The large man came in at once and stood quietly as Carlo stared at his desk. Then he raised his eyes.
“Mickey,” he said. “Kill the Doninis.”
Rose felt the first stab of pain in her side shortly before dinner. She held her breath for a few seconds, but it persisted. She tried to remember whether she had lifted anything heavy the last day or two, but Clara called from the kitchen asking if she should heat spinach or green beans, and Rose became so occupied that she forgot about the pain.
It struck her again at half past one in the morning. She got out of bed and sat in a chair in the dark waiting for it to go away. Vito woke up. He was always a light sleeper.
“What’s the matter, Rose?”
“A silly pain in my side.”
Vito came wide awake. “Sharp or dull?”
“Mostly dull, but there are twinges now and then.”
He switched on the light and climbed out of bed. “Show me.”
She lifted her nightgown and pointed to the right side. “Appendix side,” she explained.
“I’m phoning Doctor Gardino.”
“Not at this hour, Vito. Let the poor man sleep.”
“He won’t mind.” Vito padded out of the room to the phone in the upper hallway. An answering service took his message, saying the doctor would call shortly. As he started back to his room, Paul opened his door. Since his narrow escape three days ago, he slept with one ear open.
“What’s wrong, Vito?”
“Rose has a pain in her side. I’ve called Dr. Gardino.”
“I’m up now in case you need me.”
“Thanks, Paul. I’ll call you if it’s necessary.”
Doctor Gardino phoned in ten minutes, got the report from Rose, and was over to the house in forty-five minutes. It took only a few pokes to decide she might have an infected appendix. “They’re not cutting them out at a drop of a hat these days, Rose,” he explained. “But I think we should get you to the hospital for some tests.”
Rose said she would go when the world woke up, but Vito would have none of that. He and Paul dressed and drove her directly to the hospital. An hour or so later, Doctor Gardino and the doctor on duty came in to tell them that Rose definitely had appendicitis.
Vito was on the phone immediately, and by late morning two specialists were at the hospital supervising additional tests. They agreed with the other doctors and advised that Rose should have it out.
Ettore, Carol, and the boys arrived at the hospital as Rose was being prepped for the operation. They each kissed her before she was wheeled out.
Everything went fine. The surgeons made the smallest incision possible, double checked the knot, and sewed with the skill of a plastic surgeon, which one actually was. Rose said it was a nothing operation, and secured the doctor’s consent to go home in three days if no complications arose.
Relieved, the family went home to shower, shave, and eat a decent breakfast.
The phone call from Boston came just before noon. It was the personal assistant asking for Vito. He had bad news. Vito’s sister, Bonny’s mother, had been struck on the street by a hit and run driver while enroute to her daily visit to one of her foundations. No, it was worse than that. She was dead.
Vito immediately called the airport, gave instructions for his jet to be readied, then phoned Rose at the hospital. She was horrified, and said she would leave at once. Vito patiently explained that the doctor insisted she remain in bed another day or two, that he would go ahead with the boys, and that she could follow with the DiStephano family when funeral preparations were completed.
An hour later they were airborne, Vito on the radiophone giving his personal assistant quiet orders to take care of the many problems which had suddenly arisen. He and his sister had been the only children of Giacomo Donini, and she, eight years older than he, had acted as foster mother during the long period their mother was invalided before her death. Not only was there an extreme affection which tore at his heart, but his sister owned about sixteen percent of the family’s assets, and regardless of the thousands of hours of planning by estate experts and tax experts and legal experts, there was bound to be another thousand hours of clearing up annoying details that all the experts said were taken care of.
Vito almost lost his famous cool when his people said they were unable to locate Bonny. Here she was, now probably the richest unmarried woman in the world, and couldn’t be found. But she would hear about it soon enough as every major newspaper in the country would be carrying the story today.
Bob was on a second radiophone making calls for Vito and gathering information for his father to analyze. He was a great help, and Vito was proud of the calm, collected way he was taking on responsibility.
They were flying directly over Franklin, Pennsylvania when, with an enormous blast, the plane blew apart in mid-air. In a huge, searing ball of flame, the pilot, copilot and Bert died at once. Vito and Bob were blown out of the plane still alive. Shocked beyond reaction, they fell a thousand feet before they mercifully lost consciousness, then they were jellied at the impact of hitting the ground.
Within hours, the shock waves of the disaster spread in many directions. In Boston and New York, merchant bankers and senior partners of stock brokerage houses met in animated sessions to digest the ramifications and discuss their degree of muscle to dine at this bowl of stew. The Civil Aeronautics Board ordered investigators to supervise the search for parts of the plane to determine the cause of explosion. The Pennsylvania state government detailed squads of police to speak with witnesses of the disintegration. The Chicago police sent agents to their own airport to gather information there.
The reaction at the headquarters of Donager Enterprises, Incorporated, holding company of the Donini family empire, was a calm sort of frenzy. The king was dead. A new king must be crowned immediately. The senior executives, and, for that fact, the executives down as far as two echelons, were all super-types, a few of the senior ones thoroughly qualified to step into control at once. But they all lacked the essential prerequisite - the vote. Nothing could move without the vote. Mergers must wait, acquisitions must wait, financing must wait. The Board of Directors existed, of course, with certain powers, but they knew, and the officers of the company knew, the danger to their careers of taking steps, or allowing subsidiaries to take actions, while the vote was in limbo. A new king must be crowned. It made no difference if he was the world’s greatest idiot; all he had to possess was the controlling vote.
At the time of Vito’s ascension, there were others available. Henry Winston, Vito’s brother-in-law, owned several of the prerequisites; a solid training in securities, senior partnerships in stock brokerage houses and private banks, a spotless reputation, and - critically important - shared the bed of Giacomo Donini’s daughter. He had, however, one problem; Giacomo Donini didn’t like him. There was also Giacomo Donini’s brother’s son, who was the comptroller. But he had recently gone through cancer of the rectum and its attendant colostomy. Giacomo’s sister’s son was an attorney on the second echelon staff. He was blessed with a brilliant mind, but he had one trait most Italians cannot tolerate - homosexuality. Fortunately, there was no problem when Giacomo Donini died. His son, Vito, had done fine work out of the Chicago office, had married into a family that Giacomo admired, and already had two sons waiting in line. In addition with a woman as beautiful and talented as his wife, there were sure to be many more.
The three, six-pound explosives placed aboard Vito’s jet, timed to explode approximately halfway to Boston, had made this a new ball game. Winston was dead. The comptroller was dead. The homosexual attorney was far gone in middle-aged solicitations of thirteen-year-old boys and was being kept out of jail only by heroic double-stepping on the part of staff members assigned principally to this task.
Most important of all were the numbers. The Winston family owned 19% of the privately held stock, l6% or so soon to be turned over to Bonny once her mother’s will was probated, and the remainder di
vided among other family members. Vito had owned 56%, programmed to be divided 40% to Bob, 10% to Rose, and 6% to Bert. That was moot now, since Rose was the last survivor and would get it all. The outstanding 25% was distributed among banks, trusts, foundations, and scores of lesser Doninis - cousins, widowed aunts, and even one half of one percent, valued at close to five million dollars, owned by the homosexual attorney.
By a quirk of fate, a woman, not even a blood Donini, now controlled one of the world’s greatest empires.
Within an hour of notification of the jet’s disintegration, Cyril Boranski was closeted with the Donager’s Board of Directors and senior officers. He left no doubt in their minds as to what caused the explosion. He was also thoroughly convinced that the hit-and-run death of Vito’s sister was a deliberate murder to get Vito and his family on the booby-trapped plane. He recommended certain actions which were instantly approved. That since Rose had escaped death only by the miracle of appendicitis, she must now have extreme protection. Second, that Bonazzi must be ordered to stop all further attacks against the DiStephanos or have the resources of Donager Enterprises marshaled to break him in the marketplace.
By the time the family reached the hospital to tell Rose about the accident, a cordon of armed guards had been thrown around her. Ettore entered the room alone, his pale, drawn face warning Rose of horrendous news to come.
“Who is it, Papa?” she asked quietly, dread freezing her features into a tight mask.
“Vito.” He swallowed with difficulty. “And the boys.
Her face went white, she uttered a shrill cry. Ettore took one of her hands in his, gripping it tightly. She turned to her side and drove her head into the pillow as if to shut out what she had heard.
“Their plane went down,” he said, deliberately grossing over the facts as he knew them. “It was over immediately.”
She turned back towards him, her dark eyes begging that all this be a dream, then she fell apart, sobs breaking from her throat. Ettore went to the door and motioned to the doctor waiting outside. He came in with a prepared syringe in his hand.
Ettore and Paul drove home together, leaving Carol at the hospital with Rose. Paul drove carefully, keeping a watchful eye on cars coming and passing, his service pistol lying on the seat. They had much to do. Rose wanted Vito and the boys buried in the family plot, and from preliminary reports, the police had not found much, if any, of Bert. They were both beyond the point of shock any longer, Paul having been hardened to the acceptance of death by long association with battle, and Ettore by the insulation of manifold tragedies.
“Papa,” said Paul. “We’ve been underestimating Bonazzi at every turn. Normal precautions just won’t work with that man. We are going to require help, and plenty of it.”
“All right, Paul. Hire whatever help you want.”
“Losing Vito is a blow. He had proper resources. To be frank, I don’t know where to look.”
“There are several security agencies about.”
“Yes, but we will eventually need fighting men, and we just can’t put an ad in the newspapers. Bonazzi has contacts with the kind of people who are accustomed to this sort of thing. Those men watching the hospital are guard types performing a legal function. We wouldn’t dare approach them.”
“Maybe that Boranski fellow knows someone.”
“He took orders from Vito, not us. I forgot to tell you, but last night one of his men brought over a folder with aerial photos of Bonazzi’s estate. They were some of the finest work I’ve ever seen. One photo showed a guard lighting a cigarette so clearly that you could see the name Kent on the tube.”
“You’re not going back there again, are you? You took a terrible risk the last time.”
“Well, the determining factor is where we can get at Bonazzi. If he stays in that fortress all the time, we’ll either have to go in after him or fort up ourselves until he comes out. We have been acting like idiots walking about as if we were above being molested.”
“What do you suggest doing then?”
“There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Bonazzi intends to kill you, Rose, Dom and myself. I suspect he will leave Tony out of it. Our first objective is to protect ourselves. Rose seems secure now, and will be safe as long as the company provides guards. Dom will have to keep running and stay under cover. Incidentally, where is he now?”
“I don’t know. Bonny wrote a few days ago to say everything was all right, and that if we need them, to put an advertisement in the Atlanta, Georgia Constitution. Dom was still angry because I told him not to come to Vince’s funeral. He won’t accept the fact that being picked up by the police will give Bonazzi exactly what he wants most of all - a shot at him. I’m concerned that he will try to get Bonazzi by himself. He’ll certainly run into the same thing you did.”
“Dom’s no fool. He’ll think things out before making any moves. But we must be careful. I’ll contact some security agency to guard the house.”
They turned into the driveway and parked the car. Mario was waiting at the door. “Ettore, a Mr. Barrington of Boston has been trying to reach you on the phone. I told him to call the hospital, but he missed you there. He wants you to call him right back.”
“Barrington?” said Ettore. “I don’t know him. All right, Mario, thanks.” He went to the untapped phone in his paneled study and put in the call.
Barrington answered at once. “Mr. DiStephano, thank you for calling. I am Vito Donini’s chief executive officer. I want to express the shocked sorrow that all of us feel here and our sympathies for your loss. I’ve tried to reach Mrs. Donini, but the doctor said she was under sedation and suggested I phone back later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrington. Rose will certainly appreciate your kind thoughts.”
“The doctor said that Mrs. Donini will be able to receive visitors tomorrow, so a number of us plan to fly to Chicago then. I wonder if you and General DiStephano would be free to join us when we meet Mrs. Donini.”
“We’ll be glad to.”
“Thank you. Until tomorrow.”
Ettore hung up the phone. He said to Paul, “Vito’s top people are flying in tomorrow to see Rose. They want us there.”
“Probably details about Vito’s estate.”
Ettore shook his head. “They could send lawyers for that. They’re coming because of a policy decision. Well, whatever, you get on with that guard business and I’ll work on the funeral arrangements.”
The day passed quickly. Using the untapped phone, Paul made arrangements with a detective agency. In a couple of hours, guards were placed around the house, two were waiting at the hospital for Carol, and two more were sent to bring Eleanor back from school. Paul phoned Anthony, but learned he had already left for Chicago, so the detective agency was instructed to have someone waiting at the station to escort him home.
“Papa,” said Paul. “It will cost almost a thousand dollars a day to protect us. How about asking the police for help?”
“Not now. They’ll interfere. We’ll consider them later.”
Once the essentials had been taken care of, Paul phoned Washington for a month’s extension of his leave. It was granted without question. He then phoned Kristine and explained enough for her to understand that she should return to Europe, that he would try to visit there in two months or so. As always, she cooperated without comment to the fullest extent, making the separation seem like it would be just a few hours or days, and not, as usual, one that could span months or years.
Eleanor was brought in during early evening. She went directly to the hospital to join her mother. Carol phoned later to say she and Eleanor would remain there overnight.
Anthony arrived in Chicago the following noon. By the time he was fed and brought up to date with the tragic news, a call came from Bonny in Boston. Ettore took the phone. Immediately she began to speak, he cut her off, saying he was busy and would call back in a few minutes. Paul promptly phoned her on the untapped line to explain why Ettore had been so abru
pt. Bonny said she was home taking care of the funeral arrangements for her mother, and was shocked at the thought that her mother had been murdered as a pawn in a vendetta which involved her not at all. When questioned about Dominic, she said he was on a neighboring island.
“We won’t be able to attend your mother’s funeral,” he said.
“I understand. Is there nothing the police can do to punish that horrible man?”
“No, not without evidence. It’s a sad state of affairs.” He had never met the girl, but she impressed him over the phone. “Please do not contact Dom for a while. Bonazzi might get a lead to him through you.”
He was pleased with her response that she would remain home until Paul gave her leave to return to Dominic, and that in the interim she would write Dominic to explain the situation.
At the completion of Paul’s conversation, Ettore phoned her back on the bugged line. They held a talk which consisted mostly of sympathy for each other and that would satisfy those listening at the tap.
Barrington arrived in Chicago as promised. Ettore and Paul got into a car occupied by two armed security people for the drive to the meeting at the hospital. Barrington turned out to be a slim, medium sized person of about sixty with brown wavy hair worn to his nape in the fashion of a college professor, which he strongly resembled. Accompanying him were two other evidently senior executives, give or take a couple of years older or younger, both generally alike in scholarly appearance and as well tailored as their chief. To one side stood Cyril Boranski, quietly attendant on the powers. After a round of introductions and hand shaking, they took the elevator to Rose’s suite. She was expecting them, sitting up robed and calm in an easy chair talking to Carol and Eleanor. Ettore and Paul kissed her, glad to see that her spirits had returned.
Extra chairs were brought in by the nurses to seat everyone. Carol excused herself and Eleanor, and left what seemed to be a very private meeting.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 31
