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Angela. And you are done.’
    She fought to get her words in a line. ‘I don’t follow.’
    ‘You are ready. I’ve known it for a while.’
    ‘Then why—?’
    ‘What I want you to do for me is vital. It’s more important than anything Orlando or Luca could offer.’ He spoke slowly, each word measured. ‘They’re not capable of this, Angela. Only you are. You and I have serious business to share.’
    She waited, sceptical and excited. Her father watched her, curiously, gently, and, in his eyes, she saw something that was new to her: a need, nascent and afraid.
    ‘I want you to listen very carefully,’ said Donald Silvers, ‘for if you choose to accept, our empire is yours. Everything. You take over. But be ready, Angela: because what I am about to propose will change your life for ever.’

6
    I n a hotel suite across town, Kevin Chase woke suddenly, his skin dripping with sweat and his heart hammering wildly. The room was pitch black. He had no idea where he was. His breath rasped dry and painful, as if he had swallowed razor blades. Groping in the dark, he fumbled towards a switch. When the room flooded with light, it was painfully bright. Images from the nightmare were still scorched on his mind: the red flames engulfing the jet, and the descent … the horrifying, inevitable descent towards death.
    Briskly he patted around to make sure he hadn’t wet the sheets. Mortifyingly, it had happened in the past. Joan had even gone through a phase of laying diapers on top of the mattress, until one day Kevin had lost it, yelling at her so loud and for so long that she had whined about tinnitus for a week—and Joan knew how to whine.
    Apart from a patch of hot perspiration, it was dry.
    Trembling, he closed his eyes. It seemed important to pick out the details.
    The nightmare had been real —real enough to touch, as if he had been there, as if it had happened! They said you couldn’t dream your own death; you woke before it ended that way—and Kevin was certain, certain , he had been about to die. Dark sky all around, thick black dark, and the groundrearing up to meet them—or rather the sand, for it had been a beach, yes, a beach, the contrast stark even in moonlight between the thick water and the alabaster shore. Kevin grasped at the people he had been with, for he had not been alone, but their outlines were dissolving, leaving only ghosts. All that was left were the screams of panic ringing between his ears.
    Fear swamped him.
    He was never setting foot on an airplane ever again.
    But even as Kevin thought it, he knew it was an absurd notion. International commitments meant he got thrown about the globe like a coin in a pinball machine.
    What choice did he have? What choice did he have about anything?
    The phone rang. It was Sketch.
    ‘Ride’s outside, buddy.’ His manager’s voice was drizzled thinly over a nub of hysteria. ‘You’re behind time. Again.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Everything OK?’
    Shit. Kevin checked the time. Double shit. He had a show at the TD Garden in an hour. These days his power naps were turning into induced fucking comas.
    ‘Be right down,’ he snapped, hanging up.
    A freezing cold shower slapped him to his senses. Afterwards, in the foggy mirror, Kevin grimaced at his reflection.
    Come on. Why did he look so goddamn young ?
    Miserably he plucked at a single chest hair straining from his diaphragm. It was like a blade of grass in the middle of a barren desert. What the fuck ? Where was his chest rug? Couldn’t he sprout just a few more?
    He was nineteen, for crissakes, and yet he had the torso of a ten year old.
    The grimace deepened. That wasn’t even the worst part.
    Glancing down, Kevin loosened the towel around hiswaist. He assessed the feathery covering of pubic hair scarcely concealing his miniature prick, and howled.
    It was a worm dangling between two berries. Shrivelled berries. The whole thing was shrivelled. Why wouldn’t it fucking well grow ?
    Was he