COVER

  

© The Dark Horse, Anthony A. Newman 2019 – 2021

 

Also by Anthony A. Newman

 

The Underworld

An Averagely Mundane Life

Nifty at 50

 

Publisher: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Implerstraße 24
81371 Munich
Germany

The General Terms and Conditions, Privacy Policy, General Terms and Conditions of Sale and Distribution, and other policies published and contained on the website apply to all users of the website.

 

All trademarks, trade names, logos, and other content used on the website is owned or licensed by BookRix and may only be

used and/or copied with the prior written permission and/or license of BookRix.

ANCIENT SAYING

 

 

 

 

 

 

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside of people. He said,

“My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.

One is Evil – It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorry, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,

resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is good – It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,

empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.”

 

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

The old man quietly replied, “The one you feed.”

ABOUT THE PROJECT

My first novel, which was first published in 2019, took me the best part of twenty-five years to complete. It was a mammoth task truly, from start to finish, but as I completed and got the debut novel “out there”, I sensed in a way that I was far from done with the whole writing process.

Having one book published was always an ambition and it was written when I was largely finding my feet, so to speak, in both my life experiences as well as my creativity.

During 2019 I wanted to do something else, something more. A continuation from the first of sorts in a sense, but with different elements interweaving into a new story and with new ideas.

So where did this idea begin? The conception, as well as the story of this book, actually started in a bodega in Barcelona. In May 2019, my wife and I, on vacation, and whilst sitting outside in the sun having a drink, a spark suddenly ignited in me. Even though I didn’t put pen to paper at this stage the creative cogs were already turning and on my return home I almost immediately started.

So twenty-five years for the first novel to be complete, and here we are now, and with my second concluded. The Dark Horse has been born after just under eleven months of labour. It has been a pretty much constant creation and like the first, my mind has been working overtime with ideas, plot, and premise, and now finished it's over 10,000 words bigger than the first. It’s been a creative burst of energy at times, with the odd slow-pulsing dread of despair and doubt thrown in too for good measure.

This book was written and completed with the original title of Internecine during the Covid-19 pandemic in April 2020. During this time, many thousands of people died and many millions of cases were reported worldwide. It was a truly horrific human tragedy, unparalleled to anything in what has occurred previously in anyone’s lifetime. I dedicate this book to the people of Lombardy, which is where this book is largely based, and where in Italy the greatest amount of casualties has occurred. My sadness to the people who this has affected leaves me empty, and my whole heart sends nothing but love and affection at this sad period in our history, as well as to everyone that this has impacted upon. I decided to change the title to something which I felt best fitted with the book, and so picked The Dark Horse. 

I would like to thank my family who has helped and supported me on this project and especially to my wife for allowing me to shut myself at times off whilst I took on the task of writing this. XxX

I also like to particularly thank my very good friend Angus Rymer for not only taking an interest in this project but also in playing a pivotal part in the editing process. I am pleased you enjoyed it as much I am appreciative of your interests. 

I would like to point out that I am not supporting or condemning the activities of terrorists and individuals, as well as any groups and elements they belong to, as featured strongly in this book.

All characters (including names) described in this book are pure fictions of my imagination. Any similarity to characters and character names is purely incidental and does not depict anyone either living or dead.

 

Anthony A. Newman

Jersey, 2020

 

QUOTE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 “There is no greater agony

 than bearing an untold story inside you.”

 

Maya Angelou,

American writer, poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist 1928 - 2014

CHAPTER ONE

She sipped her gin and ice slowly. She preferred to drink it this way, without the usual mixture of tonic, only substituting it for a cube or two of ice, and a wedge of lime, which she found made it a much more refreshing indulgence.

She found it to be welcoming to finally be able to sit down and put her feet to rest. The day’s shopping and sightseeing in Barcelona had certainly been more tiring than she had expected, but nevertheless just to be away, somewhere new, albeit for a few days, meant everything. In any case, the Catalonian capital had been far more rewarding to her than she had anticipated. There was a certain charm, sophistication, and at the same time relaxation about this coastal city.

She sat under a welcoming canopy and out of the harsh mid-afternoon sunshine, whilst watching the throngs of pedestrians outside the bodega. To just watch them walking from place to place was so reassuringly comforting to her. She couldn’t remember the last time her whole entire body seemed at ease with itself and its immediate surroundings.

Her long brown hair seemed to cascade over both sides of her face and almost conjoin together over the front of her buttoned-up summery shirt.

She reached into her Valentino Garavani bag to reveal a pack of MS filters and a lighter. There really was nothing that went better with a drink, than a smoke, she thought.

As she lit the cigarette, an attentive camarero produced an ashtray to the table. She nodded her gratitude, as she blew out the first drag from it.

She took another small sip, acknowledging and admiring the taste of the Larios and its cold liquid before it softly burned the back of her throat.

She glanced down onto the table and continued to be surprised, and somewhat delighted that she had managed to obtain a copy of that morning’s Corriere della Sera, and slowly scanned the front-page headlines whilst taking the odd draw from the filter which slowly burned down between her fingers.

As she turned the page of the paper, she sensed someone approaching in her peripheral vision on her right side and suddenly looked up. She smiled when she noticed who it was.

He was middle-aged, his black hair had been sleeked back on the sides. He was dressed in a grey suit with a pastoral blue shirt. She noticed he had since removed the tie he had on earlier that morning.

‘Luka!’ There was a sparkle in her voice as she greeted him.

Luka returned her smile and gently kissed her on both cheeks before sitting down opposite her at the table. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you, have you been waiting long? he asked.

‘Only several minutes darling. It’s not a problem. It’s a nice spot to sit, chill, and people-watch and, of course, sip my Larios’ she replied.

‘Well, why not? It’s a lovely day for it.’ There was a certain comfort in Luka’s reply.

The ever-watchful camarero returned to the table.

‘Una botella de Estrella por favor’ came Luka’s request without making direct eye contact with the server.

‘Ciertamente señor’ and the camarero turned and headed back into the dark interior of the bodega.

‘Get everything sorted? asked Noemi.

Luka didn’t reply. He nodded and smiled in a way that gave her the clarification as well as the assurance she required.

‘So, I am presuming it’s in place? as she stubbed her now spent filter into the ashtray.

‘All is in place’ he replied. ‘Calls for another Larios I’d say.’

Noemi smiled, as she took off her designer sunglasses to reveal her dark absorbing eyes> This was quite a contrast from the bright conditions which surrounded them. She quickly rubbed them, before returning the sunglasses to her head.

They sat, bereft of conversation for the following minutes Each was taking and absorbing in the surrounding area, which included a luxury yacht marina and palm tree-lined boulevard. Some of the superyachts inside that marina were probably priced near €200 million and could have contained crews of up to twenty or even thirty people.

It remained a hot afternoon, as did most afternoons this time of year on the coast, but noticeably there was more of a welcoming breeze blowing in from the ocean. They both looked up and noticed a small squawking company of green monk parakeets flying overhead as they noisily settled in the nearby London Plane trees across from the now filing up bodega.

As their gaze was elsewhere, the camarero silently returned with a bottle of Estrella and a small courtesy bowl of mixed olives.

‘Gracias y otro Larios por favor’ asked Luka, this time giving the courtesy of making eye contact with the waiter who simply just nodded back.

‘When should we see things moving? Noemi suddenly asked.

‘Almost straight away. I have been assured there will be no further obstacles nor delays’

Noemi smiled. ‘Good to hear that you have ironed out the issues’

‘The issues no longer present a problem’ as he grabbed hold of the bottle and took in a sizeable mouthful.

‘It’s reassuring Luka you have our best interests at heart' she replied.

‘Of course, I always do’ he smiled.

Noemi’s lingering gaze at Luka came to an end when she stood up. ‘I must go and powder my nose, excuse me for a moment please’ she said as she picked up her bag.

Luka nodded and took another gulp of lager whilst watching Noemi get up in her flowing linen dress and elegantly step inside of the bodega, and out of sight.

Luka reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He looked around in the general direction of the marina and the pedestrians for a good minute or so. It was certainly busy out there, and people were obviously getting to the idea that this humid, hot weather required a cold drink to cool themselves with; as it now appeared all the bodegas up and down the Passeig de Colom were filling up fast. He also noticed the African salesman on the other side of the street, sitting under the relative coolness of the palm trees, whilst they plied their trade, propositioning potential customers for the purchase of counterfeit branded clothes and accessories.

Luka turned back to the table and lit his cigarette. He watched the blue-grey smoke rise as he reached over for a green olive from the bowl. He began to feel suddenly perplexed, and he wasn’t sure why. It had been a productive day, without any mention of a hiccup but something now niggled him. He quickly turned around again and drew from his cigarette. He looked at the people walking past the bodega. He found himself studying them, although he did not know what for. He turned back and had another olive and a mouthful of lager.

He continued to sense something wasn’t as it should be. He stood up and turned around, again looking at, what mostly appeared to be tourists, walking past the confines of the bodega’s outside area. All he mostly spotted were families and innocent people, smiling, walking carefree in the glorious sunshine of a summer’s afternoon in Barcelona. There appeared to be no threat to him here, surely?

Still standing, he turned back to the bodega. Noemi was taking her time he thought. She seemed to have been gone longer than he would have expected, but maybe there was an explanation?

If only she hadn’t had the two designer shopping bags under their table, he would go in and see where and how she was. He decided to wait a few more minutes before making a decision and going in. There was probably a perfect and reasonable explanation for why she was now gone for what seemed five minutes.

This wait did not help with his growing concern that something was not right but for the time being, he decided to stay put by the table with her bags and wait for Noemi to return.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

During what was now the peak summer months, she had practically pleaded to the tablao manager, to offer her early afternoon sessions where entertainment, mostly aimed at tourists, could be experienced. Not surprisingly, it took, little persuasion in granting this Summer Spectacle, and so throughout a sixteen-week period, and for up to two hours over an extended lunchtime, she would perform.

Her enthusiasm was infectious; as was the recognition she was starting to get as an accomplished artist. This growing acknowledgment from others, as well as confidence from within, gave her the incentive to master her art at a higher standard as well as give the audience something that they could not see anywhere else in Barcelona city during the day.

With the entertainment, the tablao provided, and what some would consider over-priced tapas coupled with a customary inflated entrance fee, lunchtimes at the Tablao Villa Santa Rosa had become pretty lucrative in recent weeks. The young new starlet, the beautiful and talented Alba del Serra had already made herself recognisable as providing an entertainment service that hadn’t been in place for many a year during the day.

With the stomping of feet and swinging of skirts, flamenco is a passion of both the visual and audible senses. Many would be amazed to watch and experience how it made them feel. Essentially the art form of Flamenco was made up of three parts, guitar playing, song, and dance. As for most traditional flamenco dancers, Alba had never received any formal training. However, her mother, Flor del Serra, was once a famous dancer of the art in and around Catalonia, and she had passed down her technics and style to her oldest daughter. I guess you could say Alba was now literally following in her mother’s footsteps.

With the afternoon’s matinee performance just finishing, Alba smiled appreciatively to the doting rapturous audience who loudly applauded her and the others on stage. She immensely loved the appreciation that this gratitude from strangers gave her, and truly longed that the Tablao Villa Santa Rosa would grant her a possible residency that exceeded the sixteen weeks she had initially agreed to. Ideally, she would love the management team to permit her to perform several evenings a week, as well as the lunchtimes. Maybe even start within the quieter months and on a trial basis,

After she thanked the latest assemble of customers, she placed her castanets into a wooden box on the side of the stage, reached alongside it, and grabbed an open bottle of water, taking a small mouthful.

‘Outstanding as ever Alba’ came a familiar voice behind.

‘Gracias’ she replied, smiling to herself without turning around to face the person talking to her.

‘You know; we really must talk about a longer contract’

Alba turned around to face Paco Morente, a middle-aged man who always had a soft-spoken nature about himself.

‘Well talking is all we seem to ever do, what about agreeing to something for once Paco? she spoke coyly.

‘I know, I know. Your beauty and talent will be rewarded Alba, I promise. Go and get yourself some tapas, you deserve it.’

Alba smiled. She knew his promises amounted to little, but she also knew, that patience was one of her greatest virtues. She can bide time as long as she put in the effort, and that was something that was never in question in her mind.

‘Gracias Paco’ she replied.

She picked up the wooden box and her water and walked to an empty table, where tourists had been sitting around watching her performance a couple of minutes earlier.

Paco Morente was a mild-mannered man and had been manager of the tablao for the last twelve seasons. It had gifted him with affectionate notoriety, and financial wealth that had long exceeded his expectations.

He made it his business to personally greet each audience member before and after any performance at the tablao. It was his way of sealing a professional service together and gave him somewhat of a personal touch. He would tend to stop and listen to anyone who wanted to talk to him as well as thank those who had enjoyed the performance enough to want to say so. Apart from his mild-mannered talking, and his carefully groomed long straight moustache he was also well known for his constant hand-shaking of the public and with a customary smile. This made him seem immensely approachable and somewhat likable to pretty much everyone who had the good fortune of meeting him. It was like a bond of friendship and loyalty on one hand but was also intended to be a symbol that he was in charge and ultimately the boss. A consummate professional who seemed to care for his staff as well as be part of a greater good in his community, Paco was also tough enough when he needed to be to not tolerate the bullshit that was sometimes flung in his direction.

He grabbed a plate of tapas, mainly containing some Albondigas in a rich garlic and tomato sauce, along with some cutlery, and briskly walked up the single flight of stairs to his office situated on the first floor. His office was surprisingly small, no bigger than a single bedroom in size. At one side of the room was a large series of shelves, practically from floor to ceiling. These housed mainly ring-binders of financial ledgers, invoices, and historical statements from his various business interests, some of which had since long bitten the dust.

He sat down at his desk, which was opposite the shelving, dragging aside a small stack of paper to make way for the plate in which he put down there. Using the side of a fork, he started to cut a meatball in half. Without warning, his mobile telephone suddenly sprang into life from inside his trouser pocket.

‘Yeah, what is it?’ he answered his voice almost in a monotone.

‘She’s in place’ came the male voice on the other end.

Paco listened for a second or two before speaking again, ‘Good, stay with her and wait for that first signal. What is she doing now?’ he asked.

‘She has ordered a drink, sitting outside’ quickly came the male’s reply. ‘She is looking around; she is so far alone’

Paco listened quietly, picturing the situation unfolding as it was being relayed back to him.

‘She has reached into her bag, out has come a cigarette box, she takes one out and lights it, whilst reading a paper at the table.

‘OK, so no sign so far of…’

‘Yes, here he is’ interrupted the male voice. ‘He has seen her and is walking towards her. They’ve just kissed and he has sat down opposite her at the table’

‘Good, ok’ replied Paco, as he cut a sauce-covered meatball in half with the side of his fork.

‘They are talking; a waiter has come to their table…. he has ordered a drink. They continue to talk, she just smiled briefly’

‘Just wait for the signal…’ Paco spoke.

‘There, we have it, she has just removed her glasses and now rubbing her eyes’ interrupted the man on the phone.

‘Fine, wait till the next signal’ he replied.

‘Will do, now silence between them. They’re looking around. The waiter has returned with his drink and a bowl, presume olives, I don’t know’

‘And I don’t care, just wait for the next signal’ reaffirmed Paco.

‘He has ordered something with the waiter, and now they are talking again’

‘Tell me when the signal is made’ Paco replied quietly.

‘There. She has just grabbed her bag and got up. She is making her way inside. The eagle is now alone, repeat the eagle is now alone’.

‘OK, be on stand-by, and careful no innocents, I repeat, no innocents’ instructed Paco.

‘Message received. He has lit a cigarette, and is looking around and now drinking his beer’

‘Greenlight in thirty seconds’ spoke Paco.

‘Understood, thirty seconds’ came the reply

A half a minute of no further conversation gave Paco the chance to eat another meatball. All he could hear was the sound coming from his phone, which he had put on speaker, and the noise of him chewing and swallowing his food.

‘The eagle is down. I repeat the eagle down’ suddenly the male voice came through clearly.

‘Understood, thank you’ and with that Paco hung up the conversation.

He continued to sit for a minute, remaining silent and still and looking somewhat emotionless, pondering to himself what the outcome of the Eagle falling truly meant, or indeed what it could mean.

 

CHAPTER THREE

The conversation noise was a collection of laughter, excited emotions all mixed in with a general amount of chit-chat.

Despite the numbers still not quite reaching the capacity of just over two thousand, the Teatro alla Scala was now only five minutes away from the opening night of Giuseppe Verdi’s, La Traviata. It was a production that the La Scala had performed so many times before, and because of its popularity, tonight was the first of what would be twelve performances that would be played out over the next nine weeks or so.

Her long black hair seemed to blend in and fuse together with a black top she was wearing. Her eyes were like sparkling stars and with the clarity of a clear blue summer sky.

She sat, like the others, patiently waiting for the performance to commence. Her seat in the Palco Centrale faced directly in front of the stage, where she would be able to see the entire production. It was regarded as being one of the best areas in the theatre. She studied the other members of the audience, who were largely dressed in a similar fashion to herself, displaying the understated elegance and sartorial simplicity one would expect to find within the Milanese elite.

Milan had long been a place for fashion, vibrancy, and wealth, and a night at the Opera was no better place to experience all those essential upper crust elements under one roof. These were her kind of people, the anonymous collective, the Milanese elite.

‘You know the first time I came here was to see a young Maria Callas, it was 1956 and she was so beautiful back then. I mean her voice was like one of an angel’s and she sang like a bird and just looked a million dollars’ he recounted nostalgically.

‘Papa, really you would have been a young man in 1956?’

‘Hey, listen I am still a young man’ he laughed, ‘I was a handsome man in my twenties if you must know. I was a quite a catch back then let me tell you’

‘Papa, you’re still a catch, even fifty years on’ she smiled at him.

‘Only you’re Nonna would agree with that you know, that’s if she was still alive’

She smiled, Nonna was her grandmother, her Papa’s wife of over fifty years. She was particularly close to Nonna Sarah. She had raised her to the same extent, and with the same affection and love as her own mother had done.

‘I miss Nonna, Papa, everyday….’

‘I miss her too dear’ he interjected.

She smiled at him. She could see what the loss of her had meant to him. Her life, within his, was always there and always will be. The greatest love of his life had been taken from them all barely a year earlier, and yet somehow the bond between her and her Papa had strengthened and deepened because of it.

‘Maria Callas was aged thirty-three when she sang in La Traviata here, at this very venue, in 1956, and you know you are the same age now, as she was then’ he recalled.

‘You sound so wise, sometimes Papa’ she smiled.

‘Only sometimes?’ he questioned, whilst trying to fend off a glimpse of a smile.

‘OK, so it’s fair to say La Traviata is one of your favourites then Papa?’ She was intentionally ignoring his remarks.

‘I guess it is. I have always liked and enjoyed it, but now and here, it reminds me of your Nonna, and of course, the times when we could come here. When you get to my age, you can only look back, because looking anyway else can suddenly make you feel depressed and somewhat melancholy’

‘Oh Papa, the future’s bright’ she smiled, reassuringly.

‘Well maybe for a beautiful thirty-something babe like you, but for me, a sometimes doddery old duffer, I know I have had my best years, and it’s done me well, beyond well even. Anyway listen, so what is your view on opera?’ he asked, changing the subject altogether.

‘We have the best seats in the house Papa’ she replied.

‘We have some of the best seats in life, my darling, but only hard work and determination has got us to this fortunate position. Besides, that is not what I asked.’

‘I know Papa; I was only joking. I suppose to really answer your question, opera to me is a friend who I only see, once in a while.’

‘You mean like twice a year?’ he asked.

‘More like once in five years’ she admitted.

Wow, some friendship you have got going there’ he laughed. ‘You know, you’re too polite, even to your Papa at times, but I need to ask you something more serious, something in which I need to know with a definitive answer.’

‘Ask away Papa’ wondering what it could be as she suddenly sensed the importance in the question, noticing his demeanour suddenly change from playful to now be preoccupied in thought. ‘Maybe make it quick Papa, I sense the performance is shortly to commence’ hastening him to ask the question she was now really intrigued to hear.

He looked into her blue eyes, ‘I want you to become more… front of house’.

‘front of….? She was puzzled by the question he was asking of her.

‘I want you to take over from my day to day duties’ he elaborated.

‘Oh Papa, I am not an ideal person for that’ she answered suddenly.

‘Nonsense. You are young, cunning, beautiful, and obviously can avoid a difficult question by giving a diplomatic answer. Once in five years suggests you don’t like opera, it’s OK, I get it!’

She took a deep breath and thought for a moment before answering him.

‘Oh Papa, I don’t know what to say. I am truly humbled, really, but I need some time to consider this’

‘I completely agree, in that case, you have the time till we get to the intermission’

‘That is not really long enough Papa’

‘You have been active for a while, assisting where you can. I am more than impressed with how you have conducted yourself. This moment is the following step in your, what I would call, natural progression. Let’s call it your intended path.’

‘What about your son, surely he is more of a natural choice Papa than me?’ she asked.

‘Admittedly, yes and no. He admires and respects you, and even though I love him as he is my son -  but don’t tell him this, but I admire and respect you more. Besides, you would do more of an honourable job and draw less attention to yourself than he possibly could. Therefore, you my child are, in my eyes, a better and more natural choice than he could ever be.’

‘So, Nico is happy with that? I mean you have spoken to him, right Papa?’ she asked.

‘No, not yet, but he does as I say. After all, I am his father and when I tell him something, he listens or should listen to me’ he replied almost sternly.

‘Let’s say that I accept your gracious offer and that I take over, will he still be listening to you then, or will he feel like he has been dealt a bum deal by his father? Look, Papa, I must say I would love the chance to prove myself to you. I love you for asking me, truly, but I am not the natural and obvious choice you think I am’ she questioned.

‘I am a good judge of character, I always have been able to know the difference between the wheat and the chaff. It’s been an ability of mine to know when someone has been less than honest with me, shall we say. My son will discredit the business in little to no time, dismantle the reputation I have built up over the years, and he will trounce our family name and status into the mud before too long. As I say, everything that I have built up over the years would be quickly ruined if he were to oversee and run it. This would happen probably without him even realising it. Believe me, you are my first and only choice, and besides, you have always proved yourself more than capable to me. You’re not an obvious choice, I get that but you see, that is what makes this so perfect. You have an hour till intermission, and I would expect you to have given me your answer by then.’

She continued looking at him, not replying, as the lights in the auditorium dimmed. She slowly reached out to gently squeeze his wrinkled hand, as the stage curtain slowly raised and seconds later the music instantly began to herald in Act I.

She pondered, or at least tried to, over the sudden rise in sound, to slowly understand and absorb what her grandfather had asked of her. ‘Was she so surprised?’ No, not really, if she was to be bluntly honest and truthful. But she was taken aback by the timing, however, and here of all places. But surprised? No. She in some ways had seen this moment on the horizon coming for a while.

If she was to take the mantle of being the family business owner, she needed to do it in her own style and in her own way and not live within the shadow of ‘El Colonnello’.

If only she could seek advice from others, maybe that was why Papa had brought her here tonight, so that she couldn’t be dissuaded? He knew that whatever the decision she was to choose, was to be hers, and hers alone, and having input from others, would maybe somehow influence her from making, what he wanted inevitably, to be the right choice and decision.

Still looking at her Papa, she noticed the aged furrows on his face were more pronounced now as the stage light seemed to give them more prominence. To her, he looked like he was at peace, and in what seemed like a trance-like state. He just stared, transfixed, at the performance in which Violetta Valéry, a well-known working girl, who was celebrating her recovery from a long illness, is told by Alfredo, a young handsome bourgeois, his confession of love to her.

She smiled at him, he was largely unaware of her looking at him. She knew he had a good heart, and that throughout his life, had made decisions, both virtuous and sometimes not so, and occasionally in tough and difficult circumstances. I guess you don’t get to be the grand old age of 80 something, without these imbalanced choices being made from time to time. In a sense, it defines you as a person. She knew, however, that he had made decisions that at times, weren’t popular, and occasionally, although rarely, these lead to situations that were far from ideal shall we say.

Sometimes the mark of a man is how he handles himself with the unpopular decisions, the tough choices, and the situations where things can really get ugly quickly. Could she be that next such person to follow in this man’s, or indeed any man’s shoes? Would she want the decision making to be left at her door? Could she live with and stand by those unpopular decisions? Would making tough choices give her indecision she would possibly live to regret?

She knew there was a certainly increased proliferation of women taking over in this line of business. She also knew first-hand that some were as ruthless and foreboding as their male counterparts. But was she a callous, brutal, hard-nosed, merciless bitch? Could she shed her innocent-looking charm and replace it with a more hard-hitting, no-nonsense version of herself?

‘Well, certainly laying on the charm offensive does work for most things’, she thought as she cast her eyes back onto the stage.

She also realised she would have a good support network, that would assist her if, or when, she fell, and there would be many who would help her back up. She knew that if she was to take on the role, she would not ever be alone, although she recognised that Papa’s only son, Nico may take the news of her promotion, somewhat unfavourably, as it wouldn’t be him.

As the singing, died down momentarily, she turned back to her grandfather, his eyes slightly glazed in emotion from the performance he was engrossed in.

‘Papa, are you OK?’ she asked, knowing that there were seldom people who had ever experienced and seen him show a sentimental side to himself.

Papa turned his head briefly to face her ‘Of course I’m alright, I am more than alright’ he protested.

She smiled back at him, realising that showing emotion to anyone was as rare as witnessing Haley’s comet.

‘Papa, I have been thinking about what you have offered me, with regards to the business’ she spoke quietly.

Papa said nothing, just again turned his vision and stared into her eyes, eagerly waiting for an answer.

‘I am very honoured for you to have offered this…’

‘Yes or no’ he suddenly snapped.

‘Yes Papa, it would be a great privilege to take over your business’

‘Good. You know it’s not an easy gig? It’s a damn challenge, that’s what it is’ he claimed.

‘I think a challenge is a good thing. It will keep me on my toes’ she replied.

‘It’s a good thing when the chips are stacked in your favour, that is for sure. But there is always a shifting tide with this responsibility, you just need to be aware of this.’

‘I will no doubt experience a steep learning curve. But Papa, I will learn from the best won’t I?’

He suddenly smiled. ‘Well this is great news, I am more than pleased with your decision Noemi I can tell you. So, that just leaves me to say, welcome aboard, and that you start immediately.

‘Immediately Papa?’ she asked.

‘After we leave La Scala, my business and my succession will pass over to you, and it will begin. I am truly delighted, there is no one more who deserves it than you do’ he smiled.

‘I won’t let you down Papa, that is my solemn promise to you.’

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The songbird’s twittering notes hadn’t gone unnoticed to Maarten, who was busy splitting logs he had already sawn. The bird’s melody was practically the only sound, apart from the more distant noise of running water he could hear.

He looked up, trying to discover the origins of the birdcall, and discovered to his inquisitive eyes that is was indeed a Citril Finch that was providing him with an accompanying song.

He looked down, concentrating again on the last few logs that needed chopping before he would stack the entirety of his morning’s work into a nearby shed for use over the winter period. He never knew how much wood he would ever need to sustain him for the colder seasons, but he realised this was always largely dependent on where he and his family would be over that period.

He made the virtually last-minute decision to take four days out, making it a six-day stayover with a weekend in-between. He needed time out to charge his batteries and muster some mental strength before heading back to Geneva, in what would now be three days’ time.

He had called the western shores of Lake Annecy home for the last nine years. He loved the comparison the area gave him, the steep dense wooded forests, the snow-capped mountains, especially in the colder months, and all set within the backdrop to the turquoise waters of the lake itself. It was a far cry from the hullabaloo of the city He enjoyed both, and in similar amounts. The lake and the surrounding environment were the yin to Geneva’s yang.

He retreated back to the lake for roughly the same amount of time five or six times a year. His modest dwelling was much more than a summer residence to him and his family. It was a base for exploring further south to the winter ski-fields of Tignes, Val-d’Isere, and Alpe d’huez, and further, still the exuberance of France’s Mediterranean coastline, with the likes of Cannes only being a good six hours drive away.

Being by the lake and away from the accustomed civilisation was a relaxing indulgence to him. With it came a complete serenity, that he never took for granted. Its peacefulness alongside its alluring charm was something he missed every time he drove back north. Despite returning back every three to four weeks, he never tired of revisiting the familiar lakeside property he blissfully called his second home.

Along with chopping logs for the winter fire, he also spent time fishing on the lake in his small aluminium bottomed boat for trout, pike and if luck was on his side, the allusive giant pike. He loved to live off the land as best as he could, it was something that was passed down to him from his father who lived on the Dutch waterways and who had fished practically all the time in his later years. He found it a therapeutic release, a tranquil relaxing way of spending half a day without a phone, and a concern from the obtrusive outside world. Finding a pastime, like fishing was a great release and benefit to him. It seemed to give him back control of his mind. Besides if he hadn’t have chosen such a lifestyle, in the surroundings of a wilderness retreat per se, he knew he would suffer in more ways than he could possibly begin to realise. He would easily get bogged down with tiresome, stressful pursuits and that wasn’t something he cared to consider and contemplate.

He had never been as happy as when spending his vacation days than at his country retreat by the lake. To him, it was a worthy get away from his day job, which at times was becoming more demanding of late than he could ever remember. Besides not only that, standing with just a fishing pole with a float on the shoreline or in the middle of Lake Annecy gave him anonymity. He was practically no one here and yet to him, he was everything.

Once or twice a week, he would venture into Annecy city, sometimes dubbed as the Venice of the Alps, to get the usual supplies and groceries. When his wife would come down and join him for a few days, would sometimes go with him into the city for the evening, or a nearby smaller town, and sample a traditional meal at a restaurant. Other than that, they kept themselves to themselves, and their neighbours even though they noticed their coming and goings, knew little of the couple and the lives they lived outside of living by the lake.

Outside of his exclusive retreat, Maarten was a well-liked, well-thought-of man in his late fifties who worked hard. Despite a personal tragedy that occurred some five years ago, had stuck by his regimented principals of what he considered to be good and righteous and just got on with it.

His wife however was more closed and insular than him. She was once a top investigator who travelled the world, but mainly Europe, and took cases on when she was called for. She was a renowned pioneer who solved investigations and became a very sought-after resource within police and crime control departments. She often didn’t work alone, although she liked to take on cases in somewhat covert situations. She generally found ambiguity worked better for her than being a person who worked mainly as a team player. He knew that she preferred to keep the number of people who knew her professional identity to a minimum. This approach often yielded better results for her, as well as the investigation she was working on at the time.

The ability to ‘do her stuff’ under the radar of most employers largely worked. It gave her better, more desirable outcomes, and even though she wasn’t driven by success, she was often applauded for her results and cunning audacity.

Travelling down from Brussels, from where she worked and partially lived, to Annecy every now and then, gave her a sort of cloak of invisibility, which at times she desperately needed, and often for different reasons.

He knew stacking logs was a wearisome pastime. He was sweating and tired. After spending the last hour and a half of cutting and chopping, he suddenly decided to walk indoors and into his lake-side residence.

Immediately the temperature difference between the late morning and the coolness of the interior was noticeable. He walked through to the kitchen. Considering the large scale of the property, it wasn’t a large and expensive kitchen. It was simply a room where he cooked meals, and where his wife and daughter would just simply eat when they came down. Other than that it wasn’t an essential area. It did have an old rustic stove, a temperamentally aging cooker, and a slightly damaged sink, but to call it a kitchen in the very sense of the word, considering the splendid grandeur in the rest of the property seemed somewhat an injustice. It was largely a room that served little or none of its true intended purpose. They had spent little time entertaining in it, and even less money on modernising it since the days when they had first brought the property.

They never accommodated visitors. Only when his wife, and more rarely still, their daughter, frequented the property, had they the need, or the desire to ever use the kitchen. Over time, this seemed largely to prevent the necessity and therefore didn’t warrant the need and effort invested in renovating and improving it.

Things were once different for Maarten and his wife. They had once lived a complete life but over time, and certainly, since the tragedy had occurred, they lived now private lives, more in isolation from others, and to a certain degree now, themselves.

The utmost love they once had, his wife and him, had now largely subsided to them living in separate bedrooms. In more recent years, almost separate independent lives altogether.

He wished things that had happened in their past had been so different. The tragedy and aftermath of losing their only son was an absolute disaster to them, a loss that no one could quantify unless they had gone through the same. He hated the fact that their once happy loving life had now been reduced to living in somewhat separation and the mutual seclusion from each other which it brought. But he also knew and realised that it was a better evil, not perfect, not pristine, just the new norm in their lives. In his mind, to have each other and to reassure themselves, from time to time, despite their shared heartbreak, there was always hope, and upmost to that, love.

He opened the refrigerator and extracted a cold bottle of beer from its cool inside. Chopping and sawing wood had garnered a thirst.

He glanced down at his watch, it read just before midday. To him, regardless of the time, a beer, especially a cold and well earnt one, was always called for. He twisted the cap off and breathed out loudly. He had had a good session of wood cutting and a cold beer in hand was his just reward for a job well done. He took a long thirst-quenching gulp, its ice-cold liquid hitting the back of his dry throat was certainly welcoming.

He stood silently in the kitchen, looking and staring at his now half-drunk bottle of beer in his hand. Days like these were his golden moments in life, a time to do what he needed as well as a reflection of what he still had to achieve, and a reminder of what he had already accomplished.

He turned and spotted a wooden framed photo collage hanging on the wall above the breakfast bar. The first photo was a black and white image of a young man, his father, standing alongside a car, a Renault 7. His dark greased hair noticeably shone in what appeared to be a bright summer’s day. He barely knew and understood his father. Despite teaching him survival skills and the art of fishing, they had a somewhat fractious relationship, largely due to the fact that his father was troubled with drink and depression. It was a battle that he ultimately lost when Maarten was just nineteen.

The middle photo, also in black and white, depicted a young woman, his mother, her long hair flowing down her back like a waterway. She was dressed in jodhpurs and a dark riding helmet and wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Maarten remembered that the photo was taken while she was on vacation in England’s New Forest. She was a person who, up to her death some four years ago, he had had regular contact with; as often as three or four times a week, and still to this day missed the sometimes lengthy conversations he had with her.

The last photo in the collage was of his wife and daughter, taken only last winter whilst they were on the Aiguille du Midi cable car in the Mont Blanc Massif, a popular tourist destination within the nearby French Alps.

It was their last vacation, or at least, their latest that they had had as a family. He wished that distance, not just in miles but also now in emotion and memories, wasn’t such a factor. He also knew and realised that his daughter, now twenty-two, had now her own life and interests, and going on a sight-seeing trip or skiing holiday with her half-separated parents wasn’t terribly high on her priority list any longer. Since the tragedy, she felt the memories of the whole experience still too raw to get emotionally attached to her mother in the way she used to. It upset Maarten to think that their relationship had suffered over time. Despite the years that had passed, little headway had been made to fully reconcile with her. He smiled recounting the memories of that day in the photo. The brilliance and magic of a clear but crisp occasion in the Alps, the mountains, and slopes carpeted with a recent heavy snowfall just made the scene on top of the peak so incredibly beautiful. He also realised at the same time however that he had seen Jasmine only once since that photo was taken last winter.

Would they ever be that loving family again? No, he doubted it but longed that maybe some line could eventually be drawn in the sand and that some lasting happiness could possibly be achieved and endured. He confessed that tempers had been raised, words uttered and regretted. The dynamics of their, once close-knit family had changed, maybe to a point that it was now impossibly unsalvageable.

He knew that this home by the lake reminded him of the bad and unforgivable past, and also understood it was the very foundations of what was good, or indeed once good about it. The memories of holidays here with the family, were often enjoyable and pleasant occasions, extended over many years. He knew his wife now thought differently, and Maarten guessed that one of the reasons she came up to the lake less now was that the past and her actions, which were directly or indirectly all connected to the contributing consequences to their son losing his life that fateful day, still haunted her, although she had never admitted to him. He knew she tried to be mentally strong at first, at least in public, and always appeared to accept the situation, even though she was aware that many blamed her for the death. During the months after the tragedy, she literally collapsed as a person and entered a period of deep regret and soul searching. She had counselling from professionals. They both did eventually and despite being now the strongest person he had ever known, she never again would be that hard-working, no-nonsense, ruthless bitch he chose to fall in love with all those years ago.

Maarten looked out of the kitchen window and onto the calm and stillness of the lake. There was no wind or lunchtime breeze, as there occasionally was this time of the year. This gave the surface a glass-like smoothness. The lake now was exactly the same as it had been the day his son died. Even on these tranquil days, where on the surface everything appeared to be clear and smooth, evil can linger not too far away.

He turned from the window and finished his beer by taking one last mouthful. He knew he needed to keep busy today. Despite being reminded of the past from time to time, he knew that the present and future were far more important. He also knew that he had to be focused and strong for his wife. She was to be travelling down later that day, to spend two or three nights with him by the lake. He was looking forward to having her close at hand. However, this was their son’s first birthday anniversary that she had spent at the lake since his death. There was no doubt that these next few days would be a tough time of reflection for them both. But facing these difficult annual milestones, and in particular what would have been his twentieth birthday tomorrow, was a necessary confrontation and acknowledgment that this tragedy they shared in their lives, could be processed so that progress could be made in moving forward.

Moving forward wasn’t easy, in fact, it had been incredibly difficult. But picking up the pieces of their shattered lives after the tragedy had been insurmountably tough. Probably the most challenging thing anyone should ever have to face and deal with.

Tomorrow would soon be here. They would grief together, as they have done so many times before, in the hope that their continued sorrow, heartache, and anguish would slowly lessen. But as they have already discovered, it never does. It’s like a tide that ebbs but always returns.

Their son was a beautiful child who they loved with every fibre they possessed, despite him having autism with learning and social difficulties. He was a gift to them which some people would have wrongly considered as having had an imperfection. To them, he was a kind and gentle, loving boy who didn’t deserve to have his ‘perfect’ life taken from him all those years ago.

His wife was cruelly subjected to harsh criticism about the consequences and handling of his death. Despite all that happened that day, he sincerely believed she couldn’t have done any more, and certainly couldn’t have saved or prevented him from tragically dying that day.

It was now a wisp before midday, and his wife would be here later that afternoon. He had booked a meal in the city at one of their favourite restaurants, and for the next two or three days’ things needed to be as perfect as possible. Whatever perfect was or meant anymore.

CHAPTER FIVE

The buildings here were mainly one or two-storey semi-residential, mingled with the odd warehouse, factory, and garage. It was a short distance off the regular two-lane road on which the fairly large industrial park was situated, on the north-western fringes of Greater Milan. Most services seemed to be represented here and getting occupancy in this important and somewhat popular patch of turf, was a somewhat prestigious but potentially lengthy process.

Different companies from all businesses and trading sectors seemed to have a presence here. Some businesses had expanded their original single occupancy over the years and moved into adjacent units, effectively doubling their space. This expansion of their industrial plot, made some companies quite considerable in size, whereas some others seemed dwarfed compared to the big players in the park. One of these was VentoSpace Industries Srl, which owned a small warehouse and a couple of offices within this large industrial area. Their principal business line was the sale, supply, and maintenance of vending machines across Milan. However, their client base was also throughout the whole of northern Italy. It had been once a very lucrative sector to be part of. But, like all things, vending machine companies, similar to VentoSpace, were now becoming ten a penny. Operating in such an increasingly overcrowded marketplace was more and more challenging and demanding. Regardless of the congested business environment, VentoSpace was still providing a complete and comprehensive professional service to its many clients. Throughout the industry in the local area, the company name was well thought of and usually highly regarded.

Pietro Moretti had started in the industry in his middle twenties, after spending his prior years in the Italian navy, at the famous and historic La Spezia naval base.

Today being the owner of a vending machine services company, was a far cry from being a sailor patrolling off the Italian coast, seeking out illegal immigrants, who were mainly coming in from northern Africa.

Moretti enjoyed the responsibility and role of not only being the owner and sometimes friend to a workforce of close to thirty people, but also on occasions was found rolling his sleeves up and getting the job done and hands-on, no matter how small or insignificant on the surface. Getting any job completed, no matter what size and what profit is generated, gave him a never-ending sense of pride. This made him a popular and approachable manager. He oversaw pretty much everything in the company, from initial sales inquiries to finalising account payments and ensuring servicing was complete and up to date. This was alongside striving to make the business as streamlined as possible whilst still maximising profits.

He sat in his company liveried peppermint striped shirt at the glass-topped table in a showroom, waiting for the others to arrive. He hadn’t been expecting this hastily arranged meeting and was slightly anxious about its purpose and ultimate outcome, and indeed why it had been called at the last minute.

Whilst he waited patiently, reaching for a sip of the water he had poured into a glass before he had sat down, the large wooden door to the showroom suddenly swung open.

‘Ciao Pietro’ greeted Vincenzo

Pietro looked up and saw the familiar but what he immediately thought was the aging figure of Mr. Mazzanti smiling back at him. He immediately took comfort from the initial greeting, which made this fairly formal meeting seem somewhat impromptu. His earlier trepidations as to why it had been so speedily arranged suddenly seemed unfounded.

Pietro stood up and extended his hand ‘Mr. Mazzanti, it is so good to see you again’

‘Likewise, as he turned around and introduced a young-looking woman who appeared to be barely in her thirties, who had followed behind him. She immediately gave a sincere smile to Pietro, ‘this is my grand-daughter Noemi’ suddenly exclaimed Vincenzo.

Noemi extended her hand out to Pietro which he kissed gently, ‘Pleasure to meet you, Noemi, in fact, a pleasure to meet you too Mr. Mazzanti’

‘Nice to meet you Mr. Moretti’ she replied somewhat quietly.

‘Your grandfather and I go back a long way, but little did I realise he had a grand-daughter as beautiful as you’ he charmed, as he smiled back at her.

‘Why thank you Mr. Moretti’ she replied almost appearing to blush because of the compliment.

‘Call me Pietro, everyone here does, and you should be no different’

‘I just wanted to bring myself around and introduce you to my replacement’ Vincenzo suddenly spoke, not wanting the sincere and over-baked introduction between the two other others to continue any longer.

Pietro turned his gaze to Vincenzo and smiled ‘Well it’s about time you clocked out and enjoyed a bit of life’ he joked.

‘I’m not entirely clocking out, well not just yet’ he affirmed, ‘I want to show Noemi the operations here, for her to understand the business interests we have here, to ask you questions about the sales, the distribution, the networking, you know… that sort of thing’

Pietro grinned, I am certain Noemi will find all that just so fascinating. I know I do’

Vincenzo suddenly let out an uncharacteristic laugh. Noemi turned to him to understand exactly what had caused him such hilarity.

‘Pietro may find this part of the business, as he is the owner, an important part of VentoSpace. But he knows, as I do, that this side of the company is solely his realm and therefore we pay no attention to it and have therefore no interest in it’ Vincenzo elaborated.

Noemi now looked at her grandfather somewhat puzzled.

‘We are only interested in the transportation side of matters here’ replied Vincenzo.

‘What your grandfather is saying, or trying to allude to, is that our fleet of vehicles are used to transport merchandise from the Alps to Bologna, or further afield if we wanted or needed to’ injected Pietro.

‘Sorry, typically what sort of merchandise are we talking here?’ she asked already suspecting what was meant and therefore certainly what was implied.

‘Yes, various merchandise’ Pietro smiled as he replied to the question.

‘We operate a facility out of another location here in the north. We use VentoSpace to distribute it across this corner of Europe, unfettered by certain agencies and I guess, by governments also’ stepped in Vincenzo.

Noemi looked at the two men ‘So OK, pedalling drugs across the country is what we are talking about here?’ she asked.

Vincenzo studied the question before answering, ‘Yes and sometimes not only drugs. Also people, guns and money, as well of course as the odd vending machine or two from time to time’ he replied, almost coyly.

‘Noemi, this method is as quick and reliable as anything that is legal to transfer whatever your grandfather wants. We at VentoSpace take a small slice, a percentage of whatever it is. It is business is what it is, but it’s always at our risk. Saying that we have mechanisms in place that largely negates the need to worry about law enforcement. This gives us an unfiltered service for your grandfather’s business to operate smoothly, as well as being pretty much under the radar. This is something we have had in place and operating now for quite a few years now.’

Noemi sat still and seemed unfazed by the announcement of the transportation of drugs, amongst other things, and that the various law enforcement agencies seemed to be turning a blind eye on what they were up to. A perfectly above-board company, running an illicit side business of people, guns, and drug trafficking on the peripheral wasn’t exactly anything new. She admired the simplistic sophistication of how this cooperation and partnership between both companies worked. However, it didn’t appear bullet-proof, as is such with anything that cannot guarantee complete success. But nevertheless, she was impressed with what she could imagine being a very workable approach to things, and a reliable, practicable, and effective partnership between the two separate companies.

‘Does VentoSpace have further outlets elsewhere in the country?’ asked Noemi.

‘No, we are solely a Milan based operation’ replied Pietro

‘If I wasn’t going to pass this on to you, I would have been keen to open a similar venture to what we have here, but further south, maybe in Crotone’ suddenly pipped up Vincenzo looking at Noemi for an immediate reaction.

Noemi suddenly looked almost horrified at what her Papa had just said, and she just couldn’t resist pulling him up on it.

‘Crotone, really! Is it not just polluted and awash there with organised crime, fraud, forgery, financial irregularities, extortion, murder, drugs, intimidation…do I really need to go on?’ replied Noemi, somewhat aghast to the realisation that her beloved grandfather could even entertain the notion of opening a second ‘business’ in an already crime saturated city like Crotone.

‘That is exactly where we need to go; where crime and opportunity go hand in hand and where it is already prevalent. We can be granted…’

‘Granted nothing Papa. In this business, discretion is essential. Besides what opportunities for us are in Crotone and who the hell do we know there?’ burst Noemi riled with her Grandfather and his suddenly obvious apparent lack of judgement.

‘Uncle Sammy’ Vincenzo replied.

‘Uncle Sammy isn’t someone I am ever going to be dealing with Papa, He has a record longer than my arm, and as well as you know. No, I am just looking to stay local. Networks are complex, as you well know. They can give you nothing but paranoia and distance and that alone can fracture our whole setup. Up till now, we have caused no suspicions here have we, Papa? She asked questionably, still clearly vexed with him.

‘Of course not, we are tight here’ replied Vincenzo calmly.

‘Good, we should like to keep it tight. I know I do’ replied Noemi as she slowly turned to face Pietro and smiled. ‘We have to continue to stay tight, and we have to only stay local. These days, there is often too much caring about what is out of our scope. Surely Papa going native elsewhere, other than here, isn’t an option and causes more problems than we need. Papa, if you don’t mind me saying this in front of Mr. Moretti, I am frankly astonished and surprised you want to even entertain the notion of going south, I…’

‘I don’t’ he interrupted, ‘I wanted your viewpoint and for you to basically disagree with me. Staying based here in Milan is our big easy. Even I, who is too old and long in the tooth realises that this thing works well, and doesn’t have to be changed or crafted any differently from how it currently is. It’s like Mama Calpaldi’s Bolognese; it’s perfect, so why change the recipe? We aren’t going to be redesigning the wheel here, now are we?

‘So, Uncle Sammy?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, a test. He is on every damn surveillance watch list from Mercia to Moscow. Resist from picking up hot potatoes, you’ll get burnt. I have brought you here today to show you behind the scenes, for you to meet Pietro and to discuss future opportunities and plans on the immediate horizon’ replied Vincenzo.

‘These plans don’t include Crotone or Uncle Sammy then Papa’ she asked.

‘Shit no, it’s a red-hot Mafia patch down there’ laughed Vincenzo. ‘We want to stay below the radar, as we have always done. Uncle Sammy… well he will one day get his time. Now my son Nico would definitely differ with me on these points. But Noemi you and I, we are...’

‘Mr. Moretti, do you mind if you give us a couple of minutes please?’ asked Noemi, suddenly interrupting her grandfather.

‘Why of course, sure’ and with that Pietro casually got up and walked out of the showroom, closing the door firmly behind him,

‘So, does staying below the radar include assassinating one of our own in broad daylight? Her mood suddenly now changed to someone much more serious in asking this question.

‘Now, look Noemi, that’s an unfair question. Very below the belt, I must admit’ replied Vincenzo, as the seriousness in his face now became aware to his grand-daughter. ‘He wasn’t one of our own, as you put it. In fact, we found out he compromised us to a rival clan who wanted as you well know, to take control of our patch, and therefore he could no longer be trusted and so needed to be effectively eliminated.

‘That certainly may have been true, but shooting him outside a busy bodega, for all the fucking world to see, what the shit-hell blazers was all that about? Noemi snapped, angrily.

‘Who the fuck are you, to be such an authoritative figure all of a sudden? Why the hell are you shouting and swearing at me for goddamnit! Do you know who you are talking to, have you no fucking manners, little girl? As I said, he was working for other people, our enemies. His shooting was intended as a statement, a message if you will, that whoever you are, we will hunt you, we will find you and we will most certainly take you out’ Vincenzo spoke, as he enforced his point across.

Noemi now looked sheepishly at her grandfather. She rarely saw him angry, and in fact, the reputation she knew of him was that he had a vicious temper on him once someone shook his cage. ‘I barely got out before the polizia arrived’ she much more calmly replied.

‘The thing you need to concentrate on is that you got out. Don’t dwell on that fact. Things could have been different, yes very different. But your mission was successful. You passed what was asked of you. You have always passed what you have been tasked to do, and as we have just seen, you challenge situations at times, ask important and relevant questions, and speak forthrightly. You have what it takes, and what you don’t have, you’ll gain that through experience. That, you will only gain through time. We have spoken about this before, and I will not hear of it again from you. He needed to go, end of.’

Noemi’s head bowed down. She had never raised her voice at her grandfather before, and she knew she probably would again. But despite that somehow, she suddenly felt ashamed, inadequate; somewhat out of her depth. Her grandfather was right, however; she did lack experience, but she also knew that once she got complete free reins of the business that things would be done so very differently. Silly trips with hit squads to other countries will definitely be a thing of the past. She was fully aware that her grandfather was instilling trust in her, but she also knew that the Mazzanti clan had to change tack and adjust more to the times.

‘Pietro’ Vincenzo suddenly called out.

Seconds later the showroom opened and Moretti walked back in.

‘Pietro, now let’s walk around and you can show my eagerness to learn grand-daughter everything there is to know about vending machines’ smiled Vincenzo.

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

To Joseph and his wife Marla, the kitchen was the very heart-beat of the home. It wasn’t just a place to cook and eat, it was also somewhere that friends and family could gather and spend good quality time together, and where socialising was paramount in their hearts and minds.

Their kitchen had the look and feel of a place where people wanted to be entertained and spend time. It had the warmth and welcome of a traditional design, coupled with a contemporary feel to it. Natural granite countertops and dark slate coloured marble flooring made it feel earthly but stylish and modern. A silver refrigerator married well with the grey-green cabinet doors of the kitchen units. On one side of the room was a hardwood maple breakfast bar, with three matching stools which came to about three-quarters to the height. These stood below a wall-mounted plasma screen that didn’t look out of place in its clean-cut setting. On the opposite side was constructed a granite countertop with a sunken marble sink.

Joseph sat at the breakfast bar, drinking his filtered coffee. His glasses hung onto his ears, whilst he was deep into reading the morning’s paper.

It was a routine he had done for years. Wake up at 7 am, have a shower, go down to the kitchen, put on the coffee, grab a white peach crostata and his paper and sit at the breakfast table. This was situated slightly away from the kitchen area and in front of a large glass window. After about fifteen minutes, his wife, clothed only in her nightdress would come down and join him, take herself a crostata, which their housemaid had delivered earlier that morning, and make small-talk with him. This morning, like every other morning, was absolutely no different to most.

Marla placed her hands on his shoulders as he stopped what he was reading, turned around, and kissed his wife, of over twenty-three years, fully on the lips.

‘How did you sleep?’ she asked.

‘I cannot lie, like a baby’ he replied.

She sat down with her crostata on a plate opposite him at the table, staring at her husband.

‘You slept like a baby, really?’ she asked again.

‘Yeah as I told you, like a baby’ Joseph’s gaze from the paper slowly met her lingering stare, and with it her piercing black eyes.

‘You sleep like that despite Luka’s murder, who will avenge that?’

‘Fuck sake woman! We need to get our facts right before avenging him’ he angrily snapped.

‘You have facts, you have motives, you told me that. When are you…’

‘If you don’t fucking stop with this shit, I mean I swear…’ he replied.

‘Look, all I am asking is, when? It’s a simple fucking question, Joseph?’

‘Soon. It will happen soon. We need to be ready for the fallout and fuck it will come. They will be waiting for a revenge kill; you mark my words. Just drop this fucking relentless questioning, it will happen soon is my best and the only answer I can and will give you right now.’

Marla sighed rose from her chair and walked to the refrigerator. Taking out a jug of orange juice, she reached to the head-high glass cabinet and took hold of a small glass. Her wrinkled face caught the light as she closed the cabinet’s glass door.

Her thin bony fingers and hand clenched the jug as she poured the juice into the glass, as Joseph resumed reading his paper.

‘Luka was a good man’ she suddenly said as she turned to face him.

Without hesitation, Joseph replied ‘Yes, he was one of a kind, and believe you me, I want nothing more but to come down one morning and read in my papers about the death of the man, or men who murdered him. As I said to you before, his death won’t go unaddressed, and certainly won’t go unpunished, but Marla, please believe me and understand this, no man you know, is a good man. We all do the devil’s work from time to time, and some of us more than others’ he said

Just then a sudden and loud knock came to the door. Marla, still holding the glass in her hand, turned around in the direction of the noise and looked somewhat mystified, ‘Doesn’t everybody know that this is our breakfast hour’ she protested, almost sarcastically.

A man who appeared to be in his thirties, and wearing a shoulder holster hurried to the door. He looked through the door’s spy hole before opening it.

‘That be Drago, go make yourself scarce love’ Joseph immediately instructed his wife.

Without hesitation, she placed the jug quickly back in the coolness of the refrigerator and the glass down on the counter, approached her husband and kissed him gently on the side of his face, before she walked out the room through a door opposite, at exactly the same time Drago and Joseph’s security guard walked in.

‘Gracias’ acknowledged Joseph to the guard who said nothing.

‘Drago, good morning. Coffee? asked Joseph as he extended out his arm for shaking.

The two men shook hands, both staring each other in the eyes as they did so.

‘Coffee is always good, but especially in the morning’ replied Drago as he walked to the filter coffee machine and poured himself a cup which was already situated alongside the appliance.

‘Yes, indeed the morning’s coffee never fails to wake me up. Now, I need news. What do you have for me, Drago?’ Joseph asked.

Drago looked to be aged in his mid-forties, his greased black hair maybe made him look older. He was clean-shaven and had a slender build. It had been long considered that he would be quiet a catch if you could keep him down long enough. But up to now, no woman had ever done that, but certainly several had tried.

Drago was just about to take the first mouthful of his coffee, chose instead to first answer Joseph’s question, putting the cup back down on the counter.

‘Well, we have had information from sources that strongly suggest that the instructions came from Barca. However, the kill-order, well that originated in Milan’ he replied.

‘You sure and certain about this? replied Joseph as he suddenly ushered away the security guard from the room.

Drago picked up the cup and drank a hasty mouthful of coffee before answering.

‘Yes, my sources are adamant about what I have updated you. As we know, he was informing us of certain arrangements and happenings or not happenings, whatever the case may or may not have been. He was on our salary and working for us. However, he got ratted on, maybe he got a bit careless about something, and they got suspicious. Once you have your suspicions, it’s a difficult thing to shake off, it follows you around like a little puppy, and then before you know it, boom’ replied Drago.

‘Do we know how? Would he have been careless? ‘asked Joseph.

‘A million ways that can happen. Who fucking knows he was found out? They took a short trip to Spain, tied up some business opportunities, and the orders from there were to carry out the hit. Make no mistake Signor Tooti, it was a well-orchestrated, very much planned, and maybe even rehearsed targeted killing. The request for this assassination came from no other than El Colonnello himself’ Drago replied.

‘You are guessing, maybe even presuming. Or do you actually know this? asked Joseph.

‘Well, a reliable source informs me that, El Colonnello’s grand-daughter is taking over the reins of the clan. As you already know, she has been in their ranks for a few years, but more recently has been promoted and is now playing a more active and pivotal part in the operations. I understand the grand-daughter accompanied Luka to Barca, and was with him at the bodega when the assassination took place. I have been told they were love interests, but yet, it is strongly believed, she would have had to be in on the murder. She disappeared into the bodega shortly before two gunmen came out of a parked van and shot him repeatedly at close range. It is alleged she did not return to her table, and yet her bags of designer shopping she had brought, just mysteriously fucking disappeared before the murder scene was locked down by police.’

Joseph Tooti listened attentively. He knew the significance of this information, as well as the damning implications it unfurled. ‘Drago, you mention the orders came from Barca, yet you stipulate El Colonnello’s involvement and ultimate sanction?

‘Another source informed me that a local restaurateur, known to be a local criminal element, gave the orders for the murder. These orders would have been pre-approved by El Colonnello beforehand. I understand they go back, a couple of decades in their working relationship together and have been keen business contacts with each other in the Mediterranean region for many years’ Drago replied.

‘You confident of this information, and more importantly El Colonnello’s involvement? questioned Joseph.

‘I guarantee to you Signor Tooti, El Colonnello’s grand-daughter was at the bodega when Luka was shot. El Colonnello didn’t fire the gun or even give the order for the killing, but his involvement is undeniable and I am convinced there is genuine evidence and information which makes this argument for his involvement undisputable.’

Joseph looked long and hard at Drago. His dark eyes almost penetrated into his mind. Eventually, he looked away, ‘this Mediterranean business contact… you have a name for this cock sucker?’

‘Morente. Paco Morente’

‘I want you to find out more about this Paco Morente. I want him kept alive and made aware of our knowledge of him. He could be a useful resource, especially where he is located. If this stronzo can work for El Colonnello then he will work for me also, rest assured that. Talking of which; El Colonnello, I want this snake’s head cut-off. I want a severe and merciless killing of this old fuck. This bastard has been getting in the way of our affairs for too long now. This murder in Barcelona will not go unanswered for, you hear me?

‘I understand, but you do realise Signor Tooti, the internecine this would cause? With due respect, Luka was just an advisor and an informer. His death….’

‘I do, but it’s personal’ interrupted Joseph. ‘Equally, El Colonnello has treaded too heavily before. He needs now to be taught a final but timely lesson. A lesson that punishment is worse than prevention. Luka was a traitor to them, but to us, he was a valuable asset and a handy infiltrator at our disposal. I care little about El Colonnello’s grand-daughter who he was fucking. I don’t blame him she is a sexy cute little bitch from what I am told of her. But I want him, and his fucking son, Nico, disposed of. Eradicated, you got me Drago?’ he snapped.

‘OK, message received and fully understood.’ Drago replied.

‘I want El Colonnello and the Mazzanti clan finished. The north is now ours, or certainly soon will be, and this death of Luka re-enforces my conviction in this. I want no stone unturned in you achieving this, you hear me, Drago?’

Drago finished his coffee and without hesitation refilled his cup. ‘How do you want me to carry out your wishes Signor Tooti?’

‘Up to you, you are the man I trust, who is skilled in stealth combat. But seeing as you ask, I would suggest a series of quick and decisive fatal blows to the clan and their operations. Let there be no ambiguity here, we mean business and will strive for nothing less, you hear me?’ commanded Joseph, venomous in his reply.

‘As for the grand-daughter, she stands to take the throne on their whole endeavour, what about her?’ Drago asked.

Joseph got up from his seat at the table and starred at Drago with seriousness in his eyes and his emotions. Then without notice, the veins in his neck came to the surface and he let out a howl of laughter. ‘Seriously, a woman as a clan boss?’ he replied incredulously.

‘Signor, with due respect, there are women now emerging in this business’.

‘Yeah but not cute pretty-bitch ones. Listen I know and have heard enough about her. Believe you me Drago, if I had to worry for a second about the likes of her… well l think we would all be in fucking trouble’ Joseph continued to chuckle to himself after speaking.

Drago smiled slightly at Joseph’s reply. He knew little of the grand-daughter he was asking about but decided it best to not question further Joseph’s apparent competence, and with it, the perceived threat level of this new in-coming clan boss.

‘Small minnows like her will drown without the bigger fish around like us now that Drago is a fucking certainty believe you me’ grinned Joseph, his teeth gleaming as brightly as his self-assurance in her lack of proficiency.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Squadrons of red dragonflies busily darted over the smooth glass-like covering of the lake. Even they sensed that the early evening was now upon them as they were catching midges and mosquitoes going about their business. Their status as rulers of the lake’s surface was beyond doubt. An agile predator and an excellent hunter.

The stillness around the lake and on the shoreline this early evening, as was every other evening, was always the same. The odd vessel, be it a pleasure boat or a smaller personal craft would every so often come close to shore. Other than that, it was pretty much serene near the water's edge.

The serenity and peacefulness of the evening started to break as the noise of the vehicle’s engine became louder and closer as every second ticked over. As it turned into the driveway, lights on at the front, the maroon coloured Audi A6 slowed down before eventually stopping in the gravel car park.

After a few seconds, the driver’s door opened and a leg in stockings with a black mule heel came out and planted itself firmly onto the driveway. Two seconds later a second appeared and a woman, who looked to be in her early sixties stepped out. Her grey-blonde hair and blue eyes gave the woman a natural attractiveness to her despite her age. She wore a white

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 23.11.2021
ISBN: 978-3-7554-0102-5

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
Vincenzo Mazzanti had seized an opportunity early in his life; which in time had taken him and his family out of the doldrums of post-war Italy by spearheading a highly successful, but illicit Mafia business. Now advancing years and with thought of retirement, his decided chosen successor was to be an underdog; his eagerness to please and desperate to prove of grand-daughter, Noemi. With Mazzanti's request, this unwittingly heralded the start of fierce rivalry and a growing and resentful division within the family, but also an increasingly bloody internecine with another powerful entity, and with it an unpredictable rogue and psychotic element, desperate to take over their territory and avenge past wrongs. Does this inexperienced dark horse have what it takes to confront their newly founded destiny, or will this passed-on legacy be a dangerous, forlorn, and destructive experience for all?