“I—I don’t know what to say. I—thank you. It’s really a celebration, isn’t it!”
Michael grinned. “The celebration hasn’t started yet. This is only the foreplay.”
They were riding in the limousine on their way to an apartment that Michael kept uptown. Michael pressed a button and raised the glass that separated the rear of the car from the driver.
We’re locked away in our own little world, Jennifer thought. Michael’s nearness excited her.
She turned to look into his black eyes and he moved toward her and slid his hand along her thighs, and Jennifer’s body was instantly on fire.
Michael’s lips found hers and their bodies were pressed together. Jennifer felt the hard maleness of him and she slid down to the floor of the car. She began to make love to him, caressing him and kissing him until Michael began to moan, and Jennifer moaned with him, moving faster and faster until she felt the spasms of his body.
The celebration had begun.
Jennifer was thinking of the past now as she lay in bed in the hotel room in Tangier, listening to the sounds of Michael in the shower. She felt satisfied and happy. The only thing missing was her young son. She had thought of taking Joshua with her on some of her trips, but instinctively she wanted to keep him and Michael Moretti far away from each other. Joshua must never be touched by that part of her life. It seemed to Jennifer that her life was a series of compartments: There was Adam, there was her son and there was Michael Moretti. And each had to be kept separate from the others.
Michael walked out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. The hair on his body glistened from the dampness of the shower. He was a beautiful, exciting animal.
“Get dressed. We have work to do.”
39
It happened so gradually that it did not seem to be happening at all. It had begun with Vasco Gambutti, and shortly afterward Michael asked Jennifer to handle another case, then another, until soon it became a steady flow of cases.
Michael would call Jennifer and say, “I need your help, baby. One of my boys is having a problem.”
And Jennifer was reminded of Father Ryan’s words, A friend of mine has a bit of a problem. Was there really any difference? America had come to accept the Godfather syndrome. Jennifer told herself that what she was doing now was the same as what she had been doing all along. The truth was that there was a difference—a big difference.
She was at the center of one of the most powerful organizations in the world.
Michael invited Jennifer to the farmhouse in New Jersey, where she met Antonio Granelli for the first time, and some of the other men in the Organization.
At a large table in the old-fashioned kitchen were Nick Vito, Arthur “Fat Artie” Scotto, Salvatore Fiore and Joseph Colella.
As Jennifer and Michael came in and stood in the doorway, listening, Nick Vito was saying, “…like the time I did a pound in Atlanta. I had a heavy H book goin’. This popcorn pimp comes up and tries to fuck me over ‘cause he wants a piece of the action.”
“Did you know the guy?” Fat Artie Scotto asked.
“What’s to know? He wants to get his lights turned on. He tried to put the arm on me.”
“On you?”
“Yeah. His head wasn’t wrapped too tight.”
“What’d you do?”
“Eddie Fratelli and me got him over in the ghinny corner of the yard and burned him. What the hell, he was doin’ bad time, anyway.”
“Hey, whatever happened to Little Eddie?”
“He’s doin’ a dime at Lewisburg.”
“What about his bandit? She was some class act.”
“Oh, yeah. I’d love to make her drawers.”
“She’s still got the hots for Eddie. Only the Pope knows why.”
“I liked Eddie. He used to be an up-front guy.”
“He went ape-shit. Speakin’ of that, do you know who turned into a candy man…?”
Shop talk.
Michael grinned at Jennifer’s puzzled reaction to the conversation and said, “Come on—I’ll introduce you to Papa.”