From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) (26 page)

I doubt it.

“What’s she saying?” I hiss down at Juliet, at Clordina’s ceaseless self-talk.

“Nonsense, mostly, Joe. She’s too young to die. Too beautiful.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, she snorts. “Have you heard of anything vainer? Christ Almighty.”

My eyes dart to the windows lining the wall. Each one is a sheet of glass, not with a hinge that would let us jump out of them. Probably because the gallery doesn’t lie flush with the ground and is on the second floor above the veranda to the back of the house.

I’ve never really been in here before. I popped my head round the corner at the beginning of my stay, but line after line of gloomy portraits, regardless of the pleasant views of the river and comfortable sofas dotted down the length of the long, wide passageway, put me off frequenting this particular area of the house.

But, if my memory doesn’t deceive me, at the very end of the gallery, there’s a patio door that leads to some steps and down to the veranda.

Using Angelo’s absence to our advantage, I grab Juliet’s hand and start to run down towards the doorway. Only the top part of the gallery is in light, the bottom half is in darkness and the moonlight slitting through the windows guides us around the furniture but it would also provide Gianni with a pretty nice shot if he wanted to kill us. I hear clicking heels behind us and know it’s Clordina, but it doesn’t stop me from increasing my pace.

When we reach the end of the gallery, I’m not entirely surprised that the door is locked. Juliet is panting behind me and Clordina’s heels are still click-clacking away. I wait for her to reach us and say, “I know why we’re running, but why are you?”

“I don’t want to be killed by some Russian hick!” she screeched and pushed against Juliet and myself. “Move out of the way. I have a key.”

“Why do you have a key and why would a Russian kill you?”

“I’m not married to him yet,” she mutters to herself in Italian and Juliet mumbles a translation. “And there’s no way I’m nursing him if they put a bullet through his brain and he survives.

“This was supposed to be easy. He said it would be easy. Get rid of the cop and then we’re safe. Safe, ha! I told him to stay away from the Russians.  But would he listen to me?  No!  Of course, not!

“What do I know? I’m just a stupid woman.”

Her hands shake and her clutch on the keys isn’t the best. She whines as they tumble to the floor, the tinkle as loud as a crash in the otherwise silent gallery.

I swoop down and grab them before she can. I’m not feeling too steady myself but I’m faster than her and within ten seconds, the keys are in the lock and the door is open. All three of us run down the steps and towards the veranda. The only sound that punctuates our flight is the cicadas in the background, humping and buzzing away. Completely unaware of the peril we’re in.

I can’t believe our luck that Angelo hasn’t come after us; but whatever the argument he’s having with his mother, it’s quite obviously a doozy.  Thankful for shit mother-son relationships the world over, I keep my sprint up and drag Juliet along in my wake.

Ten feet away from the car, another shot bursts through the sound waves.  All three of us jump, but Clordina starts sobbing and for a woman in too-high heels does an Olympian proud as she sprints to her car.  As the sound of her ignition vibrates through the yard, in the distance, the flashing lights of police are a welcome sight.

“Monica pulled through,” I mutter to myself, nearly collapsing on the hood of the car, grimacing as the wheels on Clordina’s car shriek and screech as she speeds her way away from the scene of a crime. “Christ, your father doesn’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Juliet tightens her grip on my hand and does the same; slump against the bonnet, staring at the house in front of us. “Who do you think’s dead?”

“Angelo and Gianni,” I make the comment with no hesitation. “Let’s hope Cass is safe and sound under duvet.”

“Christ, I forgot about Cass. Poor woman; she’ll be out of her mind with fright!”

“Well, I’d prefer to have been tucked under my duvet with you than have a gun pointed in my face.”

“When you put it like that, I agree.” Her laugh gurgles and I look down and see she’s crying. In the light of the moon, the tear tracks are clearly visible.  With my thumb, I trace one of the moist lines and lean down to press a kiss to her temple. “We almost died in there. If you hadn’t pretended to just walk in…”

“You were smart enough to realize what I was up to. But, you’re not wrong…” I shake my head, feeling a little dazed at how close a call it was and I tell her as much.

“Too close for comfort for my liking.”

“And mine.”

“Do you think Gianni Ali was dirty?”

“Up to his neck in shit,” I remark and lift an arm to hook it around her shoulder as the police cars screech to a halt.
"
And from what Clordina just said, he didn’t have long left on this earth anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“As she was mumbling, she bit out that Angelo said to get rid of the cop would be easy. That doesn’t sound as though their relationship was friendly.  Something had gone sour; she mentioned Russians?” I shrug. ”Christ knows what was going on there.  Maybe Angelo wanted to get in deeper with the Russians and Gianni wanted to back out. Either way, those bullets don’t bode well for either of them.”

Officers jump out of cars, guns out, already aiming. One runs to me and demands something in Italian. I shrug and point at Juliet. She explains and they rush off towards the villa, only to come to an abrupt halt as the front door opens. The loud click of the lock almost as loud as the earlier
gunshot had been. We’re only able to hear it thanks to the slow, steady movements of the policemen. 

Under the porch light, I can see Brigida now. Dressed in her nightgown, the white linen hovering an inch above her feet. Long salt-and-pepper hair braided into a neat coronet atop her head.

In one hand, she holds the gun loosely and when the police yell something at her, she calmly places it on the floor. Almost as though she isn’t handling a deadly weapon that has already claimed two lives, but as though it’s a plant pot. Inanimate. Unimportant. Unworthy of her attention.

She stands still and before our eyes, a copper runs forwards and handcuffs her.

A hand on my shoulder jerks me out of the focused concentration I’m aiming Brigida’s way. My nerves are shot and I nearly leap a foot in the air, only to realize that it’s Monica. Laughing at myself, I release my hold on Juliet and wrap Monica in a bear hug. “You just saved our arses.”

“I’m glad. You’re lucky I was working, when I received your text message.” She returns the hug, but her face is sombre.  Sad.  She pulls away from me and then bestows a similar embrace on Juliet. “I’m glad you’re both safe.”

“As safe as we can be. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking of, but Brigida’s just heaped a ton of shit on her head.”

“The end was near anyway. Angelo had none of his mother’s caution. He thought because Gianni was in his pocket that he was safe. You are never safe when you deal outside of the law.”

Despite myself, I’m shocked. “You knew Gianni was a dirty cop?”

“Not until I was kidnapped. Not for definite, at any rate. You were probably aware that we had a history?”

“I think anyone with eyes could see that.”

“In the past, when we were together, I became aware of the perks he was accepting. I didn’t approve, told him that it led to corruption and unfair behaviour towards the people who were effectively buying him with the things they were gifting him. He didn’t agree. We argued about it, but he promised to stop accepting the perks. The damage was done though. I couldn’t trust him. We broke up.

“I hadn’t seen him for a good year or so since that time and then, he was here. I hoped… but, when I was kidnapped, the police told me they had suspicions about his character again. In fact, it was more than suspicions. They had proof, but not enough to stand up in court. Everything was supposed to resolve itself at the factory tomorrow.

“Angelo has just aligned himself to a Russian cartel, a group which the Guardia di Finanza has managed to infiltrate. The agent intercepted a message to Angelo and they doctored the note. He was supposed to act upon that tomorrow. Now, if Brigida has overturned herself to the police, there will have to be another way to catch him.” Her sigh is heartfelt. “I had hoped he’d changed.”

“But…”

I grab Juliet’s hand and squeeze and interrupt, “You never know what went down in there and they probably won’t release any information to us. Maybe he’s been caught; he was in there, talking to Angelo when we entered the house.”

Her eyes are tired; the shadows underneath them evident in the flashing lights of the police cars. My words seem to fatigue her all the more. Her shoulders sag and she mutters, “I need to go. If they’re going to drag him out of there in cuffs, I can’t watch it.”

“Monica!” Juliet calls out before she could go. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“What do you do if you love a bad man? He’ll have his time in the courts; maybe he will learn his lesson then.” She shrugs and for a moment, tears glisten in her eyes, before she shakes them off and retreats to her car.

Juliet and I stare at her back; it isn’t a coincidence that my arm has returned to her shoulder and that we’re clinging to each other.

“Should we have told her that he’s dead?” Juliet asks me in a small voice.

“Not until it’s confirmed. She’s already in mourning for what could have been. Let’s not make it worse until we’re one-hundred per cent certain.”

“You’re a good man, Joseph Steel.”

“A good man is only as good as the woman he has at his side.”

“Now you’re just looking for compliments.”

My lips twitch but I don’t deny it. Squeezing her within my embrace, I press my nose to her hair and inhale.

Her perfume flutters through my nose and I try to pretend it’s that that has my own eyes watering.

But it isn’t. Fear of loss. Fear of losing Juliet.

What every man needs to spur him into action.

Three months later

I’ve created a monster. There’s no other way to describe her. A demon, maybe.  A sexual dervish –in a completely unreligious way- whose sole purpose in life is to take me to the edge.

And it’s fucking fantastic.

I’d grin if I wasn’t trying to hold my face in a fixed pose.  Anything else and I’d give the game away.  Namely that Juliet’s hand is buried between my flies and her fingers are wrapped around my cock.

The sole issue with this situation is that we’re seated at a circular table with a dozen other guests.  Her father is at my side, for Christ’s sake.  We’re surrounded!  So if my eye has developed a strange flutter and my cheek a tic, well, it’s only to be expected, right? 

I’m not a saint.  Refraining from moaning is nigh on impossible.  As her fingers flex around my dick, jerking up and down, squeezing and pressing, I can do nothing else but lean forward, rest my elbows on the table and cover the lower half of my jaw with my bridged hands.  It doesn’t look out of place.  There are a ton of speeches occurring on the stage opposite us.  Everyone from Poppy the PR guru to people who made the ‘Italian Job’ possible.  We’re a turn away from being on stage ourselves and I don’t know whether to pull her hand away or clasp it to my dick.

In the end, she makes the decision for me.  Her fingers disappear and I have, as unobtrusively as possible, to fasten myself back into my trousers.  With a glare at her, one that
promises retribution later, I clear my throat and focus on Brian, the director of Asset Management drone on about the factory in Bergamo’s expected profit margins. 

It might get him hard, but it sure as fuck does the opposite to me!  

Bergamo, as far as I’m concerned, is a million miles away and that’s just how I like it. In fact, Italy is too close for my liking.  If I never have to go back there, it won’t be a day too soon. 

Talk about a farce.  And that was after the
charade
of Brigida being in court faced with double murder charges as well as countless other indictments.  Anything from fraud to trafficking, drug smuggling to corruption.  If the woman gets out of prison in anything other than a coffin, it will be a surprise.

Although I guess it depends on whether she has friends in high places. 

Who knows?  The world isn’t always fair. 

She could be out in two years or two hundred.  Somehow I doubt, even the previously invincible Brigida, is capable of surviving for two centuries! 

She’s still waiting for a court date, but the result is unquestionable as the evidence is undeniable.  Especially for the murders.  Not that she confessed to them.  Or any of it.  They’re setting her up as the murderer based on our statements, which means that at some point, we
will
have to return to Italy. 

Yay! 

Not.

The rest of it. . .  she could walk away from the drug trafficking and other crimes.  No evidence ties her to the criminal activity and anyone who could is dead.  Either that or missing.

Angelo lingered on for a few weeks after the shooting. In a comatose state, but with restraining cuffs still shackling him to the bed and they were his only company as he toddled off to the afterlife.  Safe to say, Clordina didn’t stick around.  The police are still looking for her, but I doubt they’ll catch her.  Clordina is the sort of woman who could land on her feet even if the shit hit the fan and she had to duck to miss its messy if accurate aim. And unfortunately for Monica, the man she loved died a nasty death.  Bullet to the gut.  Nothing the paramedics could do. 

As for the staff at the factory, be they lieutenants of the gang or not, no one said a word against Brigida.  Funny that. 

If I forget forevermore these last six months, it wouldn’t be too soon.  The only highlight is that Monica is currently in charge of the damned factory and I can oversee it from London.  She’s in the position on a preliminary basis, but as soon as Bernard lets me, I’m going to make it a permanent role.  As a corporate lawyer, she’s perfectly placed for the job and when I made the suggestion that she take the role as the overseer, she leapt at the chance.

In the months after Gianni Ali’s death, Juliet and I grew closer to Monica.  It wasn’t difficult.  She worked a lot, with us and alone, and when Juliet noticed a dramatic drop in her weight, she invited her over
to the house to eat.  Perhaps not the most sensitive of invitations, considering the man she loved but didn’t want to, died in the property but it was well meant and accepted by Monica.

It was an unorthodox decision I made to ask Bernard to set her on as the head of the factory, answerable only to myself and Bernard.  But she proved her dedication to the job many times and with Juliet leaning on her father, mostly because she thought the extra work would be a panacea for Monica, Bernard soon caved in and we
took the lawyer on on the basis that if it’s too hard, or if the role doesn’t suit, we’ll ship someone in from the UK offices to take over. But I doubt that will happen.  Monica’s got guts and she’s loyal. 

A damn sight more loyal than I am!  

Christ, I sure as hell wouldn’t get myself kidnapped for the love of
my
job and I’ve dedicated nearly two decades to the company!  

The entire episode was a nightmare and I’m glad it’s over with.  The only positive aspect to the bloody farce is that my
engagement ring is now firmly wedged on Juliet’s finger. 

The day after we almost died, a night in which we fucked like rabbits and where Juliet sobbed herself to sleep tucked in my arms at what could have happened, I sneaked into Bergamo and bought her a ring.  Nothing ostentatious, simple yet elegant, just like the woman herself. 

Platinum band, squared edges and a central line of princess-cut, black diamonds.  Juliet has slender hands and it suits her perfectly.  I could have gone down the traditional route, but our ‘courtship’ as Bernard has a tendency of phrasing it, hasn’t been in anyway normal.  Spotting the ring in one of the many jewellers in the centre of town, I knew it was perfect for her and she seems happy with it.  I can’t ask for more. 

With Brian’s drone eventually winking out, a staid applause rings through the hotel function room.  Ordinarily, we’d use Bernard’s home for a company event, but in mid-winter, snow blasting out of the sky with the force of nuclear weaponry, nobody fancied an outdoor event. 

On top of that, it’s close enough to Christmas that Bernard’s written this off as the Executive Christmas Party.  Notice the capitals?  That’s how he always writes it on the memos. 

The majority of the room is in shadow, all of the lights are focused on the raised dais where the podium stands.  For the last forty minutes, we’ve been listening to speeches and the anticipation
in the room is on the brink of wearing out.  The crowd’s patience is nearing its end.  After a long,
long
year, the execs want to party.  I don’t blame them.  If I had hair to let down, I’d do it. 

Considering tonight’s function is a merger celebrating different events, PR Poppy has taken the event to the next level, turning the interior of the bland hotel function room – even though I know it cost a damned fortune to hire this place out for the evening – into an inside winter wonderland.  I don’t appreciate the froufrou, but it’s good for the company image. 

Huge swathes of red, blue and white fabric in Rustin’s latest design patterns decorate the back of the stage, where the photographer is aiming the camera.  They cover the tables and the hundreds of seats, where bored staff eagerly await the invitation to get drunk and shag married co-workers under the large tables. 

In the middle of each table is a small Christmas tree with more rolls of fabric, detailed with lace, embroidery or beading as decoration. Think material-tinsel. Don’t knock it.  It looks quite good, actually. 

PR Poppy’s done well.  But at the price, it should look good. 

After many an argument and Juliet’s receipt of a First Class Honours, Bernard has been persuaded to involve his daughter in the business.  She’s been his apprentice over the last few weeks or so.  Cass is no longer his right hand woman, she remains strictly at the front of house and Juliet
has taken her place.  It’s how I know how much this event has cost the company. Seems frivolous to me, but what do I know about PR? 

Brian eventually wends his way off the stage, his passage as excruciatingly slow as his recounting of the company’s future profits from the Italian venture and as another titter of polite applause bursts throughout the room, Juliet and I start to get to our feet. 

We haven’t officially announced our engagement and assured by Poppy that it would be the proverbial icing on the cake; Bernard made us wait until tonight to do just that. 

Standing, I pull out Juliet’s chair and offer her my arm, when she smoothes out the skirt of her dress.  Together, we walk the short path to the few steps that lead to the stage and blink a little as the brightness of the spotlight blinds us with its glare.  Juliet squeezes my wrist as I step forward and begin the speech I prepared for, but that I’m going to say without any prompting.

“Italy is the very first step in this company’s new beginnings.  One of Europe’s most distinctive and loved homes of fashion, for us, it’s nothing more than a stepping stone to newer pastures.  There’s a world out there and at the brink of market domination in our ready-to-wear sectors, the future has never looked brighter. And with the recent acquisition of the site in Italy, we’ve made huge roads into making our haute couture and lingerie line enjoy the same success as our pret a porter brands.

“This company is more than just a place to work.  It offers far more than a bland nine-to-five job.  This is a career-maker.  Every single one of you here tonight is respected and thanked for your hard work.  You are appreciated and as soon as the speeches are over, you’ll be free to enjoy that appreciation.” In the background, in the depths of the cavernous room, someone cheered and the sound of three hundred people laughing echoed around the hall.  Grinning, I wait until the noise dies down and say, “I’ll pass you over to Juliet but before I do, one piece of advice, don’t do anything you might regret in the morning!”

With a grin, I retreat from the podium, pleased with my short but sweet, dull but informative speech.  Poppy wanted me to wax lyrical about the situation in Italy.  About how Juliet, Cass and I became embroiled with the mob and succeeded thanks to our passion for fashion.  I’d never heard more nonsense spew out of the stupid woman’s mouth.  Christ, she can talk some bullshit, when she wants. 

Rather than do as she asked, I did the complete opposite.  People aren’t interested.  They don’t give a shit that Juliet and I could have been killed that night.  That we could be buried at this very moment alongside a dirty cop and the arrogant son of a mafia boss.  Okay, not alongside in the physical sense.  But in the perspective of time, these last three months have been a gift that we might never have received.

Just like telling them not to do anything they’ll regret tonight, the staff will bitch about their job and their boss.  Complain they don’t earn enough for the hours they put into their work.  That’s life.  I don’t care what Poppy says; the woman talks out of her arse, anyway. 

To the sound of the excited applause as the crowd realize masses of free alcohol is but a few minutes away, Juliet steps forwards and as she does, her hand brushes mine and seeing no point in hiding it, I grasp it and squeeze.  The podium is only thin.  It holds a microphone and enough space for a few notes scribbled or printed on to small cards.  There is no way our audience could fail to see our joined hands.  And almost in reaction, the atmosphere starts to hum.  The need to gossip has energy vibrating through the hall.  At least that took the staff’s attention away from drinking the company dry for a minute or two. 

“My father set up this company after the Holocaust.  He had nothing, but wanted everything.  His formative years were filled with sights that no one should have to see and yet, here he stands today, a successful businessman with all of his goals attained.  A million light years away from a boy orphaned and subjected to horrors that we simply can’t imagine. 

“I know this is a party, but this year has been filled with highs and lows and they should be addressed.” She smiles.
"
Don’t worry, I’ll be brief.” At the sound of another cheer, she laughs and continues, “As Joe says, Italy is but a stepping stone. The world is getting smaller and the fashion world is gradually whittling down until only the most on-trend fashion houses are at the cutting edge. Within a few short years, we intend to produce clothing that will match the most famous of haute couture brands and we’ll do that with your help. 

“But remember this, my father worked hard to achieve all of what we take for granted.  He dedicated his life to the company and while we’re not asking you to go to that extreme, know that your hard work will always be rewarded. Be it with a raise or a party like this one.  You just have to find a way to shine a spotlight on yourself so that we can see you.  Joe is cut from the same cloth as my father. A self-made man, director of overseas development and my fiancé.” There was a stunned pause and she continued, her eyes switching from the crowd to my own.  “He’s also the new managing director, for tonight is my father’s last as MD at the Christmas party.  For reasons of his own, he’s chosen not to make a speech, but I ask you all to raise your glasses to the man who built this company from nothing and has turned it into the major fashion brand that it is today.