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suit and a reeeal nice watch. He was Italian, for sure.
    Ellen glanced behind him. He didn’t have a town car. He had a limo you could take a bath in.
    Maybe one of the boys had recommended her. Recommended her . That was kind of humiliating, but sexy, too. Ellen tossed back her blond hair. She liked to party; she was a pretty girl who liked to party. Not a goddamned crime, right?
    ‘Hey, baby,’ she said, carefully enunciating. ‘Come on in.’
    Angelo Tallarico sat on the couch and stared at Ellen. She was a sloppy, drunken mess. Now she was sobbing, her small shoulders heaving, eyes and nose streaming.
    He glanced around; the little house was neat. Dina had probably taken care of that.
    Tallarico was a murderer and a drug dealer – with very particular ideas about how things should be done.
    And Ellen Kane didn’t fit the template.
    ‘Stop crying,’ he said, coldly. ‘I’m not your shrink. You understand me?’
    She mopped at her face.
    ‘The boys aren’t coming round. None of them. Ever. Don’t call. Don’t email. You’re an embarrassment to the family.’
    Ellen trembled. She thought she’d get more compassion from a snake.
    ‘We support you. But one more incident and that money is cut off. One more embarrassment, so are you.’
    She moaned.
    ‘Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You’ve had your last drink. If I ever see you drinking again, ever hear reports of you drinking, you will wind up in an accident.’
    Ellen’s whole body shuddered. Never had she wanted booze as much as she did in that second.
    ‘Don Angelo—’
    ‘Don’t call me that.’
    ‘I can’t stop drinking . . . not right away. Give me a week, a month . . .’
    ‘You have the weekend to clean up. Lock yourself in your bedroom and order a pizza. Monday morning, you’re back at work. Sober. For good. If not . . .’ he shrugged.
    ‘I . . . I . . .’
    ‘Call it the fast-track twelve-step programme, lady –’ a thin smile at his own joke – ‘one step: you stop. Or you die.’
    ‘And men?’
    ‘Nobody from the family. If you can find a nice single, divorced guy, date him like a civilised broad; you can get married. Good luck with that.’ He laughed cruelly. ‘I wouldn’t fuck you with my gardener’s dick.’
    ‘Oh, God,’ Ellen said.
    ‘Spend our money. Live clean. Live quiet. Then you live. Shit, you could consider looking after that pretty little daughter of yours.’
    Ellen collapsed into sobs. When she looked up, Tallarico had gone.
    She fled to the kitchen and picked up the vodka bottle.
    Outside, in the street, the limousine flashed and dipped its headlights.
    Fear gripped her. Fear worse than the craving. Ellen lifted the bottle, so he could see, and poured all that lovely, calming liquid right down the sink.
    Then she collapsed on to the floor and crawled upstairs to her bedroom on her hands and knees.
    That pretty little daughter of yours . . . Pretty little daughter  . . .
    Dina!
    It was Dina. She was here to curse the mother that slaved for her. Here to ruin Ellen’s life.
    Ellen bit her lip. She dared not say anything to Dina. The man – the bastard, Tallarico – would not like it. And, like a threatened animal, Ellen scented danger.
    He was angry. If she did anything to worsen that, she was dead. And not in a metaphorical sense.
    Lying on her bedroom rug, watching the ceiling spin and dance as she gasped and sweated and longed for a drink, Ellen Kane held tight to one thing:
    She would have her revenge.

Chapter Three
    Dina Kane graduated from school a major success – that is, if you were looking at grades. She was top of the class.
    Despite her mom, Dina had applied to the Ivy League – and got in. There were acceptances from Columbia, Vassar, even Stanford.
    But Dina could not afford the fees. She was considered too well-off for financial aid – her mother had almost three hundred grand in the bank.
    None of her pleading meant a goddamned thing.
    ‘No, Dina.’ Ellen