Final Justice, page 11
Seven ball, eight ball, nine ball. Angela smiled and said, “well gentlemen, the rules say winner breaks. I guess that’s me. I’ll do my best.”
She’s setting me up, thought Peter. What a sharp little cookie little Miss Innocence is, and how interesting.
“Matthew, why do I get the feeling that you and I are a superfluous part of this match?” asked Michael, grinning. “Do you think they’ll notice if we go?”
Whack! The cue ball stopped on a dime, two balls went in, and seven shots later, Angela had the game.
Whack! She broke a third time. The one ball went in, but she was hooked on the two. Up she went on her right toe, her left knee swung up and hit the felt, the cue went perpendicular to the table, and Peter who couldn’t take his eyes off her magnificent body, felt himself hardening.
I have to have her, he vowed to himself. Even if she is a Brattini.
Angela massed around the five ball to get to the two, and the rest was easy.
Three games won.
“Eight ball next time, Peter?” asked Angela as she hung up her cue.
He walked over to her and took her hand, kissing it.
“You are a special woman,” he said. “Let’s start over, okay? I’d like to get to know you a little better.”
She looked up at Peter, her eyes sparkling. “Why not?” she laughed. “At least I’ll be able to teach you how to shoot a proper game of pool.”
Peter held out his arm. “We’ll see,” he said, smiling. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 11
January 1997. Toronto, Ontario.
“Happy New Year Elizabeth,” said Rebecca.
“A happy New Year to you too. Where are you? The phone sounds full of static.”
“I’m in a phone booth outside of the Skydome looking at a frozen Lake Ontario,” answered Rebecca. “And I’ve got a pile of change in front of me. It’s like being in one of those old war movies where the lovers get cut off for want of a quarter.”
Elizabeth laughed and said, “Okay, speak. I’m listening and I won’t interrupt.”
“I’ll be leaving on a trip soon,” Rebecca told her. “Eventually, I expect to wind up in Marseilles.”
Elizabeth’s startled gasp wasn’t lost on the telephone line. “Listen to me very carefully,” Rebecca continued forcefully. “I know that you want to help, and believe me, I need you to do just that.”
“You know I’ll do whatever is necessary,” said Elizabeth. “Just tell me what it is.”
“We need to distract Brattini for a while” “Distract him from what?” asked Elizabeth.
“From taking over the P&M Trust,” answered Rebecca. “Whatever notes his father held through Bayfield now belong to him, or at least to the group that he controls.
“I want you to call Ryan as soon as the holidays are over and ask him to set up a meeting between you and Brattini around the middle of February. And then, when you get to that meeting, I want you to play dumb, and I mean real dumb,” she went on emphatically. “Do a dress rehearsal in front of your mirror first. You have to cry and act terrified, moan about your expenses, especially your clothes and jewels, and then ask Brattini how you’re supposed to live now that your husband has left you penniless. You can throw in a line or two about how Santino didn’t care what happened to his family after he was gone.”
There was silence.
“Elizabeth, I know you’re there,” said Rebecca.
“Come on Elizabeth, you know the kind of man Johnny Brattini is. Macho, thinks women are here for one purpose only. Don’t you see? As long as he thinks you’re helpless, that you don’t know anything, he’s more likely to agree to your suggestion, if only to show what a kind and generous man he is.”
“What suggestion are you talking about?” asked Elizabeth in a cold voice.
“The suggestion that he, Brattini, give you six months to get yourself together before he takes over your assets,” answered Rebecca.
“If he agrees, it will keep him and his accountants away from the books until the end of the summer.”
“And then what happens?” asked Elizabeth.
“If I get lucky and find what I’m looking for, we will be back in control before he realizes what is going on. And those notes he’s holding will be worthless.”
“Rebecca, you mentioned Marseilles. I know what that means.”
Now it was Rebecca’s voice that turned cold.
“Do not elaborate on the phone please, just answer my questions yes or no. Are you now telling me that Santino talked business with you?”
“No,” answered Elizabeth. “But I did overhear one of his overseas calls with someone named Pedro many years ago. Given the subject of that conversation, I never forgot it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Okay, listen Elizabeth,” Rebecca finally said. “You’ve got to put what you heard out of your mind so that something doesn’t slip out of your mouth. We’re talking mega dollars here, and the trail I’m trying to follow is fifteen years old.
“Johnny Brattini could get very ugly if he thinks his plans for the takeover of the Villano family’s operations, along with Santino’s personal fortune, have hit a snag,” she continued. “So don’t assume that when, or if, he finds out that you’re his sister, it will make any difference to him.”
Elizabeth heard the clanging of more change being put into the telephone.
“Okay Rebecca,” she said. “I understand. I’ll play on his sympathies and his Italian sense of honour. I might even toss in a word or two about his immortal soul.”
“Don’t overdo this Elizabeth,” laughed Rebecca. “Remember, the most important thing is that he doesn’t get suspicious about anything.
“Next, I expect to be away for at least a month. I’m spreading the word around here that I’m going to Switzerland, incognito, for a face-lift. If by chance anyone there asks any questions, especially Donna Brattini, that’s what you tell them.”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Only you Rebecca, only you!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Rebecca.
“Who else but you would spread a false story about getting a face lift. I wouldn’t, that’s for sure.”
“Let’s hope that when this is all over, I’ll be able to afford one,” said Rebecca.
“There is one last thing Elizabeth. I think that any assets you have that are liquid, along with any cash, should be sent to Bermuda right away. I still have an account there, at the Butterfield bank, under the name “expat”. It’s what the natives call non-Bermudian born residents, which I am still. The money must be deposited in cash by a courier, which isn’t uncommon in the islands. I suggest that you contact Michael DeVillers and ask for his help in moving the money. He’ll be able to arrange it and it will give you an excuse to return his calls.”
“How do you know that I haven’t returned his calls?”
“I’ll tell you next time I see you.”
“Rebecca, would you like me to call Lisa when I’m up in Toronto?”
“Actually, that would be great,” Rebecca answered. “I’m a little concerned about her. She seems preoccupied. I’ll call you every two weeks to check in. Remember; do not say anything important on the telephone. I want you to revert back to the extra care mode of years ago. Only this time it won’t be the FBI listening in, but people you don’t want to know.”
“I’ll be careful,” answered Elizabeth. “Rebecca, my thoughts and my prayers go with you. Take care of yourself.”
Chapter 12
Killington, Vermont.
It was four thirty in the afternoon and the noise coming out of the Edelweiss Pub was deafening. Late January was usually quiet in ski country, but this year, several of the New England colleges were having their reading weeks at the same time, so there was still a lot of action on the slopes. This raucous group was from Harvard, and included Peter DeLuca.
“Hey Max, pass the beer!” yelled Peter over the din. “My mug is empty.”
Cheers erupted as the bartender filled another pitcher from the tap and pushed it along the bar towards the group at the end. They were cocky and rambunctious, with the kind of confidence that only young and rich college students can exude.
“We’ve got some chicks coming down from Sugarbush to meet us,” said Perry Manolo, one of Peter’s fraternity brothers. “I offered your place for a party to welcome them properly to Mt. Killington.”
“Sounds good,” said Peter. “But remember, no wild boozing. It’s not my place and I have to leave it as I found it.”
Peter and his friends were staying at Michael DeVillers’ chalet while he was out of the country.
“Maybe we should pick up some condoms before the drugstore closes in Rutland,” Peter said as he leaned closer to Perry.
“Don’t worry buddy,” answered Perry. “I always come prepared. But say, what makes you think that you’ll get lucky? You don’t even know these girls.”
“Better safe than sorry,” answered Peter, as Perry and the others standing next to him moaned in disbelief.
“Jesus Peter, can’t you think of a better line than that? You sound like my mother, no, my grandmother.”
“So, where are the girls from?” asked Peter, tossing a handful of beer nuts into his mouth.
“Mt. Holyoke. Hot stuff. Can’t disappoint them.”
More cheers erupted when the double outside door was pushed open and three young women elbowed their way through the crowds right up to the bar. They were still dressed for the slopes and began taking off their ski jackets, hats and goggles, to the whistles of the young men, some of whom were pounding on the bar to the beat of a striptease. Peter stood watching in amusement as one of the guys started swivelling his hips while the others shouted, “take it off, take it off!”
The girls appeared to be more annoyed than amused.
“Grow up you twits,” said the short one, pulling off her goggles and neck warmer. “You’re in the presence of women from a real school, not the nursery one you attend, so please, a little respect!”
Peter’s heart skipped a beat when he saw who it was. She didn’t notice him until he’d pushed past his friends and came face to face with her.
Oh, those black eyes, he thought.
“Hello Angela, fancy meeting you here.”
“God, I love your lines,” she answered looking up. She tried not to appear too happy to see him.
Cool Angela, play it cool, she willed herself. This guy thinks he’s a prince.
The jostling of the crowd around them made further conversation difficult and they had to shout at each other to be heard.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“At the Inn of the Seven Mountains”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know yet, it depends”
“How about getting together for a drink, or something?”
“I’m really tied up. I’m not a very good skier and I need to spend lots of time on the hills”
Stupid answer Angela. Come on, get it together.
“Angela, I’d really like to see you,” said Peter, leaning closer to her in order to avoid being heard by the immediate world standing around them. “As I told you back in Boston, I want us to start over.”
She said nothing. Her black saucer eyes stayed glued to his.
“Listen,” he said after a moment. “I have an idea. I’m a great skier. Why don’t I give you some lessons, free of charge?”
Before she could answer, someone handed her a mug of beer.
“Here Angie,” said one of the girls. “We’re going to a house party tonight, some Harvard dude named DeLuca. Let’s get warmed up.”
On the drive back to the chalet with his friends, Peter thought about how much Angela Brattini had already gotten under his skin. She had hardly been out of his thoughts since Boston. He knew that he was playing with fire, but she was so exquisite and so exciting.
Do I really want to be involved with a Brattini in anything personal? It could be dangerous, especially now.
Despite the uncertainty around the P&M Trust, Peter was determined to try to salvage his family’s fortune. He had even shared some of his ideas with Michael DeVillers when they had been discussing the possibility of Peter coming to work for him.
“I think that it’s important for you to be honest with yourself,” Michael had said. “I sense that your intensity goes beyond the money angle. After all, if your mother invested the capital of the trust fund your father set aside for her along with the proceeds from sale of the townhouse, your family could live a very comfortable existence.”
DeVillers had no idea about the true state of the DeLuca finances or that Elizabeth was at risk of losing both her home and her trust fund.
“I think it’s the power that you really want Peter,” Michael went on. “And revenge. For that, you will have to pay a higher price.”
“What do you mean?” asked Peter.
“I mean, control. That’s what power is. You’ll never be able to let loose, to really believe in anything, or anyone, besides yourself. You’ll never know for sure whom you can trust. Even in personal relationships, there will always have to be a distance, a detachment of sorts. With your mother, with your brother, and one day, the woman you may want to marry.”
Peter hadn’t responded—then—but he’d known, deep in his soul, that DeViller’s read on him had been right on.
By eight o’clock the party was in full swing. The three-part harmony of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, otherwise known as CSNY, filled the room, and when their hit song, ‘Helplessly Hoping’ came on, fingers intertwined and lips touched.
The wafting smoke from the marijuana was getting pretty thick. The fire was crackling and its glow was reflected in the ten-foot windows that edged most of the room. Some were sitting around the circular couch built into the wall of the great room, where a huge stone fireplace separated it from the dining area. Giant toss pillows provided alternative seating. The chalet was decorated in black and taupe, including the furniture, which was covered in a suede tiger print. The floors were all specially treated oak polished to a high sheen.
The master suite was on the top level, and consisted of a Jacuzzi that could seat six, surrounded by sliding glass doors that opened by a special switch on the side of the wall. On a clear night, one could lean back and watch the stars.
There were four other guest rooms, all with ensuite bathrooms. A huge cedar deck surrounded most of the chalet, and from it one could see the lights from towns many miles away.
Peter didn’t pick up the telephone until the sixth ring.
“Hey, I hope I’m not disturbing anything serious,” said DeVillers at the other end.
“Nah,” laughed Peter. “I was in the middle of whipping up some mashed potatoes and I didn’t hear the ringing over the din of the mixmaster and the sounds from the stereo.
“Say Michael, how’s the weather in Bermuda?”
“Cool and breezy,” Michael answered. “About sixty-five degrees. Hey Peter, I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Yah, I love it,” Peter replied. “Mrs. Leone always let me help her in the kitchen when I was growing up, and once I went away to school, I really got into it. I really had no choice. It was either learn to cook or starve to death. I sure couldn’t live on the garbage they served in the commissary.
“And,” he went on, turning to smile at Angela. “As an extra bonus, I discovered that girls really love a guy who cooks. But seriously Michael, don’t worry. Everything is just fine here. I can’t thank you enough. My buddies and I are going to have a great week of ski-ing—they’re calling for twelve inches of fresh powder overnight. The flakes are just starting to fall.”
“I’m not worried,” said Michael. “If I thought I had something to worry about, you wouldn’t be there right now. I just called to tell you that I wouldn’t be back in Boston until the middle of February. If you need to reach me, just call my New York office and they’ll get a message to me.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know,” said Peter. “Have a good trip, wherever you’re going, and take care.”
“Who was that?” asked Angela as she joined him next to the stove.
“The landlord,” answered Peter, returning to the task at hand, namely, whipping up garlic mashed potatoes to go with the veal Osso busso he was preparing for his guests.
“The snow is really starting to come down now,” she said turning to look out the window. “There’s going to be great skiing tomorrow. Are you sure you still want to take me with you?”
She reached over to the stove and stuck her finger into the potatoes for a taste. “Hmm, yummy!” she chirped. “Do you cook like this all the time?”
“Whenever I get a chance,” he answered, looking down into her black eyes. “But I don’t do windows.”
Early the next morning, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the temperature was close to freezing when Peter and Angela jumped off the chair lifts at the top of Outer Limits Run on Bear Mountain.
“Eeek!” yelped Angela as she peered over the edge of the run. “I’ll die! I can’t ski this hill. I’m afraid!” She clutched Peter, circling his waist from behind and peeked out from under his arm.
“Shh, shh,” he answered, patting her gloved hand. “Of course you can. All you have to do is follow my instructions.”
This was the third day the two of them had spent skiing together. They’d roughhoused around the slopes, had shared lunches at the Badenhof Shack at the top of Mount Langley and had spent their evenings lounging around with friends at the chalet. They’d talked of their school courses, their outside interests, their friends, but not about themselves or their families until last night when their conversation had turned personal.
“My mother has tried her best to balance Old World protective-ness with a nineties’ realism,” Angela told Peter as they sat in front of the massive fireplace sipping wine spritzers.
“I know that she wants me to share more of my life with her, certainly more than she shared with her own mother. And I think that’s why she stifles a lot of her objections about what she sees happening around me in terms of the freedom women are enjoying. She wants to keep the lines of communication between us open.”
