It was as if the Sicilians had never raped her.
Without question, Sofia was the love of his life. Forty years hadn’t changed his feelings toward her. That one night in Cyprus, however, had changed everything else.
The express ride from a hotel rooftop without an elevator had left him unconscious for days and had landed him in traction for weeks. The sterile smell of white hospital linens was forever imbedded in his brain, and sometimes he could still feel the itch beneath the body cast. Sofia had taken him home in a wheelchair, but his life as an invalid was finished at their doorstep. Despite Sofia’s protestations, he had insisted on walking up the stairs to their second-story apartment under his own power. It took him almost ninety minutes, and the irony was not lost on him that this was his first journey up those steps since the Sicilians had rushed upstairs to throw him off the roof. He was exhausted, as much from the pain as from the effort. At the top, Sofia had taken him in her arms, and he made a promise to her and to himself. He would make himself stronger than ever, he would refuse to live his life on painkillers, and he would once again make sweet love to Sofia the way a man should make love to a beautiful woman. He’d started slowly with her, bringing his sense of touch back to life by exploring the curve of her neck, the soft wave of her long black hair, the smoothness of her skin. When he was ready for more, however, she pulled away. At first he thought it was the battered state of his body that had turned her off, the scars from the many surgeries that had put his broken bones back together.
“It’s not you,” she’d told him, and the way she looked away in shame, he knew immediately.
“The Sicilians. Did they-”
A weak, almost imperceptible nod of the head confirmed it.
Eight months later, his body was well on the mend. But the marriage was officially over.
The Greek had checked on her over the years, just out of curiosity, to see how she was doing. She’d married an American and moved to New York, where they opened Angelo’s Italian Bakery and worked side by side for more than three decades. The Greek respected her right to move on, even though his need to see her had at times been overwhelming. Every so often, he would give in and watch her from a distance-a glimpse of Sofia walking to the bus or raking leaves in the front yard. The Greek didn’t think of it as stalking, but Sofia never even knew he was there-except once. Two years earlier, he’d allowed himself to be seen. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house as she stepped outside to the mailbox. So many years had passed, but there is a way a man stands, a way he looks at a woman that endures over time and identifies him like a fingerprint. They didn’t say a word to each other, but their eyes met and held, and the silence between them spoke volumes. The feeling had been unlike any the Greek had ever felt, and the spell was broken only when Sofia’s husband called to her from inside the house. Even then, she hadn’t turned away immediately-but finally she did, and she disappeared inside the house. That minute or so between them wasn’t much in terms of time. But it had been enough to convince the Greek that the connection was still there, that his “once in a lifetime” was her “once in a lifetime,” too, even if she had settled down and remarried.
The Greek hadn’t returned since then. On some level, however, his memories of Sofia were at least part of the reason he’d kept himself in such amazing physical shape. The Russians breathing down his neck made him want to see her one last time. An Internet search at the library, just to see if she was still living in the same place, had turned up an obituary. Sofia’s husband was dead-and at that moment, the light had switched on.
Plan C was hatched.
The Greek would visit Sofia. He would tell her how he felt. And unless those eyes had lied to him two years earlier, she would help him. She would believe in him this time, forgetting or at least forgiving him for the fact that he was a man whose actions never lived up to the tenderness of his words or intentions. Sofia was his last hope.
The bells on the door tinkled as he entered Angelo’s Bakery. Four P.M. was the end of another eleven-hour day for a baker. Sofia was behind the counter cleaning when she looked up and saw him.
“Ciao, Sofia,” he said softly.
She froze with recognition. Or maybe it was disbelief. She averted her eyes, staring down at the bread crumbs she’d swept into a neat pile on the floor, as if afraid to look at him.
“It can’t be,” she said.
“You know it is.”
She still wouldn’t look at him. He stepped toward the counter. She was just three feet away, and even in the twilight of her life, her beauty pulled him closer, triggering the memories. For a very brief moment, Sofia was nineteen again, his body was strong, and they could wrestle till dawn bringing each other pleasure.
“You are such a beautiful woman,” he said.
Sofia nervously brushed back a wisp of hair from her face.
“Why have you come here?” she said.
“I need you.”
“You lie.”
“It’s true,” he said. “Right now, I need you more than ever.”
“For what?”
He leaned forward, getting as close to her as he could without crawling over the counter. “Sofia, this time they are going to kill me.”
She was silent for a moment, then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. “You should have been dead a long time ago.”
“That’s true. But I’m still here.”
“Who is it this time? The Sicilians again?”
“The Russians.”
“Why are they going to kill you?”
“Does it matter?”
She put the broom aside. “I suppose not.”
“I need money,” he said.
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.”
She laughed without heart. “Good luck.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said. “I have a plan.”
Sofia didn’t answer.
The Greek fell silent, too, but it was calculated. Even after all these years, he knew that if he just shut his mouth long enough, she would eventually look at him, their gaze would meet, and then he would have her.
Finally, he caught her eye, and before she could speak, the Greek made his plea.
“Sofia, only you can help me.”
“I don’t want to help you.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I’ve lived a simple life all these years. I’m not the girl you married.”
“Yes, you are,” he said. “Please. I’ll be dead in a week if you don’t help me. You’re the only person in the world I can count on.”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she was angry at him. But the anger seemed directed toward herself, perhaps for not being stronger.
“What kind of plan are you talking about?” she said.
“Very simple,” he said. “I pulled this off once before, and it worked like a charm. Just follow my instructions.”
“Why not do it all over again yourself?”
“Sofia, what did I always say about parties?”
She seemed confused for a moment, but then it came to her, and the memory almost made her smile. “Never throw the same one twice.”
“Exactly. I’ve already thrown this party. It was a beauty, but now I need a new host.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Take a dirty little secret,” he said, “and sell it.”
“What secret?”
The Greek smiled thinly, then pulled up a chair at one of the little round breakfast tables. “It’s a long story, amore mio. Come sit down. And listen.”
Chapter 23
Jack was glad to be back in Miami. Sort of.
His old boss from the Freedom Institute had stepped in to keep Jack from committing malpractice while he was in Washington, but day one was payback. Jack’s secretary was out sick, the landlord was hounding him for last month’s rent, and Jack was walking into arraignment with a screwball for a new client. The man was a frustrated understudy in a local production of The Full Monty, and the charge was reckless endangerment for slipping his rival a near-fatal dose of ED medication before curtain time. The courthouse jokesters immediately dubbed it the “standing ovation case.” Jack thought of Vice President Grayson and the cause of his heart attack, and he took it as a sign: on anyone’s list of locos, Miami was still Numero Uno.