Rage of Angels

And it was as though he was revealing a private part of himself that came from some deep wellspring. Jennifer did not know what to reply.

Their drinks arrived and they sat there drinking quietly, and Jennifer listened to the conversation they were not having.

She thought about what he had said: I hate dogs. They die. She wondered what Michael Moretti’s early life had been like. She found herself studying him. He was attractive in a dangerous, exciting way. There was a feeling of violence about him, ready to explode.

Jennifer could not say why, but being with this man made her feel like a woman. Perhaps it was the way his ebony black eyes looked at her, then looked away from her, as though fearful of revealing too much. Jennifer realized it had been a long time since she had thought of herself as a woman. From the day she had lost Adam. It takes a man to make a woman feel female, Jennifer thought, to make her feel beautiful, to make her feel wanted.

Jennifer was grateful he could not read her mind.

Various people approached their booth to pay their respects to Michael Moretti: business executives, actors, a judge, a United States senator. It was power paying tribute to power, and Jennifer began to feel a sense of how much influence he wielded.

“I’ll order for us,” Michael Moretti said. “They prepare this menu for eight hundred people. It’s like eating on an airline.”

He raised his hand and the captain was at his side instantly. “Yes, Mr. Moretti. What would you like tonight, sir?”

“We’ll have a Chateaubriand, pink and charred.”

“Of course, Mr. Moretti.”

“Pommes soufflées and an endive salad.”

“Certainly, Mr. Moretti.”

“We’ll order dessert later.”

A bottle of champagne was sent to the table, compliments of the management.

Jennifer found herself beginning to relax, enjoying herself almost against her will. It had been a long while since she had spent an evening with an attractive man. And even as the phrase came into Jennifer’s mind, she thought, How can I think of Michael Moretti as attractive? He’s a killer, an amoral animal with no feelings.

Jennifer had known and defended dozens of men who had committed terrible crimes, but she had the feeling that none of them was as dangerous as this man. He had risen to the top of the Syndicate and it had taken more than a marriage to Antonio Granelli’s daughter to accomplish that.

“I telephoned you once or twice while you were away,” Michael said. According to Ken Bailey, he had called almost every day. “Where were you?” He made the question sound casual.

“Away.”

A long silence. “Remember that offer I made you?”

Jennifer took a sip of her champagne. “Don’t start that again, please.”

“You can have any—”

“I told you, I’m not interested. There’s no such thing as an offer you can’t refuse. That’s only in books, Mr. Moretti. I’m refusing.”

Michael Moretti thought of the scene that had taken place in his father-in-law’s home a few weeks earlier. There had been a meeting of the Family and it had not gone well. Thomas Colfax had argued against everything that Michael had proposed.

When Colfax had left, Michael had said to his father-in-law, “Colfax is turning into an old woman. I think it’s time to put him out to pasture, Papa.”

“Tommy’s a good man. He’s saved us a lot of trouble over the years.”

“That’s history. He doesn’t have it anymore.”

“Who would we get to take his place?”

“Jennifer Parker.”

Antonio Granelli had shaken his head. “I told you, Michael. It ain’t good to have a woman know our business.”

“This isn’t just a woman. She’s the best lawyer around.”

“We’ll see,” Antonio Granelli had said. “We’ll see.”

Michael Moretti was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and the more Jennifer stood up to him, the more he was determined to have her. Now, sitting next to her, Michael looked at Jennifer and thought, One day you’re going to belong to me, baby—all the way.

“What are you thinking about?”

Michael Moretti gave Jennifer a slow, easy smile, and she instantly regretted the question. It was time to leave.

“Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mr. Moretti. I have to get up early, so—”

The lights began to dim and the orchestra started an overture.

“You can’t leave now. The show is starting. You’ll love Marty Allen.”

It was the kind of entertainment that only Las Vegas could afford to put on, and Jennifer thoroughly enjoyed it. She told herself she would leave immediately after the show, but when it was over and Michael Moretti asked Jennifer to dance, she decided it would be ungracious to refuse. Besides, she had to admit to herself that she was having a good time. Michael Moretti was a skillful dancer, and Jennifer found herself relaxing in his arms. Once, when another couple collided with them, Michael was pushed against Jennifer and for an instant she felt his male hardness, and then he immediately pulled away, careful to hold her at a discreet distance.

Afterward, they walked into the casino, a vast terrain of bright lights and noise, packed with gamblers engrossed in various games of chance, playing as though their lives depended on their winning. Michael took Jennifer to one of the dice tables and handed her a dozen chips.

“For luck,” he said.

The pit boss and dealers treated Michael with deference, calling him Mr. M. and giving him large piles of hundred-dollar chips, taking his markers instead of cash. Michael played for large stakes and lost heavily, but he seemed unperturbed. Using Michael’s chips, Jennifer won three hundred dollars, which she insisted on giving to Michael. She had no intention of being under any obligation to him.