Fatal

Copyright

Published by AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

A Paperback Original 2019

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2019

Design by Alison Groom © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs: Portrait © Nick Starichenko / Shutterstock

Background © Shutterstock

Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the publishers.

Source ISBN: 9780008287313

E-book Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008287320

Version: 2018-12-13

Dedication

To everyone who has experienced loss

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Lex Talionis

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Two

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

One Week Later

Chapter 55

Acknowledgments

Exclusive Extract of Sinner

About the Author

Also by Jacqui Rose

About the Publisher

You must show no pity. Your rule should be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

Deuteronomy 19:21

PROLOGUE

Alcuni anni fa …

Some years ago …

Standing by the grave in the pouring rain, Alfie Jennings felt the cold droplets running down his neck and inside his coat collar. He turned slowly to his friend Abel Gray, who until recently had been an unshakable force, a powerhouse amongst men. Wealthy and driven, a man at the top of his game. Selling and supplying weapons, Abel had been ruthless when it mattered, when he had to be, but at heart he was loyal and generous. But as Alfie looked at his face, drawn and haunted, he could see Abel now was nothing but a broken man.

‘Are you going to be all right, Abel? Cos I can stay if you like.’

‘I’ll be fine, Alfie, I’d rather be left on my own anyway, but I appreciate you coming.’ Abel paused as he reached out to touch the headstone gently. His voice hoarse, he added, ‘We both do.’

Alfie shrugged uncomfortably. He was the only one who had come; over the last few months, Abel through his trauma and sorrow had pushed everyone away who cared, but Alfie was determined Abel wouldn’t do that to him, no matter what he said, no matter what he did.

The two of them went back a long way, first business associates before becoming firm friends, so there’d been no question of him not making the trip to Abel’s isolated thirty-acre country home. The estate, which sat on top of a hill, was tucked away in the New Forest of southern Hampshire, and Abel had insisted the burial take place within the grounds. But it still cut Alfie up to see him like this. The once physically imposing presence, the once sharp mind, all felt like they were crumbling, fading away in front of his very eyes. Sighing, he gave his friend a sad smile.

‘I’ll get off then, but Abel, if you need me, you know where I am mate. It don’t matter what time of night or day it is, just call … And I’m sorry, truly I am. She was really special.’

As Alfie Jennings walked out of sight, Abel dropped to his knees, tears and rain mixing in the wet earth as he began to scrape away at the soil of the freshly filled grave. ‘No, no, no, no, no, baby, no, it’s all right, I’m here, I’m here … I’m coming, Natalia. I’m here.’

And as the rain poured down and Abel frantically dug, his fingers beginning to bleed, he remembered that night as if it were only yesterday.

‘I’ll ask you again, what did you do with my money?’

Panicked and desperate, Abel shook his head, his vision blurred as he stared through the stream of blood that ran from his head. ‘I told you, I don’t have it, I’ve no idea where it is.’

Nico Russo pulled out a blue handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the beads of sweat that sat on his olive skin like dewdrops. His eyes as dark as ravens, he gazed impassively at Abel, bloodied and tied to the chair. He spoke again, his voice unnervingly calm, heavy with a North Jersey–Italian twang. ‘You need to speak up, I can’t hear you, but it sounded like you were saying you don’t have my money.’

With blood bubbling from the side of his mouth and the gash so deep on his forehead the bone of his skull was exposed underneath the flapping skin, Abel spluttered his words through lips that had been carved wide open, fear wrapping round him like a tight restraint. ‘I don’t! I don’t have it, Nico! I never did!’

‘Is that right?’

Abel nodded, flinching at the pain shooting through his body. He looked at Nico, pleading with him, desperate to persuade him somehow that he was telling the truth. ‘Please, I swear. I can’t tell you something I don’t know.’

Nico Russo, a second-generation Italian-American who was built as powerfully as a herculean god, shrugged, his mop of unruly curly black hair pushed back far enough for Abel to see the deep lines of a frown appear. ‘If that’s the way you want it, so be it.’

‘It’s the truth, Nico!’

As he walked closer to Abel, Nico’s words were rolled in sadness. ‘You’ve been like family to me, and that’s why this hurts me so much.’

‘Nico, please, I’m telling—’

Nico’s fist swung hard, striking and perforating Abel’s eardrum. He breathed heavily and raised his hand to point at Abel. ‘Never interrupt me, you know better than to show a lack of respect like that. Non mancarmi mai di rispetto. Never disrespect me. You understand? Never ever. Mai e poi mai.’

Agony shot through Abel as he felt the warm fluids drain out of his ear and down the side of his face. Barely capable of moving his head from the pain, Abel muttered his reply in Nico’s mother tongue.

‘Sì. Sì.’

‘Good. However, that still leaves us with the problem of where my money is. So, you give me no choice … Salvatore! Salvatore!’

The wooden door to the cabin opened a few moments later. Salvatore Russo’s features were more delicate than his elder brother’s, but there was no mistaking the prominent sharp nose that determined the Russo family bloodline.

‘Sì, Nico?’

Nico smiled, something he rarely did and rarely cared to do. ‘You can bring it in now. Let’s have some fun.’

With hatred and fear burning in him, Abel watched as Salvatore, always eager to please his older brother, nodded. ‘Okay. No problem, Nico.’

As Salvatore stepped outside again, Nico turned back to Abel. ‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself. It pains me, but I won’t let anybody, not even you, who I loved like my own brother, steal from me.’

‘I told you—’ Abel’s words were cut short as a woman was dragged inside by her hair and flung to the ground, knocking over one of the wooden chairs in the sparse, dimly lit cabin. She scrabbled to the back of the room and pushed herself up against the wall.

Nico turned to her and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. ‘Natalia, it’s good to see you, though these are difficult times we all find ourselves in, but I hope we can come to some sort of an arrangement soon. How is your mother, by the way? I hope she got the flowers I sent her last week.’

Terror rushed through Abel. ‘Let her go! Let her go! I told you, I don’t know where your fucking money is! Jesus Christ, Nico, you sick bastard!’

Nico, bending down to Natalia – whose face, along with her clothes, was covered in blood – stroked her hair, whispering softly. ‘Natalia, you know what needs to happen now, don’t you, but all this could’ve been avoided if he’d only told me what I want to know.’

‘Please, please, Nico, let me go!’

Nico pressed his fingers against her lips. ‘Natalia, it’s no good begging me. It’s out of my hands now. It’s him. Your fiancé you need to beg. Why don’t you ask him to tell me where he’s put it, Natalia? Then all this can just go away.’

Trembling, Natalia stared at Abel, her eyes filled with fear. ‘Just tell him. Tell him what he wants, Abel. Tell him where the money is.’

Nico gestured, chuckling. ‘You heard the lady, tell me.’

Tears rolled down Abel’s face as he stared at Natalia, love and anguish ripping through his body. ‘I don’t have it! I never did! I swear, Natalia! Nico, please don’t do this! Do what you want with me but leave her … Please God, just leave her.’

Nico stared with leisurely contempt. ‘Cosa farai per amore. In Italian that means, what will you do for love? It seems, Natalia, even for love your boyfriend won’t give me back my money. Va bene. All right … Salvatore, care to join me?’

Nico Russo nodded to his brother as he began to undo his trousers as he stood above Natalia. ‘Watch and remember that this was your choice, Abel. All you had to do was tell me the truth. The blame lies with you, and only you.’

‘Don’t you touch her, you hear me? Don’t you fucking touch her!’ Abel struggled against his restraints, each movement sending shooting pains rippling through his body as Natalia, crying and shaking, begged him over and over.

‘Please, Abel, please! Just tell him where the money is! Tell him! Abel, help me! Help me, Abel!’

‘I swear I don’t know, Natalia. Jesus Christ!’

As Nico continued to stand above Natalia smiling, Abel, helpless, stopped struggling, his heart breaking as he realised what was about to happen.

Smirking, Nico spoke in a lulling tone. ‘Now, I want you to be nice, Natalia, you hear me? And Abel, you need to watch this. Don’t close your eyes, because each time you do, I’ll make sure it’ll get a lot worse for her. Capito? Understand? I want you to always remember this.’

Natalia whimpered in terror, then, and without warning, Nico slammed her against the wooden wall. ‘I said, be nice, and then I want you to be nice to my brother Salvatore. Such a pretty little thing, Natalia. You deserve so much better, but in the meantime … Baciami, Natalia. Baciami.’

Natalia stared, frozen.

‘I said, kiss me, Natalia!’

Nico’s fingers caressed her neck as he leant into her chest, kissing it gently.

‘No, Nico! No! Please, don’t! Please … Just tell him! Abel! Abel! Please, just tell him!’

Swallowing his bile, Abel’s voice broke under the weight of his torture. He sobbed as he spoke, crying out. ‘I swear, Natalia, I don’t know … I just don’t know.’

Then, knowing he had no choice but to watch the nightmare unfolding in front of him, Abel whispered, shaking, though his words were drowned out by Natalia’s screams. ‘You shall pay for this, Nico. One day I shall have my revenge. Avrò la mia vendetta.’

Suddenly, Abel’s hand hit something hard, breaking his thoughts, taking him away from the memory that crushed his every breath. With the rain beating down, he brushed off the last bits of soft earth and threw the mud-covered white lilies to one side to reveal the lid of the casket.

‘I’m here, Natalia, I’m here. I won’t leave you in the dark, I promise … I promise.’

And as Abel wept, inconsolable with grief and guilt and love, he gripped the gold handle of the cherry wood casket and began to pull.

1

Cabhan Morton, a man with trouble on his mind, stepped out from the private luxury wooden lodge into the chill of the summer evening. Shivering in his white linen shirt, he watched the shimmering waters of Grand Lake, nestled at the bottom of the Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado.

He let out a long sigh, feeling and pushing down his anxiety as he walked across the deserted glazed timber boardwalk against the backdrop of the snow-tipped mountains. The town of Grand Lake – a tiny community of about five hundred people – was the perfect place, away from prying eyes and ears, for the annual meet-up of the Russo brothers and the extended family. And foolishly, stupidly, through his own doing, he found himself at the heart of them.

If only he’d listened to the warnings; although if he were honest, he’d known the risks of getting involved with the Russos, but at the time he hadn’t cared, hadn’t wanted to listen to anyone. He’d just wanted to escape England then, and all the pain that came with it, but now, now was a different matter.

With his heart rushing in his chest, he glanced back at the lodge, checking no one was coming as he pulled out his phone and dialled a familiar number. He listened as Franny Doyle’s voicemail clicked in straightaway. He needed to speak to her urgently, before it was too late.

‘Franny, it’s me. I’ll try to call you back later, but it’s not looking good at the moment. Seems like Salvatore’s going to make it difficult for me to leave. I’m not sure what I’m going to do … Look, I’ll speak to you soon.’

Scrolling down his contacts, Cabhan hesitated. He stared at Alfie’s number, chewing nervously on his lip. Alfie had been the loudest objector when he’d come to work with the Russos, to the point he’d told him that if Cabhan did join them, Alfie would cut him out of his life, and that’s exactly what had happened. But now he was desperate, so what choice did he have?

Resolute, Cabhan pressed dial, psyching himself up, but this time the phone rang twice before he heard Alfie Jennings chirpily inviting him to leave a message.

Frustrated, he cut off the call as a loud burst of laughter made him spin around. From the shadows, he watched Bobby and Salvatore Russo walking down the stairs of the luxury hideout, deep in conversation.

He’d been here too long. Far too long. And he wanted out, the quicker the better.

There were several reasons why he wanted to go back home, maybe not to Ireland, but at least to England. The main one was to take his beautiful daughter, Alice Rose – the daughter he didn’t know he had until four years ago – away from this life. Because apart from Franny, whom he loved like his own, and Franny’s father, Patrick, Alice, with her gentleness and innocence, was simply the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was by far the best part of him, and he was determined to take her back home to family. To Franny. Even to Alfie. To everything that had once made him feel safe.

Though, trying to get the Russo brothers to let him go was another thing entirely. He knew it’d be at a price, the problem was he wasn’t sure what that price would be, and he didn’t trust them, not one bit. So much so that, much to Alice’s tears and protests, last year he’d moved her from the school she loved to a small, secluded convent in rural Iowa, in secret. Although at the time it’d felt like an extreme measure, somehow the Russos not knowing where Alice was made him feel better, allowing him to sleep at night.

Salvatore’s loud, coarse New Jersey drawl cut through the air.

‘Hey, Cabhan, hey, Cabhan, what the hell are you doing out here? We’ve got our guests to think about.’

‘Just making a call.’

Shrugging, Salvatore looked to his brother Bobby as he continued to speak to Cabhan.

‘You can’t make the call inside? I thought we were all friends here? Family. What’s so goddamn secret you need to hide out here?’

The cold stare Salvatore turned on him made Cabhan feel uneasy. Since he’d told the brothers he’d wanted to leave, suspicion and paranoia had set in, especially with Salvatore, who ran the main branch of the family business along the East Coast.

Cabhan’s soft Irish lilt coated his words as he tried to sound calm.

‘No, not at all, I didn’t want to be rude. I thought I’d just check in with Franny and Alfie, see how they are. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to them. The time difference doesn’t help. Apologies if I was out of line.’

Salvatore, his steroid-pumped muscular frame blocking out the light from the lodge doorway, continued to stare. ‘Give me your phone.’

‘What?’

‘I said, give it me.’

Hesitantly, Cabhan – his face strained, his black velvet skin paling slightly – walked across to Salvatore and placed the phone in his outstretched hand.

He spoke evenly. ‘Like I say, Sal, I was just calling home. See for yourself.’

Salvatore, holding eye contact before breaking it to scroll through Cabhan’s call log, pressed last number redial. Staying silent, he put the phone to his ear, listening as the voicemail clicked in.

‘This is Alfie, I can’t answer right …’

Salvatore’s laugh startled an old man standing by the door. Loud and menacing. He grabbed hold of Cabhan’s shoulders, shaking him hard, pressing his flushed face into Cabhan’s. His breath sweet and sickly, stinking of cigars. ‘See what you’ve done to me, Cabhan, you’ve made me a bag of nerves. All this talk of you wanting to leave makes me edgy. Can’t understand what the problem is. Why the big change? Maybe I should start looking over my shoulder.’

Cabhan, feeling the hard bone of Salvatore’s forehead pushing on the bridge of his nose, knew better than to try to pull away. He also knew better than to show any weakness – showing any sign of fear to the Russos was just an invitation for them to go in with full force. The other thing he knew was that somehow he had to play this perfectly.

Nervously but hoping, praying that it didn’t show, Cabhan kept his voice as light as possible. ‘It’s not personal, Salvatore. You know that. I just miss home. No big deal.’

Salvatore stepped back, looking up into the night sky. ‘Not personal?’

‘That’s right, Sal. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Giving me a job and welcoming me as part of the family, but that’s the point, I miss my family. Franny. Alfie. Like I say, it’s not personal.’

Salvatore nodded, closing his eyes before whipping out a pistol from his pocket, smashing it and pressing it hard into Cabhan’s face. ‘And neither is this.’

Cabhan’s hands shot up in the air as he stumbled back, fear gripping him. ‘Sal, please.’

‘Get on your knees … I said, get on your fucking knees, unless you want me to put a hole in you now.’

‘Sal, please, Jesus Christ, you and me, we go back a long way. Ti rispetto, ti voglio bene, Salvatore, tu e la tua famiglia.’

Another burst of laughter came from Salvatore. ‘You say you respect me? You love me and my family?’

Working hard to push down his panic, Cabhan nodded. ‘I do.’

Salvatore flicked off the safety catch of the gun. ‘Yet you want to leave and go back home. To me that doesn’t sound like a man who loves and has loyalty to his friends. And a man who doesn’t have loyalty is a dangerous enemy.’

Bobby Russo, his temper as violent and volatile as his brother’s, had the ability to recognise discretion was sometimes needed. He spoke up as he watched more and more of their guests, curious about the commotion, come outside.

‘Sal, why don’t we sort this out tomorrow? We’re celebrating. We’ve all had a good year. We’ve got the rest of the family to think of. They don’t need this. Put the gun away. Cabhan was only calling Franny and Alfie. That’s all. Nessun danno fatto. No harm done … Good? Bene?’ Bobby kissed his brother on both cheeks. ‘Bene?’