off something like this.” He shook his head. “If you’ll
excuse me, Ed, I have some calls I need to make. Write up what we discussed,
and we’ll get together again next week.”
When Lumpkin
left, Sal called his security chief, Danny Zamir, and summarized the last
twenty minutes. “I want you to find out everything you can,” he concluded.
“Understood?”
“Yeah, capo,”
Danny said. “Understood.”
Sal hung up and
gazed out the bank of windows overlooking Dubai’s Business Bay, the city
state’s latest multibillion dollar project. As he watched a crane atop an
ambitious skyscraper swivel to the east, he thought about everything the two
cops had told him.
Someone wanted
him dead.
The intercom on
his desk buzzed. He punched the talk button. “What is it, Lucy?”
“The car’s
waiting to take you to the airport.”
“Fine.”
He shrugged on
his blazer, grabbed his briefcase, and left the office. He suddenly couldn’t
wait to get out of Dubai.
CHAPTER 2
Scarlett opened her eyes. Brightness. God, it was so bright
it hurt. She tried to piece together where she was, but her thoughts were
groggy and uncooperative. She could smell traces of disinfectant and iodine,
and then she could make out shapes. She was lying on her back in a bed—a
mechanized bed with those side railings so you didn’t fall out. Beside her stood
a blood-pressure monitor and an IV pole. A tube led from the bag hanging on the
pole to a needle that disappeared into a vein in her right forearm.
Okay, so she was
in a hospital. And it appeared to be a very nice hospital, evident by the
polished laminate flooring, high-gloss maple walls, and large-screen TV. Even
the linen on the bed was of high quality. The door to the bathroom was ajar,
and she could see gleaming blue-and-gray tile work, more maple, and
faux-granite countertops. There were no flowers or cards on the side table. She
took that to mean either one of two things. She’d only just arrived, and no one
had gotten wind of whatever had happened to her. Or she’d been in a coma for a
hell of a long time, and everyone had given up on her long ago.
Scarlett wiggled
her toes. They moved. She raised a hand to her head and felt a bandage, which
her fingers probed. A spot in the center of her forehead was sore and tender.
What had happened? Had she been mugged? Shot? Stabbed? In a car accident—?
It all came back
to her in a rush of images: Laurel Canyon Boulevard, bursting through the
guardrail, her stomach in her throat as she plummeted to the ground. She
remembered the crushing landing, bouncing wildly out of control down the
ravine, the tree…
But I’m alive.
The door to the
room opened and Sal strolled in with his head down, his eyes glued to a story
below the fold of the Wall Street Journal. Seeing him, Scarlett felt a
burst of gratitude and affection. He was here, back from Dubai. If she had the
strength, she would have jumped up and hugged him.
He wore a crisp
white shirt and navy merino wool suit, one of his made-to-measures from
appointment-only William Fioravanti in Manhattan. It was something Al Capone
might have fancied had he been around today. In fact, she often kidded Sal that
he resembled an Italian gangster. He had short-cropped black hair, hazel eyes,
and a generous Roman nose. And he was Sicilian, which sort of sealed the deal.
“Scarlett!” he
said, tossing the paper onto one of the leather chairs and rushing over. He
knelt beside the bed and took her hand. “ La mia bella donna. ”
After so long
apart, the feel of his touch and the sound of his voice and the smell of his
cologne all hit her like a truck, smashing through the cobwebs in her head, and
she realized suddenly just how close she’d come to never experiencing any of
those sensations ever again. The reality of her situation sank in with numbing
force. She’d been in a car accident, one bad enough to knock her unconscious
and land her in the hospital. She felt very fragile. Life felt
excuse me, Ed, I have some calls I need to make. Write up what we discussed,
and we’ll get together again next week.”
When Lumpkin
left, Sal called his security chief, Danny Zamir, and summarized the last
twenty minutes. “I want you to find out everything you can,” he concluded.
“Understood?”
“Yeah, capo,”
Danny said. “Understood.”
Sal hung up and
gazed out the bank of windows overlooking Dubai’s Business Bay, the city
state’s latest multibillion dollar project. As he watched a crane atop an
ambitious skyscraper swivel to the east, he thought about everything the two
cops had told him.
Someone wanted
him dead.
The intercom on
his desk buzzed. He punched the talk button. “What is it, Lucy?”
“The car’s
waiting to take you to the airport.”
“Fine.”
He shrugged on
his blazer, grabbed his briefcase, and left the office. He suddenly couldn’t
wait to get out of Dubai.
CHAPTER 2
Scarlett opened her eyes. Brightness. God, it was so bright
it hurt. She tried to piece together where she was, but her thoughts were
groggy and uncooperative. She could smell traces of disinfectant and iodine,
and then she could make out shapes. She was lying on her back in a bed—a
mechanized bed with those side railings so you didn’t fall out. Beside her stood
a blood-pressure monitor and an IV pole. A tube led from the bag hanging on the
pole to a needle that disappeared into a vein in her right forearm.
Okay, so she was
in a hospital. And it appeared to be a very nice hospital, evident by the
polished laminate flooring, high-gloss maple walls, and large-screen TV. Even
the linen on the bed was of high quality. The door to the bathroom was ajar,
and she could see gleaming blue-and-gray tile work, more maple, and
faux-granite countertops. There were no flowers or cards on the side table. She
took that to mean either one of two things. She’d only just arrived, and no one
had gotten wind of whatever had happened to her. Or she’d been in a coma for a
hell of a long time, and everyone had given up on her long ago.
Scarlett wiggled
her toes. They moved. She raised a hand to her head and felt a bandage, which
her fingers probed. A spot in the center of her forehead was sore and tender.
What had happened? Had she been mugged? Shot? Stabbed? In a car accident—?
It all came back
to her in a rush of images: Laurel Canyon Boulevard, bursting through the
guardrail, her stomach in her throat as she plummeted to the ground. She
remembered the crushing landing, bouncing wildly out of control down the
ravine, the tree…
But I’m alive.
The door to the
room opened and Sal strolled in with his head down, his eyes glued to a story
below the fold of the Wall Street Journal. Seeing him, Scarlett felt a
burst of gratitude and affection. He was here, back from Dubai. If she had the
strength, she would have jumped up and hugged him.
He wore a crisp
white shirt and navy merino wool suit, one of his made-to-measures from
appointment-only William Fioravanti in Manhattan. It was something Al Capone
might have fancied had he been around today. In fact, she often kidded Sal that
he resembled an Italian gangster. He had short-cropped black hair, hazel eyes,
and a generous Roman nose. And he was Sicilian, which sort of sealed the deal.
“Scarlett!” he
said, tossing the paper onto one of the leather chairs and rushing over. He
knelt beside the bed and took her hand. “ La mia bella donna. ”
After so long
apart, the feel of his touch and the sound of his voice and the smell of his
cologne all hit her like a truck, smashing through the cobwebs in her head, and
she realized suddenly just how close she’d come to never experiencing any of
those sensations ever again. The reality of her situation sank in with numbing
force. She’d been in a car accident, one bad enough to knock her unconscious
and land her in the hospital. She felt very fragile. Life felt
Similar Books
