The Rise, page 28
Zander smiled and shrugged. ‘I hadn’t got that far. I figured I’d do the legwork and leave the rest up to you.’
George, the epitome of discretion, looked away as Adrianna lifted her face and brought it even closer, closer still, until their lips were only millimetres apart. Then she paused, like an adder contemplating her prey.
Her prey moved first. Zander’s hand touched her neck, lightly to begin with, before coming up higher and framing her face. Then he pulled her mouth to his, their lips almost still as they touched and held there, before moving, in perfect synchronicity.
After way too long to be anything less than a promise of something more, Zander gently pulled back.
‘So what now?’
Adrianna’s stare and the rise at the corner of her mouth were almost a challenge.
‘That’s up to you. Where are you staying?’
He hadn’t thought further than this moment, but it wasn’t a tough question. He looked over to George.
‘Bud, can you call the Carlyle and tell them I’m on my way?’
‘Of course I can. Consider it done.’
‘Does that work for you?’ he asked Adrianna, with absolute confidence that it did.
She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I can live with it.’
He kissed her again, both of them laughing.
‘Then we should go.’
One hand rested lightly on the back of Adrianna’s coat as they headed to the door; the other was outstretched as Zander passed his new acquaintance.
‘George, good to meet you.’ The two men shook hands.
‘A great pleasure to meet you too, Mr Leith’ George replied, once again flaunting the grip of a well-oiled vice.
With his other hand, George opened the door and then watched the surreal sight of Zander Leith and Adrianna Guilloti climbing into a limo.
Only when they were out of sight did the realities of the situation kick in. George went behind his reception desk, pressed rewind on the security camera and scrubbed the last thirty minutes of footage.
Mrs Guilloti’s husband owned the building and George wouldn’t want to be around if evidence of this morning’s activities fell into his hands.
Even as he scrubbed the tape, George knew that it could cost him his job. Damn, it could cost him his legs. But hey, he’d have a happy wife and a lifetime of telling his grandkids about the morning he met Zander Leith.
44
‘NO MEAN CITY’ – MAGGIE BELL
GLASGOW, 1988
‘Have you washed your hands, Davie?’ Zander’s mum asked, just as she’d done before every meal he’d had at her house since he was a kid.
‘Aye, Mrs Leith. Twice,’ he said, face pure innocence. Zander booted him under the table, and shoulders shaking, they both buried their faces in their clasped hands as Mrs Leith moved on to stage two of the pre-dinner ritual.
‘Dear Father, bless this food we are about to receive, knowing that we take it with thanks and gratitude to the Lord Jesus Christ, your son, who has given us the fruits of his bounty…’
Davie fought not to giggle again. The fruits of his bounty? It was gammon steak and chips. The only fruit here was the pineapple rings she’d fished out of a can and plonked on the gammon before she took it out of the grill.
‘… and forgive us for the sins we have committed. Oh Lord, grant us the power to serve You, in Jesus’ name, Amen.’
‘Amen.’ The word echoed around the table.
‘Right, boys, tuck in before I claim the lot. I’m starving and nothing’s safe.’
Davie grinned as Jono repeated his oft-used banter, but he noticed Zander didn’t. It was no secret that his mate hated his dad, but Davie found it hard to feel the same. Mr Leith was always a right laugh, even if half the scheme was terrified of him. Davie preferred to keep him onside, amuse him, avoid rocking the boat. So while Zander sat in silence, barely raising his eyes from the table, Davie kept everyone entertained with a steady stream of stories and gossip. He liked doing that. Taking something that happened and adding bits on until it was a blinding story that bore little resemblance to the truth. What did it matter? It gave everyone a chuckle. And he liked that Jono always gave him the time of day – gave him a wee idea of what it must feel like to have a dad.
‘More peas, Davie?’
‘No thanks, Mrs Leith. I’m allergic to vegetables. Bad for ma health.’
Zander’s dad laughed again, but Zander just gave him that look, the one that said, ‘Shut the fuck up, ya diddy.’ It wasn’t exactly a newsflash. Davie winked at him, just to wind him up even more.
The first crash was so loud that Davie’s initial thought was that a car had smashed through the front of the house. That had happened across at number 1, when the ice-cream van had mounted the kerb and gone straight through their new double glazing. The police and an ambulance were called, but only after every kid in the street had filled their pockets, hats and jumpers with every piece of confectionery they could loot from the back of the van.
Now, startled by the noise, three of them jumped to their feet, only Zander’s dad staying perfectly still. Even the second bang, just as loud as the first, didn’t make him move. Later, Davie would decide that he’d known what was coming, was prepared for it.
His mum used to talk about ‘time standing still’, but he never really knew what that meant until that moment. They just stood there, frozen, not saying a word, and then suddenly the door burst open and three men charged in, all of them wearing balaclavas and tooled up. Davie might have peed himself just a little.
Zander’s mum was screaming now, but Jono was still sitting there, saying nothing, not moving. What was the point? There were three of them and they were fucking gorillas. Gorillas carrying fuck-off big knives, and a baseball bat that had huge nails hammered through the end, so it looked deadly.
He definitely peed his pants at the sight of that.
Only then did he notice that Zander had run in front of his mother and was holding the bread knife that had been on the table just seconds ago. Mrs Leith had her eyes shut, praying now, lips moving but nothing coming out.
Always in touch with his emotions, Davie was quick to realize that he now qualified as being fucking terrified. This wasn’t good.
One of the balaclavas had gone round the back of Zander’s dad now, grabbed his hair and pulled it back, while Balaclava Two punched him square in the mouth. Still Jono didn’t react. Man, he had balls of steel.
Balaclava Three watched the action and only when Jono’s head had been returned to something approaching a normal position did he speak.
‘Where is it, Jono?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Bang. Another punch. This time teeth came flying out and blood splattered all over the table. All Davie could think was that it looked like he’d put tomato sauce on his gammon steak. Oh God, they were all going to die. Frantic, he eyed the door. He could make it. He was fast. Nippy.
‘Don’t even think about it, son.’
Apparently Balaclava Three practised mind reading when he wasn’t studying effective methods of intimidation and torture.
He was going to die. And he hadn’t even said goodbye to his mum. Tears sprang to the back of his eyes and he fought to stop them falling.
Zander’s dad’s face looked like mash now, blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, his forehead.
‘Last chance, Jono. And, son –’ he was talking to Zander now, ‘– don’t get any ideas about that blade yer holding, because if it comes anywhere near me or my men, I’ll take it off you and your ma will be wearing it as an earring. Do you understand me?’
Zander didn’t reply, his eyes blazing, his knuckles white around the sheath of the knife.
‘Last chance, Jono, then these fine boys will be having liver for dinner. Yours. Uncooked.’
The balaclava laughed, and that made him even scarier than when he was just being generally menacing and deadly.
One of the sidekicks pulled Jono’s hand onto the dining table and held the knife above it. Then slowly he brought the blade down, to the left of his thumb, then the next finger, then the next, a thud between each digit as the point of the blade hit the table. Faster. Faster. He repeated it one side to the other, then back, then again, then back, the noise matched only by the battering thuds of Davie’s heart.
‘Where is it, Jono? Where is it? Where is it?’
He was speaking faster now, keeping time with the twisted game of chicken that was going on at the table.
‘Where is it?’
‘Aaaaargh, ya fucker!’ Jono screamed, as the blade punctured his middle finger, impaling it on the table.
‘That’s yer wanking hand fucked, then,’ the boss said, apparently amused at his own joke.
‘Keep going,’ he ordered his co-psycho.
The thudding started again, between the fingers, faster, faster…
‘Aaaaaargh.’ Index finger this time, blood spurting everywhere.
‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners…’
Behind Zander, his mum had turned up the volume and was rocking back and forward, eyes shut, as if she’d cut herself off from reality altogether.
Davie wished he could do the same.
Thud, thud… Over and over again, until all five fingers had been impaled and released spurts of thick red liquid. Davie wanted to vomit. Right there. Right now. This was the most horrific thing he could ever imagine.
‘Get the boy.’
His imagination screamed and went into the foetal position. One of the balaclavas turned from Jono and weighed up the options. The teenager with the knife in his hand, or the one with the rapidly spreading damp patch on the front of his grey stay-press trousers?
No contest.
‘No. No. No,’ Davie whimpered, moving backwards until he was flush against the Formica unit. All he could look at was the knife, the one that was coming towards his face, at his neck now, the tip pressing against his skin, piercing it, a trickle of blood, a scream that he didn’t even realize was his.
‘Da, tell him. Tell him now!’ Zander was pointing his weapon straight at his dad now, his face twisted with rage.
‘OK, ya cunt!’ Jono yelled, stopping the balaclava before the nick became a decapitation.
Davie’s relief was instant, mixed with an urge to go over there and do Jono’s other hand himself. What the fuck had taken him so long to intervene? The sadistic bastard.
‘Lovely. We’re all playing nice now,’ the boss psycho announced. ‘Ten seconds and then we start that all again. Where is it, Jono?’
‘It’s not here.’
‘I don’t think you have the hang of this question-and-answer thing. I didn’t ask where it wasn’t. I asked where it was.’
Jono spat a huge ball of bloody goo onto the table. Davie’s urge to vomit rose again.
‘I’ll take you to it.’
The chief psycho laughed. ‘Now, why didn’t you say that in the first place, when you still had two hands to wipe your arse?’
His buddies reacted to his signal, pulling Jono up from the table, snapping handcuffs onto his bleeding hands. Jono reverted to stony silence, obviously determined not to give them the satisfaction of his pain. Davie resisted the urge to boot him in the baws as they dragged him within kicking distance, then past him and out of the room. They were gone as fast as they’d arrived.
Only then did Davie wonder where the police were. Surely to Christ someone would have called them, let them know that three psychos had just stormed the house at the end of the terrace, the one with the statue of Our Lady in the garden and the font of holy water at the side of the front door?
But even as the question ricocheted round his brain, he knew the answer. No one around here would call the police, because the only thing more terrifying than three tooled-up maniacs on the rampage was the thought of what Jono Leith would do to you if he found out you’d brought the police to his splintered door.
‘You OK?’ The voice was distant, vague. ‘Davie! Are you OK?’
It was Zander, shouting at him now, while he guided his mother to a chair and supported her as she sat down. Her eyes were still closed, her mouth still repeating the same prayer as she rocked back and forward. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…’
Davie’s legs gave way and he collapsed onto the floor.
‘I’m OK. I am. What the fuck was that?’
Zander was on his knees in front of his mum now, holding her, trying to stop the movement.
‘Billy McColl,’ he answered. It was all he had to say.
Billy McColl. The biggest drug dealer on this side of Glasgow, an old pal of Zander’s dad. Obviously the friendship had hit a stumbling block. But why the balaclavas if everyone except him knew who they were? Then Davie remembered the camera at Zander’s front door. The laughs they’d had when it had been installed, right up until Davie had flashed his willy at it and Zander’s mum had dragged him down to the chapel and forced him to confess. The priest had made him repeat the story three times. Old guy must have been hard of hearing.
‘Jesus, Zander, he’ll kill him. He will.’
Zander pulled his mum even tighter, forcing her to stay still while he stroked her hair, shushed her, cradled her like a baby.
‘I fucking hope he does.’
45
‘DRUNK IN LOVE’ – BEYONCÉ (FT. JAY Z)
His car was parked right outside the building, but even that was too far away. Zander opened the nearest door and watched as she stepped in, the curves of her body magnificent as she slid onto the leather seat. By the time he got around to the other side, he was burning for her, desperate to touch her. Not yet. Patience.
He jumped in and quickly realized she wasn’t playing to the same rules of restraint. As she climbed on top of him, her skirt sliding up to her thighs, he glanced over her shoulder to check that that divider was blocking the driver’s view. Spectator sports weren’t his thing. Especially with her. He wanted her all to himself.
As they moved slowly but steadily along 5th Avenue, busier now with rush hour traffic, they kissed, tongues probing, teeth biting, hands exploring, body temperatures rising, breaths coming in sharp shallow gasps of urgency.
He groaned. This was excruciating. He needed her now.
It was almost a relief when the car drew to a halt and in his peripheral vision he saw a liveried doorman approach their vehicle.
Laughing, Adrianna pulled her hemline back down, flicked her hair, recovered her poise before he opened the car door. They made their way from the limo to the hotel entrance, where they were greeted by the guest services manager.
‘Good morning, Mr Leith. Ma’am.’ If the hotel rep recognised Adrianna, she was too discreet to say. ‘Welcome back to the Carlyle.’
The Carlyle. Zander’s favourite New York hotel. Sometimes called the Palace of Secrets, it was trusted for its discretion by JFK, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Diana and a galaxy of other stars over the years. There was a long-standing rumour that there was a secret underground tunnel that allowed its illustrious guests to arrive and leave in absolute privacy. Zander was happy using the front door, especially this morning, when haste was at the top of his agenda.
Wordlessly, not touching, they headed inside. The check in process was bypassed, his details on file, his usual room ready, the guest services manager falling into step with them as she welcomed him and passed over his key. They didn’t keep superstars waiting in the lobby.
They turned left, where the guest services manager handed them over to a waiting concierge, who was standing next to the open elevator that had already been summoned for them. It all ran like clockwork when you were paying thousands of dollars a night for a Central Park Suite.
‘Thanks, bud,’ Zander said, with a nod to the uniformed gent holding the door.
He let Adrianna go in first, but she paused halfway, so he was forced to pass her. As he did, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket and positioned him so that he was leaning against the rear wall, facing her, her back to the concierge, who kept his gaze fixed on the closing doors in front of him.
Zander turned all his attention to Adrianna. Not that he had any choice. She’d already grabbed his hand, sliding it into the waistband of her skirt, then down, until his fingers could feel her wetness.
They ascended thirty-three floors, and as the doors pinged open, the concierge kept his gaze discreetly averted, allowing Zander to withdraw, recover.
‘Thank you,’ Zander said, slipping a hundred dollar bill to the concierge, who replied with a wry smile and a nod of thanks as the door slid shut.
There were only a few steps to the suite door. There, Zander’s body was pressed hard on hers, pushing her against the wood, her hand down, squeezing his balls until he managed to unlock the mechanism with the key card. Door open, they fell inside, before Adrianna strutted to the window, forcing him to follow, bringing the landscape of Manhattan into their world.
There, she placed both hands wide on the glass as his arms wrapped around her, his breath against the back of her neck, licking her, tasting her. Within seconds, they were discarding clothes, clawing away fabric to see each other, to feel every curve, every crevice, insane with lust.
Their foreplay was explosive, demanding, the most incredible rush of desire as they worked their way around the room, each step a blur of pushing, pulling, grasping needs.
‘Bed!’ she gasped. He obeyed, lifting her, as her arms snaked round his neck, allowing him to carry her through to the king-size bed.
The tempo slowed as he placed her down, their eyes locked as he ran the tips of his fingers from the curves of her neck, to the tops of her thighs, gently opening her legs. Their gaze didn’t break until he finally entered her, and his mouth found hers. One leg clasped around him, then the other, holding him in a vice of pure bliss. He rode her, pummelled hard against her, watching the ecstatic curves of her beautiful face.
