‘I do remember you,’ said Gina Barolli, her face screwed up, her hand still clutched to her scrawny chest.
Max moved a little closer – not too close – and he kept the gun trained on her.
Gina’s mouth trembled. The pain was bad, and growing. Then she said: ‘You’re the security man. In London. You called yourself Mark something then. You were guarding her.’
Max stared at her, wondering at her thought processes. So she remembered that time after Constantine’s death, when Annie had moved back to London to escape the poisonous influence of his eldest son Lucco. But it seemed she didn’t remember what had happened later, in New York, when Max’s true identity had been revealed and Alberto, Constantine’s youngest son, had taken over the reins as the godfather.
‘Where is Fidelia? And where is Antonio?’ Gina demanded.
‘Fidelia’s tied up right now,’ said Max. ‘And I told you. Antonio’s in the hospital. He had an accident. You’ve been phoning one of my clubs in London, the Blue Parrot, talking about your brother.’
Had she? Gina couldn’t remember doing that, and if she had she ought to be ashamed, because that was a stupid thing to do, and dangerous. Omerta demanded her silence. She knew that. She had lived by that code all her life.
‘I didn’t phone anyone,’ she said, her lips trembling as the pain clamped her chest tight again.
‘Yeah, you did.’ Max glanced back at the two men standing silent, watching, from the doorway. ‘Wait outside. Close the door,’ he said, then returned his attention to Gina as they obeyed. ‘You spoke to Gary Tooley and you said something very interesting. You said that my wife ain’t my wife at all. You said that she’s still married to your brother, Constantine.’
‘That’s right.’ Gina’s chin set suddenly in a stubborn line. ‘That’s the truth.’
‘That ain’t the truth,’ said Max. ‘Because Constantine is dead. He died in an explosion years ago, in Montauk.’
Gina raised a trembling hand to her brow, closed her eyes. Then she opened them and stared malevolently at Max. ‘How dare you come here. Constantine will see to you, my friend. You can be very sure of that.’
‘That would be a hell of a trick. The bastard’s dead in a box in a New York cemetery.’
Suddenly Gina was clutching harder at her chest. ‘Can you fetch Fidelia . . . ?’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
Max moved in a little. ‘What is it?’
‘Get Fidelia. I feel . . .’
The only sound in the room for long moments was Gina’s laboured breathing. She was slumped further over in her chair now, holding her chest. All at once, huge globs of sweat were popping out on her face.
Christ, she’s not faking it.
Max ran to her chair and pulled her upright.
‘Gina? Miss Barolli? Come on, you old fuck, don’t bloody die on me now!’ He patted her thin cheeks, looked at the blue-tinged lips and thought, Shit, that looks bad.
Her eyes were flickering closed and her brow was soaking wet and creased with pain. Then the eyes, dark and hate-filled, fastened on his and she spat at him. He pulled his head away sharply, as if drawing back from a striking snake, and now she was smiling although he could see she was in agony.
‘She’s not your wife at all,’ she gasped out, having to pause between each word to catch her faltering breath. ‘She’s his. She has always been . . . she will always be . . . his.’
Max put a hand to her chest. He could hardly feel a heartbeat and suddenly he thought of mummies, ancient mouldering Egyptian mummies, coming to life after thousands of years. He’d always laughed at horror films, but he was living one now.
‘Constantine Barolli is dead,’ he said between gritted teeth. This mad old bitch, what the hell was she saying?
Now she really was smiling, although the smile became a twisted grimace of pain.
‘He’s not dead,’ she said, so low that Max had to strain to hear it. ‘He’s alive.’
‘He died in the explosion at Montauk,’ said Max.
She was shaking her head, laughing at him, crying out in pain, but still mocking him, jeering at him.
‘He didn’t die. You can’t kill a great don like Constantine . . . oh . . .’
She was wincing, clawing harder at her chest, kneading frantically at her left arm.
‘He died,’ said Max.
‘He didn’t die,’ she gasped out. ‘And she knows it.’
‘She?’ Max stared at the contorted face.
‘Annie Carter. Her. The puttana. The bitch. She’s . . . always known.’
With those final, damning words, Gina Barolli took one last halting breath and her eyes closed. She slumped, lifeless, in the chair.
And Max knew at last.
Gary Tooley had been telling the truth.
Annie had betrayed him.