strong pot of the stuff. I was half asleep and only slightly cogent, but I could make out the outline of a bowling-ball-shaped person standing in my kitchen. When my eyes adjusted and I made out who it was, I nearly fell to my knees.
Peter Miceli.
He turned from his task—arranging biscotti on a tray—and greeted me with a huge grin and a wave. Having a Mob boss in my kitchen was not a normal occurrence, but Peter had this habit of acting like we were old friends (we weren’t) and that I was always happy to see him (I wasn’t).
“Alison, hi!” he called.
I stood still, rooted to my spot in the hallway.
He held a large paper cup aloft and waved it back and forth. “I’ve got coffee,” he said in a singsong voice. “And biscotti. The best on Staten Island. Gianna made them.”
I couldn’t find my voice or the will to move, so I stayed where I was.
He waved me into the kitchen. “Come on in. I want to have a chat.”
I remembered the last time we had a chat; he had thrown me out of his car and I ended up with a cut on my leg from which I still had a scar. I shook my head at him.
He took a few steps toward me. “You might feel better if you get some clothes on.” He gave my bare legs the once-over. “Go get dressed,” he said softly.
I headed back up the stairs and closed my bedroom door. I looked around wildly for some kind of escape hatch, but since my room was on the second floor at the front of the house, there was nowhere to go. I ran to the window and pulled the shade up only to see Peter’s black Mercedes in front of my house, a beefy, black-clad goon standing beside the car with his hands folded in front of him.
I decided to take Peter’s advice and found a pair of jeans. Maybe if I was dressed, I would be able to formulate a plan. After standing in the middle of my room in my jeans for a full five minutes, I was no closer to any kind of action.
I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. There was no dial tone. And my cell phone was in its usual place in my pocketbook.
I had no choice but to go back downstairs and face Peter. I left the bedroom and returned to the hallway, going down the stairs slowly, my heart pounding so hard that I could almost hear it. I went to the kitchen doorway and stood. Peter was at my kitchen table, dunking biscotti into his coffee cup.
I’ve seen Peter three times since his daughter, Kathy’s, murder: once at her funeral; once when he broke into my house previously “for a little chat” and the final time, when he kidnapped me. Two of those three times, he had been wearing golf attire; today was no exception.
He saw me looking at his golf shirt, a bright salmon color. “I’m headed up to Hudson National to hit the links,” he said.
I continued to stand in the doorway. “What do you want, Peter?”
He nodded, his bald head gleaming. “Well, first of all, Alison, I owe you an apology.”
I’ll say.
“I was out of my mind with grief when we took that drive together.” He threw his hands up. “Out of my mind! Didn’t know what the fuck I was doing!” He grimaced. “Pardon my French.” Dunk, sip. “But things are better now. Gianna is better. We’re getting better. It was an awfully hard summer, but I see a light at the end of the tunnel.” He took a huge bite from the biscotti and continued talking, coffee and biscotti spraying onto my kitchen table. “Counseling is a fantastic thing, I tell you. Fantastic! That head shrinker has given us hope, Alison.”
I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms.
“And she’s taught me to make amends. I need to make amends, Alison. With you, in particular.” He jabbed a fat, sausagelike finger in my direction. “Remember,” he said gravely, “I owe you.”
Peter had left a note on my car last spring to that effect. I didn’t know why he felt like he owed me and I didn’t need any favors.
“Peter,” I said slowly, finding my voice, “the only thing I need from you is for you to leave me alone.”
He nodded. “I can understand why you would feel that way. I think that’s called