from him.
“Did George kill Louis’ wife?”
“No,” Harold said firmly. “George would never have killed Anne.”
Mario cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why do you say it like that?” he asked. “Did she mean something to him?”
Harold said he wasn’t sure. “For years, I’ve wondered the same thing, but I never knew Anne. George mentioned her in the past, but he’s never elaborated on their relationship.”
Legs unsteady, he stood. “Look,” he said. “I’m tired and I’ve told you everything I know. I assume you’ll see to it that Ryan pays for what he’s done? That you’ll protect Leana and her parents?”
Mario nodded. By the end of the day, Louis Ryan would be dead. “You have my word,” he said.
Satisfied, Harold moved to the door-but then he stopped and turned. “One thing still troubles me,” he said. “For years I did my best to hide who I am. I thought no one ever would find out-and yet you did this morning. How did you know?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“No,” Harold said. “But tell me, anyway.”
“Leana told me two years ago,” he said. “Somebody photographed you at a club, gave Leana a call and approached her with the negatives. She sold a piece of jewelry, met the son of a bitch at a diner and paid a million bucks for them. I later had him quieted. We burned the negatives together. Leana got her money back, Harold. Because of her, you got to keep your secret.”
Harold was barely breathing.
“She’s known for years, Harold. And she’s never stopped loving you. I want you to think about that. That’s how special she is.”
“I know how special she is.”
There was a knock at the door. Startled, Harold stepped away from it just as Joseph Stewart, the Family’s consigliere, walked through. “Got some real interesting news for you, Mario,” he said. “It’s about Leana.” He glanced sideways at Harold. “Mind if he listens?”
Mario said that he didn’t.
Stewart continued. “I’ve done some digging and I’ve learned quite a bit about Leana’s new husband. Seems Michael Archer’s just his pen name. His real name is Michael Ryan, and his father’s name is Louis.”
And there it was.
Mario's mind spun into motion. The blood drained from Harold’s face. “We’re going to have to move fast,” Stewart said. “There’s no telling what he has planned for her.”
“Anyone else know about this?” Mario asked.
“No,” Stewart said. “Just us.”
Mario left his office and moved quickly down the long hallway. His face was leaden and set. He hesitated only briefly when he saw Lucia standing in the entryway, closing the door behind her with a firmness that suggested irritation. “Whose limo is parked out front?” she called to no one in particular. “It’s blocking the street.”
She hadn’t seen him yet and Mario didn’t answer. He had no time for his wife or for her questions. If there was another exit near him, he would have grabbed Stewart and taken off.
The carpet ended and their shoes now clicked on parquet as they entered the foyer. Lucia turned from the mirror she was standing at and she looked at him, her lips parting when she saw the cold determination in his eyes.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Mario shoved a finger at her. “Stay out of this.”
She took a step forward, blocked his path. “You don’t intimidate me,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Tell me where you’re going.”
There was a moment of complete silence, a moment when neither moved nor even blinked…and then Harold Baines was stepping past them.
Lucia looked at the man, her eyes widening as she recognized him. When it was announced that Leana Redman would be managing Louis Ryan’s new hotel, the Daily News ran several pictures of her. In one of those pictures, her arm was around this man’s shoulders.
She looked at Mario, her eyes like a light turned to his face. “It’s Leana again, isn’t it?” she said.
He walked past her. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Not now.”
He moved down the narrow brick steps, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He noticed that Harold Baines was gone. His limousine turned at the end of the street and sped onto Fifth. Reaching into his pants pocket, Mario removed his car keys and tossed them to Stewart, who was waiting on the sidewalk, looking behind Mario, toward the open door.
Lucia was standing there. “I’ve been with your father, Mario.” Her voice was low and even and carried across the street. “He knows everything.”
Mario’s pace slowed.
“I told him you’re fucking her,” she said. “He said he’d kill her if you don’t stop.”
Mario looked at Stewart and saw the cool neutrality on his face. “Start the car, Joe,” he said. “I’ll be a minute.”
Lucia came down the stairs. “No, you won’t, Mario,” she said. “Because neither of you is going anywhere. If Joe gets into that car, I’ll see to it that he winds up in the Hudson. That’s a promise. Now, come back inside.”
Stewart’s mouth tightened into a splinter of hate. He looked at Mario.
“You work for me now, Joe,” Mario said. “Start the car.”
Relishing the moment because he never liked this Lucia bitch, Stewart crossed the street, opened the Taurus’ heavy black door and stepped inside.
And then Lucia was suddenly running toward him, sprinting across the street, plunging her hands through the open car window, grabbing hold of his arm with a fierceness that was surprising in its strength. Her long red fingernails dug into his flesh.
“Get out of the car!” she screamed. “Get out of fucking car or I’ll kill you myself!”
Stewart jerked his arm free, the fabric of his gray blazer tearing. He looked across the street at Mario, who was running a hand through his hair. “Let it go, Lucia,” Stewart said. “It’s over.”
He stuck the key into the ignition.
Lucia slapped his face. She clawed at it and drew blood. He tried to push her off and heard Mario shout her name.
And then he started the car.
The explosion catapulted the Taurus twenty feet into the air, blowing off its doors and tires and fenders, causing it to flip in a violent somersault and destroy everything in its fiery path before it landed beside Mario, whose chest had been struck by the flying debris.
At the subway terminal on West 4th Street, Harold waited for his limousine to fade from sight before he joined the crush of people hurrying down the terminal’s seemingly endless steps.
He tried to keep up with them, clutching the handrail for support, but he nearly fell when a group of teenagers darted past him. It was difficult and it was exhausting, but it would be worth it.
By the time he reached the lower level, he was winded and perspiring, his heart beating dangerously fast. The train hadn’t arrived. Groups of people were either leaning against the tiled columns or waiting impatiently along the cement precipice. It was insufferably hot. The air was unmoving. He hadn’t taken the subway in years. He’d forgotten how ruthless it was in the summer.
He found an opening in the crowd, moved toward it and looked down at the grimy track. His stomach clenched when he saw a rat. Its tail flicking nervously, its ears quivering, the rat was eating the remains of a what appeared to be another rat.
Harold looked away. He wouldn’t miss this city. He wouldn’t miss this filth.
He closed his eyes and thought of Leana. She had known. All these years and she had known, her love for him never faltering. The idea that she had seen photographs of him made him want to cry in humiliation. How many times had she seen him and thought of those pictures? How many times had she held him and felt pity?
