out. He had wept tears for her, believing her dead. She was alive, and he had been betrayed.

He said to the senator, “Excuse me. I'll be right back.” He followed her out to the telephone booth in the foyer and was just behind her as she pulled the door open. She had lifted the receiver when he thrust himself in with her, pulling the door closed, sealing them inside. The booth was soundproof, so if she screamed, no one would hear her. It was light enough to see her face, for her to see him. He crushed her against the wall and caught her arm, locking it behind her. The telephone receiver swung on its cord, knocking against them.

He thought she said, “Steven. Steven,” but didn't hear his name, only the voice he knew so well.

He leaned against her, hard, hurting her, and whispered, “Angelina?” He felt her body forced against his, remembered too well its contours. “Angelina,” he said again. “So many years … where have you been?”

“Steven? It's you, Steven?”

“It's me,” he told her.

“Let go of my arm,” she said, her voice trembling. “You're hurting me.”

“We're walking out of here,” he said. “We're going somewhere we can talk about old times. I have a gun. You try and get away from me and I'll kill you. You understand me, Angelina?”

“You don't need to threaten me,” she said. “I understand. I'll come with you.”

He smiled down at her. “Sure you will,” he said. He drew her out of the booth. He gripped her by the elbow, so tightly that his fingers sank into the soft skin. “We get your coat. You send a message to the boyfriend, and you make it sound good.”

At the checkroom, he said, “Send a message to Senator Fuller. Say I've been called away suddenly.” He dug into his pocket and scattered change. “And the lady's leaving too. Aren't you, honey?”

“Yes,” Angela said. She spoke to the attendant. “I'm with Mr. Forrest. Tell him my boy's not feeling well and I've had to go home.”

“You have a coat?” the girl asked her.

“It's a cape. It's over there. Here's my ticket—”

“Never mind the ticket,” Steven interrupted. He took the cape and threw it over his arm. He said to the doorman, “Call up my car, will you, Stanley?”

He was holding Angela so tightly she couldn't have pulled away. He hurried her out onto the pavement and thrust her into the back of the car as it pulled up, his bodyguard shielding him before he slammed the door and jumped into the front. The car sped away.

He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “The apartment,” he said, and then closed the glass partition.

“Where are we going?” Angela asked. He wasn't holding her now. She had drawn away from him, into the corner. There was a red mark on her arm that would turn into a bruise.

“To a place I take my whores,” he answered. “I pay the honest ones. What sort of a whore runs out on her husband—never sends a word, a letter, anything? Tell me, what sort of a
woman
does that?”

She saw the hatred in his face and turned away. “My God,” she said. “What's happened to you?”

“Go ahead and pray,” he mocked her. “You'll need to, Angelina.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” she said. “So you needn't threaten me.”

When the car stopped, he spoke to the driver in Italian, telling him to wait, and then he turned to Angela. “We're going up to my apartment. There's a man behind us. So don't try anything.”

She didn't answer. She walked into the lobby and into the elevator. On the fourth floor they got out. Steven's bodyguard unlocked the door and went ahead of them.

“Okay, Don Stefano,” he announced, and stood aside for them.

“In here,” Steven directed.

She found herself in a large duplex, with sprawling white sofas and mirrors. She saw herself and him reflected everywhere she looked. He faced her, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched into fists.

Suddenly he reached out and caught her left hand. “You married again? You married some other bastard? What happened to my child?”

“I'm not married,” she said. “That's my mother's ring and the wedding ring you gave me.”

“You got rid of my child?” he asked her, and his voice was very quiet. “You went home and got rid of it?”

She looked at him, and suddenly he saw contempt and an anger to match his own. “If you think that, you can go to hell. I had a son, Steven. I even called him after you.”

He said slowly, “Now tell me why you ran out on me.”

“Because I found out what you were. I didn't want my child brought up to be like you. And how right I was! You're vicious and cruel, Steven. I couldn't see it then, but I can see it now. You threatened to kill me, and I believe you meant it. You're everything they said you were!”

“Who said?” he demanded. He took a step toward her. “Who said? What are you talking about?”

She turned away from him. “They sent for me,” she said. “They showed me a dossier. They told me what you were really doing in Sicily. I'd never even heard of the Mafia, but I didn't need to. It was all there: your family, the people you wanted me to go and live with—murder, crime, every vice in the book. I tried to deny it. I tried to defend you. But it wasn't any use. I couldn't live with you. I couldn't have my child brought up with people like you. So I got myself dismissed and I went home.”

“Why?” he questioned. “Why did they tell you?”

“You asked for a passage for me,” she reminded him. “After I read the file, they asked me if I still wanted to go.”

“And you said no,” he countered. “So they got themselves off the hook. By showing you all that crap.”

“Wasn't it true?” she challenged him. “Isn't it true now?”

He didn't answer. He sat down heavily, staring up at her.

“I went back to Sicily when I heard about the hospital. I searched for you. I was going crazy. They were still digging bodies out. Nobody knew who or how many were still buried there. I was trying to find you. I saw the watch I gave you, all smashed up. Blood on it. They said it was found on one of the bodies.”

“I gave it to Christine,” she said. “She was killed.”

He didn't seem to hear. “I thought you were dead,” he went on. “You and the baby. I tell you, I went crazy. You talk about what I did in Sicily. I'll tell you what I did after I got back to Naples. I went into a regular unit. I wanted to fight. I wanted to kill the bastards who had killed you.”

There was silence then. The mirrored images were still. At last he spoke to her.

“Will you have a drink? You look like you could use one.”

“No. I'd like to leave.”

“Of course. Sure. Would you mind if I had a Scotch? It won't take long.” He poured himself a drink. His hand was shaking. He had behaved like a savage, threatening her, using his strength to hurt her. “You're vicious and cruel.” They were her words, and they were no less than he deserved. He came over to her and held out the glass. “Take a little,” he said. “We used to share our wine, remember?”

“It was a long time ago,” Angela answered. “Things have changed.”

“You haven't,” he said. “I knew you as soon as you came in that door. For sixteen years I thought you were dead, Angela, and then you walked in that door and I thought I'd gone crazy. Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you alive and know I'd screwed up my whole life?”

She took the glass from him. She sipped the whiskey. “It must have been a shock. It was a shock for me too. But it's sixteen years. You've made your life, Steven; I've made mine. And I really want to go now.”

He said, “Can you forgive me? Can you forgive me for treating you like I did? Can you try and understand a little?”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Angela told him. She handed him the glass, and for a second their fingers touched. “I shouldn't have said those things to you. You frightened me, Steven.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. I wish I could make it up to you. Sixteen years. It's a long time. Won't you give me a few minutes?”

He's suffered
, she thought suddenly.
It's in his face and his eyes. He's not been happy
. “All right,” she said.

“And you'll forgive me? You'll try to forget how I acted?”

“I'll try,” she promised. “If you'll forgive me for hurting you all those years ago.”

“Tell me about the boy.”

“He's fifteen now. He's at school in England. He's doing very well.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you were killed just after we got married. I changed my name to Lawrence and said I was a widow.”

“You could have found someone,” he forced himself to say. “You didn't have to do it alone.”

“I didn't want anyone,” she answered. “I had my parents. We lived with them till he was eight. I didn't want to marry again, although there was a man who asked me. But I didn't love him.”

“I guess it wasn't easy, bringing the boy up without a father.”

“He made it easy. He was a lovely little boy, and he's growing up into a fine young man. I'm very proud of him, Steven. I think you would be too.”

There was no anger, no menace left in him.

She said, “I'd better be going now.”

He came over and held out his hand to help her up. She hesitated and then took it.

“Do you have to go?” he asked her.

“Yes. It's getting late.”

“Will I ever get to see my son?” He was still holding her hand.

“You must be married,” she said. “You must have other children.”

“I'm married,” he agreed. “We have no children. We never will have. It's a marriage made in hell. Angela? Don't leave me. Please don't leave me.”

“I've got to,” she answered, but she didn't really want to. The closer he came, the more appealing were his low voice and penetrating eyes. “If you want to see him,” she said, “he's here. I brought him with me. He'll still be up.”

She drew back from him. Another moment and something might have happened that must never happen between them now.

He draped the cape over her shoulders. “What does he look like?”

“You,” she answered. “You'll see for yourself.”

In the elevator, he said to her, “Why didn't you wait for me? Why didn't you trust me, Angela? I'd have changed my life.”

“Would you, Steven? Honestly?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I did almost leave the family anyway, when I came back. I lost my taste for the work. But I'd never have let you go so easily. Jesus, I could have sent money at least.”

“Without coming to find us and bring us back?”

“The first thing I'd have done,” he said. “How well you got to know me, even in such a short time.”

He handed her into the car. She gave the address of the apartment. Suspicion flared in him for a moment. “How come you're not in a hotel? Who owns this place?”

“A client of the company I'm going to work for,” she explained. “It's very small, but it's much nicer for Charlie. And it's saved me a lot of money.”

Satisfied, he relaxed. When they arrived, he told the driver to wait.

Angela opened the front door. “It's two floors up,” she said, and went ahead of him.

He stopped her on the first landing. “Who do you say I am?”

“Mr. Falconi, who gave me a lift home from the dinner.”

At the apartment door, she pressed the buzzer. The door opened, and Charlie stood there. “Hello, Mum. You're back early. Have a nice time?”

They were inside, and Steven Falconi could see his son clearly. Tall, dark, open-faced. A Falconi through and through, from the black hair to the olive skin and the deep black eyes.

He heard Angela say, “We did finish early. This is my son, Charlie. Mr. Falconi kindly gave me a lift home.”

The boy held out his hand. “How do you do, sir.”

Steven shook it. “Glad to know you, Charlie.”

The boy had a strong, confident grip.
It's like looking in a mirror
, Steven thought.
Doesn't he see it too?

“Do stay and have a drink, won't you?” Angela invited. For a moment their eyes met.

“I'd like that,” he answered.

“Scotch? I have some wine if you'd rather.”

“Scotch,” he answered. “Water and ice. Thank you.”

“I'll get it,” Angela said, and went out, leaving him alone with his son. He found it difficult to speak.

Young Charlie said politely, “Do you live in New York, sir?”

“Part of the time. Mostly I'm in Florida.”

“New York's such an exciting place,” the boy said enthusiastically. “I've had such a super time. What's Florida like?”

“Very different. It's hot and sunny. There's good deep-sea fishing and waterskiing.”

“Sounds terrific. I'd love to go there one day.”

“Maybe you will,” Steven said. “You're in school in England?”

“Yes. I go to Highfields. It's a super school. I've got my first lot of exams next term.” He pulled a wry face. “I've promised Mum I'll do well.”

“I guess you will,” his father said. She'd brought up a fine boy, he thought. The quaint English manners, calling him “sir.” His young nephews were spoiled and truculent.