bedside table, took a sip, and tried not to think about all of it.
But she did.
She couldn’t help it. How could she
not
think about it?
Twenty-three years ago, it happened. Constantine had been her second husband. Way back then – believing Max to be dead following a gangland hit – she had married Constantine, and was
pregnant with his child when
it
happened. The explosion. And after that? The dreams.
Ah God, those dreams!
At first they had not been sweet, happy dreams like those she was experiencing now. They had been
hideous
dreams, waking nightmares in which Constantine appeared before her in the night,
wrecked, smouldering, dead and yet
not
dead, holding out his ruined arms to her. Those dreams had been terrifying. She had wondered if she was losing her mind.
Annie flicked on the bedside light. Light flooded the room and drove back the shadows. Nothing sinister here, she reassured herself, looking around and sternly getting a grip on her wayward
imagination. There was no mouldering remnant of a man she had once loved, come back to haunt her.
And Max? What about him?
Annie frowned, her guts tightening with tension. Max was off in Europe on business. He’d taken off a week ago, without any real explanation. What business, he had refused to discuss with
her, even though she had asked. He had just said he had stuff to do, and left.
Max was a law unto himself. He never explained, never apologized, never kept her in the loop. He had things to do, that was all he’d said, and he’d just . . . gone.
Leaving her here, alone.
Which was OK. She was fine on her own, usually. But not this time.
Because you think he’s having an affair, don’t you? You don’t think he’s doing business at all, you think he’s doing some
tart.
It was true that Max had been cold, distant to her before he left. That had worried her. Usually, if Max had something to say to you, he’d say it to your face, get it off his chest. Not
this time, though. This felt
different
. And now she wasn’t sleeping well, and she was having these
fucking
dreams. Somehow they made her feel almost that
she
was the
unfaithful one. The one who cheated. The very thought made her frown, made a shaft of uneasiness pierce her gut, hard. She had lost Max once, but found him again, and she was so lucky to have done
that, so incredibly lucky to have him back in her life after all they had been through. She knew it. She didn’t want to lose him again.
But these
dreams
.
They were so vivid, so colourful, so convincing in their reality, that when she was asleep she was actually
there
, once again. In her dreams she was once again Annie Carter-Barolli, a
Mafia queen, cosseted and powerful, married to a man whose word was life and death, whose name struck fear in everyone on the streets of New York.
Sighing restlessly, Annie glanced at the alarm clock. Two in the morning, and she was wide awake. There was no chance she’d get back to sleep. She never did, not after one of the dreams.
They churned her up, made her think: What the hell is this, have I got a problem here?
Do I need to see a shrink or something?
Around the time of the Montauk explosion, way back in the seventies, she knew she’d had some sort of a breakdown. Was her mind slipping out of her control again, was that what this was all
about?
But everything was good now. She and Max were OK. Weren’t they? Her daughter Layla and Constantine’s son Alberto were cruising the Caribbean islands, touching base rarely, but they
were fine. Layla contacted Annie and Max whenever she could, even sometimes arrived unannounced on the doorstep, much to their delight.
Yeah, everything’s fine
, Annie told herself. But there was that niggling sense of trouble looming she couldn’t deny. The dreams. This
feeling
of something bubbling away
under the surface, sending up noxious dirty little
plops
now and again to her brain – something bad. Max had been so cold to her recently, looking away
But she did.
She couldn’t help it. How could she
not
think about it?
Twenty-three years ago, it happened. Constantine had been her second husband. Way back then – believing Max to be dead following a gangland hit – she had married Constantine, and was
pregnant with his child when
it
happened. The explosion. And after that? The dreams.
Ah God, those dreams!
At first they had not been sweet, happy dreams like those she was experiencing now. They had been
hideous
dreams, waking nightmares in which Constantine appeared before her in the night,
wrecked, smouldering, dead and yet
not
dead, holding out his ruined arms to her. Those dreams had been terrifying. She had wondered if she was losing her mind.
Annie flicked on the bedside light. Light flooded the room and drove back the shadows. Nothing sinister here, she reassured herself, looking around and sternly getting a grip on her wayward
imagination. There was no mouldering remnant of a man she had once loved, come back to haunt her.
And Max? What about him?
Annie frowned, her guts tightening with tension. Max was off in Europe on business. He’d taken off a week ago, without any real explanation. What business, he had refused to discuss with
her, even though she had asked. He had just said he had stuff to do, and left.
Max was a law unto himself. He never explained, never apologized, never kept her in the loop. He had things to do, that was all he’d said, and he’d just . . . gone.
Leaving her here, alone.
Which was OK. She was fine on her own, usually. But not this time.
Because you think he’s having an affair, don’t you? You don’t think he’s doing business at all, you think he’s doing some
tart.
It was true that Max had been cold, distant to her before he left. That had worried her. Usually, if Max had something to say to you, he’d say it to your face, get it off his chest. Not
this time, though. This felt
different
. And now she wasn’t sleeping well, and she was having these
fucking
dreams. Somehow they made her feel almost that
she
was the
unfaithful one. The one who cheated. The very thought made her frown, made a shaft of uneasiness pierce her gut, hard. She had lost Max once, but found him again, and she was so lucky to have done
that, so incredibly lucky to have him back in her life after all they had been through. She knew it. She didn’t want to lose him again.
But these
dreams
.
They were so vivid, so colourful, so convincing in their reality, that when she was asleep she was actually
there
, once again. In her dreams she was once again Annie Carter-Barolli, a
Mafia queen, cosseted and powerful, married to a man whose word was life and death, whose name struck fear in everyone on the streets of New York.
Sighing restlessly, Annie glanced at the alarm clock. Two in the morning, and she was wide awake. There was no chance she’d get back to sleep. She never did, not after one of the dreams.
They churned her up, made her think: What the hell is this, have I got a problem here?
Do I need to see a shrink or something?
Around the time of the Montauk explosion, way back in the seventies, she knew she’d had some sort of a breakdown. Was her mind slipping out of her control again, was that what this was all
about?
But everything was good now. She and Max were OK. Weren’t they? Her daughter Layla and Constantine’s son Alberto were cruising the Caribbean islands, touching base rarely, but they
were fine. Layla contacted Annie and Max whenever she could, even sometimes arrived unannounced on the doorstep, much to their delight.
Yeah, everything’s fine
, Annie told herself. But there was that niggling sense of trouble looming she couldn’t deny. The dreams. This
feeling
of something bubbling away
under the surface, sending up noxious dirty little
plops
now and again to her brain – something bad. Max had been so cold to her recently, looking away