French Quarter by Stella Cameron Page B

she cried.
    Wilson had closed and locked the sitting room door and begged her to hold him, to let him tell her what was destroying him.
    And she’d been afraid of him, but sorry for him too. Before she’d found out he was stealing, she’d believed in him and in what he said he wanted to do for Louisiana.
    “It’s okay, honey.” Jack’s voice again. “Hit me if you want to. I can take it. You’re angry. Come on, hold on to me.”
    “Hold me, Celina, please hold me. I’m going to do great things for Louisiana, baby. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of that by telling people things that don’t matter. I needed that money. To help me get where I want to—where I need to go for everyone’s sake.”
    How long ago had it been? Five months now? A little more? She couldn’t make herself remember clearly anymore. She’d been afraid of him, and she’d asked him to go home and get some sleep, told him they’d talk things out when he was calmer.
    Wilson Lamar had put his hands around her neck and smiled, and said that he would just have to make sure she saw things his way. He’d have to create some insurance for himself, and if she chose to keep on threatening him, her parents would be the ones to suffer. He’d just have to let their hypocritical little world know that their daughter was a tramp who had tried to trick him into leaving his wife. Celina had come on to him. That’s what he’d tell the world. She’d flaunted herself and he’d been weak. He’d throw himself on public mercy and get it. She’d never be believed. After all, there were precedents, and she was a beautiful, sexy woman. The former Miss Louisiana, a woman accustomed to using her body to get what she wanted.
    Then Wilson Lamar took out his insurance.
    He had raped her that night.

Eight
     
    “This is an unexpected pleasure, Sonny.” Win Giavanelli waved his underboss, Sonny Clete, into the private room at La Murena, a small, expensive restaurant specializing in Italian fish dishes. The room was reserved for Win at all times. Win owned the restaurant.
    Sonny Clete sweated, not a good omen. “Come and sit with me,” Win said, spreading his hands. He’d just finished eating—he always ate around one in the morning. Helped him think more clearly.
    Still hovering just inside the door, Sonny looked as if his expensive silk suit would soon be sodden under the arms. So far he hadn’t said a word. Of average height, with thinning red hair and a plump face, Sonny had been little more than an ambitious, scrambling boy when he’d been inducted into the family. Now in his forties, he’d thickened around the belly and his beringed hands were soft.
    Maybe Sonny had grown too soft, too complacent.
    “Hey, what is this?” Win pulled the napkin from his neck and tossed it aside. He stood and reached his arms out to Sonny. “Is this the way family greet each other?”
    Sonny walked into the embrace and patted Win’s back. The piece Sonny wore in a shoulder holster pressed Win’s chest.
    “Good to see you, Win,” Sonny said. “Thanks for lettin’ me come on such short notice.”
    The formality was not lost on Win. “I always got time for you, you know that.” He motioned Sonny into one of the heavy mahogany armchairs lined with plush red velvet pillows that circled the table. Glancing around, Sonny sat at Win’s right elbow.
    Win was left-handed. No one sat at his left—it was understood.
    “I don’t like to interrupt your dinner,” Sonny said. “I’ve been worried. Otherwise anythin’ I needed to discuss with you could have waited.”
    “My table is your table,” Win told him. Those words gave a signal of whichSonny had no knowledge. A trigger man behind one of the intricately carved wall panels now had the sights of his submachine gun trained on Win’s guest.
    “I see you are deeply troubled, Sonny,” Win said. “Thispains me greatly. Pour yourself some wine.”
    Sonny poured the Chianti automatically. The offer was an