“I know, I know, when your father used you to bet football games.” Bill’s voice was exasperated; he had heard the comment way too many times. “But why is the gift absent?”
“I don’t know…other than an occasional glimpse. I couldn’t tell you why.”
“But everything you touch turns to gold, no pun intended.”
“None taken. I don’t understand it either, Bill. I just make the right decisions. Besides, this equipment will help my people if I’m not here.”
“Yeah, as if that would actually happen.”
“True, my friend, true.”
“Did you hire Mike Quinn?”
“Yep. Thanks for the intro. I’m going to use him to lead a team of analysts to research and investigate potential clients.”
“He’s a good man, very thorough. He’s better than all this technology.”
“We’ll see.”
Ottati Consulting housed two conference rooms, both adjacent to Paolo’s office. Over the years, they came to be known as the war room, where all the business deals were consummated, and the spy room.
The war room, or client conference area, had a total of fifty hidden cameras and microphones. It held a twenty-foot, varnished, high-gloss cherry wood table surrounded by eighteen high-tech brown leather chairs. An elaborate medical monitoring system measured the occupant’s blood pressure, heart rate, and body temperature; miniature sensors tracked body movement to the minutiae. The technically advanced cameras scrutinized facial reactions and idiosyncrasies. The video and audio equipment recorded every nuance in the state-of-the-art room. The data was sent to a computer software program, analyzed, then spewed out on monitors in the spy room.
The technology provided Paolo a hidden snapshot of his clients’ behavior. Paolo and his analysts could determine if someone was hiding, lying, or omitting key information. All meetings were videotaped and filed in a secure fireproof safe. The room was soundproof—nothing in, nothing out—and constantly swept for non-approved electronic devices. Media hookups for video conferencing provided the company a global stage.
The following year, Paolo acted as the mediator between Point Media—a Fortune 500 corporation that specialized in the acquisition of communication companies—and Grosseto Stilografica—a large Italian pen manufacturer. The CEO of Point Media, Robert Taft, contacted Paolo and asked if he would mediate the sale as well as perform a due diligence investigation of the board of directors and top management personnel.
Paolo expected problems to crop up even though the deal seemed to be straightforward. The only time he used his paranormal gift for business was when a deal went sour or a legal issue was made known. There was one other time: when he invested in gold.
Point Media was paying seventy-five million in cash to Stilografica. Paolo’s firm would earn seven million. He dispatched his team of private investigators to Italy.
“Paolo?”
“Mike, how are you progressing in Italy?” Mike Quinn was Paolo’s private investigator, who also headed the fifteen-member due diligence team in Italy.
“Fine, but we have a little problem.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. What did you uncover?”
“Well, Giuseppe and Rocco, the CEO and CFO of Stilografica, were never consulted by the board members on the sale of the company. Apparently, nine board members—all related, by the way—decided over a family dinner to sell the company. When the board convened the following week, the chairman called for a vote to sell the business. Apparently the CEO and CFO nearly shit a brick.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the story gets interesting. Our accountants found a discrepancy in the balance sheet.”
“How much of a difference?”
“Ten freak’n million dollars.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of change.”
“Sure is. So, I approached Giuseppe and Rocco. I said, ‘You two, what are you, crazy? Where’s the money?’ Are you ready for this one?”
“Yep.”
Mike repeated himself, “I say to the little shit Rocco, ‘what are you, crazy?’ He says, “screw you.’ Well, I just about leaned over and pulled his esophagus out of his throat.”
“You didn’t do that, right?”
“No, but he sure pissed me off. Then they both tell me they’re not going to return the money. Paolo, those two have a set of balls. What do you want me to do?”
“Do nothing, I’ll take care of the problem.”
“Okay, you’re the boss. Everything else was okay, I’m sure you saw the report. Point Media is getting a bargain even with the ten million missing.”
“I agree. Nice job, Mike. When you get back, I’ll take the team out for dinner.”
“Sounds great. Goodbye, Paolo.”
“Bye, Mike.”
Paolo informed both chairmen of the discrepancy in the balance sheets of Stilografica and assured the two he would recover the embezzled funds. Giancarlo Venti, Stilografica’s chairman, wanted to arrange the disappearance of Rocco and Giuseppe. Paolo assured the Italian that killing the two would not be necessary, justice would be served.
The next day when Rocco and Giuseppe tried to access their hidden bank account, to their surprise, the ten million in embezzled funds were no longer there. At the same time, the polizia arrived and arrested the two.
“Paolo.”
“Hello, Mike.”
“Paolo, Rocco and Giuseppe have been arrested. The worst part is the money is missing.”
“I see,” Paolo paused for a moment. “Mike, I transferred the money back to Stilografica.”
“How did you do that? I mean I couldn’t even find the bank account until the police told me and that was like pulling teeth out from a charging bull.”
“Nice analogy.”
“How did you do it?”
“Mike, do I ask you how you accomplish certain tasks?”
“No.”
“Trust me on this, you don’t want to know.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
“I’ll see you back in New Haven, Mike.”
Bewildered, Mike said, “Okay, see ya in a couple of days.”
“Ciao.” Paolo hung up the phone. Rebecca had walked into his office.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“No reason.” Sometimes I love this gift I have. “What can I do for you?”
Two weeks later, at the closing, the chairmen of both companies and their attorneys sat in the opulent conference room. Paolo watched the monitors and body rhythms with three of his analysts. Paolo’s attorney walked in to greet the two men. Paolo had prepped him on what to say.
“Good morning, gentlemen. How are you?” The men stood to greet the attorney. Shaking hands, he said, “I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. DeLaurentis will be with us shortly. Please sit.”
“Will Paolo be long?” Giancarlo said.
“No, I just saw him. He’s on the phone with your prime minister, they’re long-time friends.”
An analyst who sat next to Paolo in the war room said, “did you see the spike in Giancarlo’s heart rate and blood pressure?”
“Sure did, Matt.” Paolo pointed to the monitor, “Look at Taft, he’s starting to sweat. I wonder what these two are up to?” Paolo reached for the phone. “Rebecca, call Sergio back for me. I need to talk to him again right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hate it when she calls me sir,” he said to no one in particular.
The intercom buzzed. “Sergio, line two.”
“Thanks, Rebecca.” Paolo picked up the phone. “Sergio, what did you find out?”
“Paolo, I have the information for you.”
“Excellent.”
“Our government is not investigating Stilografica. We were investigating the chairman and his American partner, Robert Taft.”
“Partner? That’s interesting. Anything I need to worry about?”
“No, we’ve stopped our investigation. Apparently, Venti’s brother made a
complaint. Our investigation found no illegality.”
“Do you have a problem if I tell them the investigation is over?”
“No, not at all. By the way, how did you know about the investigation?”
“I didn’t, my attorney mentioned to them I was on the phone with you, and they got very nervous.”
“They play with the diavolo, Paolo. Be careful.”
“I will. The devil can’t touch me.”
“That is true, my friend. Say hello to your beautiful daughter for me, I have a ministry meeting I have to attend. Ciao.”
“Ciao,” Paolo hung up the phone.
Paolo opened the conference room door and walked in. He held two copies of an updated invoice. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay.” The men stood. He approached the two principals and shook their hands. “Why don’t we take our places and we’ll complete our business,” Paolo’s voice was stern. He sat at the head of the conference table, the Point Media team to his left and the Stilografica group to his right. Paolo’s attorney sat opposite Paolo. Paolo took the two updated invoices and gave them to Taft and Venti. “Gentlemen, you will notice that I’ve added an additional four million dollars to my seven-million-dollar fee.” He paused and looked sternly at the two men. Their attorneys jumped up as if they were objecting in court.
“This was not part of the deal,” Point Media’s attorney said.
“Sit down and be quiet,” Venti said.
Taft watched.
“Mr. DeLaurentis, could you explain the additional cost?”
“To be candid, I recovered your missing ten million dollars, and you haven’t been honest with me. You’ll be interested to know that the Italian government is no longer investigating your partnership with Mr. Taft.”
“My client is not a partner of Mr. Venti,” Taft’s attorney said.
Taft placed his hand on his arm and said, “Shut up.”
There was a long silence in the room. Paolo stood to leave.
“Mr. DeLaurentis, may I borrow your phone? I will make sure your eleven million dollars is funded into your bank account. I believe your fee is fair. Would you not agree, Bob?”
“Absolutely, Giancarlo.”
“Well then, with that said, I’ll leave you to my attorney, who will guide the closing process. Gentlemen, I’m sure we will no longer be doing business together. My attorney will give you the name of someone who can help you if the need arises.” Paolo abruptly walked back to his office.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes, Paolo,” came the reply over the intercom.
“Check our bank account and let me know when the eleven mil is transferred.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, Rebecca, donate seven million to the Children’s Hospital—anonymously.”
“Okay.”
With the money from the Point Media negotiation, Paolo purchased a five-thousand-square-foot English Tudor with an au pair apartment in the most western part of New Haven. The house, built in the late 1920s, had a classic library, with maple bookcases and a bowed multi-pane window that overlooked a fenced-in swimming pool surrounded by large evergreen trees. The library became Paolo’s escape in the seventeen-room house. His desk faced forward, with the backyard to his back. Two brown leather couches opposite each other guarded the fireplace to his left; he was surrounded by books to his right. A TV sat in the corner.
The house was within walking distance of the Yale Bowl. He often took his children to the Yale football games. Giacomo especially liked the Yale-Harvard game. The high-spirited child would run ahead and hide in the bushes to ambush his father and sister as they walked past. Saturday afternoons were a reprieve from their dysfunctional home life. Paolo didn’t live an extravagant lifestyle that matched his wealth. Giacomo and Rio knew they were well off but never asked for anything other than the love of their father. They grew to be mild-mannered and respectful to both their parents.
A close friend, Jayne, a psychologist, aware of the household turmoil, told Paolo that he needed time for himself. She suggested he write down his thoughts. Paolo took his friend’s advice and tried. He remembered what Vittorio told him when he was in Italy. “Love is the key to life.”
Paolo wrote: So absent is love in my life, I have nowhere to turn. My children are my life, are my love, and when they are grown and gone, I will be all alone, love absent from my heart, the key to my life locked in the pain and misery of my existence.
Paolo closed his journal. He didn’t want to relive the present: the pain in his heart, love absent, the love of a woman gone. At thirty-two years old, he engrossed himself in his work and his investments. In the eight years that followed, his paranormal gift was an inherent knowledge of making the right choice. Sometimes he had the ability to remote view. The words In God’s time continually echoed within him. On occasion, his mind would take him to some future event in his life. He would write what he saw in his journal and sometimes those events were ripped from the book and placed in an envelope to be opened at a later time…in God’s time.
CHAPTER 19
PAOLO AWOKE, STARTLED, the dream a reality in his mind. The gray ashen soot fell from the sky, the black melted steel girders in the distance. The vision was so clear he awoke in a sweat. He looked at the clock. Six-thirty. He would be late today. Last night’s argument with Victoria had wiped him out.
“You’re such a moron, Paolo. I can’t believe you donated a hundred grand to some stupid halfway house. Those people aren’t going to change. They’re all drug addicts. You’re wasting your time and our money.”
“Vic, it was for a good cause.”
“Good cause my ass, you’re just a stupid fool.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
Her face was red with anger. “By the way, when you come in the house, take off your shoes. I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”
Paolo, his nerves stretched to the limit, whispered, “Kiss my ass.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s the matter, you don’t have the balls to say it to my face?”
Paolo ignored her.
“Yo asshole, didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard. I’m going to bed.”
“Not with me, you’re not.”
Paolo slept in the au pair apartment.
Paolo walked into the large floral-papered bathroom, an old-fashioned bathtub on the far right side, and a separate shower stall with multiple heads in the corner. He tried to shake the cobwebs from the night before and his dream. He turned on the shower and went back to brush his teeth. He leaned on the white porcelain sink and looked into the mirror, his hair disheveled; he rubbed the bristled stubble on his face. In the reflection, Paolo focused his eyes behind him out the window. The pine tree in the back yard with its large green branches waited to become the bed for the first fall of snow. The sun was beginning to rise. He wondered what this day would bring. Would it be a contrast to his dream, to his vision…a nightmare for humanity? The water finally warm, he opened the tinted glass door and entered.
“Hey, asshole?”
Ah, the charming voice of my wife. “Yes, dear?”
“Are you driving Rio to school?”
“Sure. What about Giacomo?”
The response was quick and to the point. “He walked. And don’t cook in my kitchen anymore; you left a mess around the stove.” The bathroom door closed.
Paolo used cooking as an outlet, to show his love for his friends, to unite people through food, drink, and conversation. Paolo loved to hear how tasty his food was. Paolo’s friend Alicia, a true connoisseur, often remarked after she tasted his culinary delights, “Oh my God, this is so good.” An ego booster for Paolo, cooking made him smile.
“Good morning, principessa.” He walked over to his fifteen-year-old daughter as she ate her breakfast and kissed her on the forehead.
“Morning, Dad.”
“And how are we today?”
“We are fine.”
“Cocoa Krispies?”
“You want some?” Rio handed her father a spoonful of chocolate morsels.
“No, thank you, they’re too soggy.”
“Yeah, okay Dad.” Rio rolled her eyes. “Dad, you’re going to be forty next month, you old man.” She laughed.
“Very funny, Rio.”
“Do you want anything special?”
“Just you and Giacomo.”
“You will always have us, Dad. You taking me to school?”
“Sure am.”
“Good, Mom’s being really weird today.”
“Tell me about it. Are you almost finished?”
“Yep.” Rio picked up her dish, rinsed it, and placed the bowl in the dishwasher.
Paolo DeLaurentis sat in his executive suite. It was just after eleven a.m. He sipped black coffee as he prepared for his one o’clock appointment with Sydney Hill. He read the detailed forty-two-page report on his future client, then looked at his Rolex.
Paolo pondered the idea of retirement. He was tired of playing the game. His company was sought out by almost every significant corporation and government body in the free world. Paolo DeLaurentis now picked and chose the clients he wished to work with. He held the cards. It was his game, his rules. If a client didn’t like it, tough. Maybe it’s time to retire? Hand over the reins to somebody else. Life has more to offer than money and personal achievement. His mind faded into recollections of his life.
His corner office was surrounded by windows, a vintage cherry wood desk with matching bookcases filled the room. File cabinets sat in the corner. Pictures of his children were placed on his desk. The suite overlooked picturesque New Haven Green. The hallowed halls of the Yale University campus provided the backdrop.
Ottati Consulting Ltd. encompassed the entire fourteenth floor of the Gold Building. The majority of his employees had worked for Paolo since the company’s inception in 1980. Early on in his career, Paolo identified the need for motivated individuals who had a work ethic that exceeded national norms. He provided an inimitable work environment that assured loyalty and hard work. Paolo used his gift to expand his business and invest in gold. In his heart, he knew it was the right thing to do. He also knew there was a time coming when his gift would be used for something else.
Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1) Page 8
