Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1)

by Anthony DiVerniero

  “Okay.” Paolo continued, “I’m sure you are aware I am not cheap. It will cost you.” Paolo paused. “I can assure you that by the time the contract is fulfilled, the value of your company will rise twenty percent from what your accountant values it today.”

  She stared at him as if to say, “Is this guy full of shit?”

  “Twenty percent, that’s a steep number,” she said.

  “Absolutely.” Paolo replied with an edge of cockiness.

  “Well, Mr. DeLaurentis, what will it cost me?”

  “Before I make a proposal, will I be working directly with you or with someone else?”

  “No one else, you’ll be working directly with me.”

  Interesting. He started asking her a litany of questions, even though he already knew the answers. Their meeting seemed to last minutes; in actuality, their conversation lasted two-and-a-half hours. Paolo’s BlackBerry chimed. “Excuse me,” he said as he read the information on the screen. “Sydney, if you don’t mind, I have another appointment. I need to pick up my children in an hour.”

  “Not at all, I completely understand. I appreciate the fact you spent this much time with me.”

  They both stood and faced each other. “I’ll instruct my attorney to send you a contract. Have your accountant value the company.”

  “How long do you think it will take?”

  “From what I know about your company and what I think needs to be accomplished, about two to three years,” he said as a matter of fact.

  “Two to three years?” A hint of disappointment was in her voice.

  “If you don’t want a fire sale or if you don’t want to pay me twenty percent of the sale price, two years. If we work hard,” he paused, “maybe two and a half.” Paolo recognized the disappointment in her eyes. “Believe me, Sydney, these next years will go by quickly.” A look of resignation crossed her face. “The contract will explain all the details involved. Besides, I think you and I are going to enjoy ourselves. I won’t let you down. By the way, my name is Paolo, enough with the Mr. DeLaurentis.”

  “Okay, Paolo.” Sydney moved forward as if to give him a hug. She seemed to realize what she was about to do and pulled back instead, and stretched out her hand. Paolo took it in his and laid his other hand on top.

  “I believe this will be a fruitful endeavor, Mrs. Hill.”

  “Sydney.” She smiled.

  “Yes, Sydney,” he smiled as he said her name. “I’ll be out of the country for the next ten days.”

  “A vacation?”

  “A little of both. A friend of mine passed away. The funeral is in Rome. I rented a small villa in the Tuscan countryside, so I’ll spend some time there as well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your friend. I do love Italy.”

  “When was the last time you visited?”

  “Quite a few years ago, we visited Milan.”

  “When I get back, we’ll talk about Italy.” Paolo looked at his Rolex. “Right now I’ve got to get going. My daughter will have a bird if I’m not there to pick her up on time.”

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Fifteen going on thirty.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Tell me about it.” They both laughed. “Teenagers,” Paolo said as he shook his head.

  As Sydney escorted him to the elevators, they talked about his two children. They walked side by side down the corridor as if they were long-time friends. The chime of the elevator and the hiss of the doors opening marked the dawn of their relationship.

  “Have a great day, Syd.”

  “You as well, Paolo. I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m sure we will.” He entered the elevator and turned around to face the door. Sydney Hill stood in front of him, her majestic green eyes dazzling, penetrating his soul.

  “Have a nice time with your children, Paolo.”

  “Thank you, Syd,” he said as the elevator doors closed.

  He stood in the emptiness of the elevator, surrounded by mirrors. A euphoric sense overcame him, a broad smile across his face. The elevator doors opened again. Sydney, her back to the elevator, turned. Paolo stood with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Paolo, did you forget something?” Her eyes twinkled.

  “Yeah, I forgot to push the floor button,” he laughed. “We are going to have an excellent time, Sydney Hill,” Paolo said as he leaned over and pushed the lobby floor button.

  She giggled as the doors closed. “I hope so, Mr. DeLaurentis, I hope so.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AFTER PAOLO HAD returned from Vittorio’s funeral, he arranged for Sydney and their attorneys to meet at a local Italian bistro to sign the contracts. Paolo noticed her gaze as he took his Mont Blanc pen from her hand. Their hands touched ever so slightly, her eyes fixed on his, an unspoken word, a momentary union of souls.

  Paolo raised the fluted glass of Chardonnay. “To a happy business relationship.” He paused, “May we work together well.”

  “I’ll drink to that, Mr. DeLaurentis.”

  The attorneys excused themselves and left Sydney and Paolo to talk.

  The agreement lasted just over three years. Within that time, Paolo and Sydney became close friends. Their friendship was one of mutual respect. Paolo was at her place of business a minimum of three days a week. A conference room adjoined her office, where they’d share lunch together. They discussed corporate strategy and other business matters. Most of all they talked about their lives and their children. They both acknowledged their marriages were frail. Each made a silent conscious effort not to cross the boundaries of friendship.

  As they talked, Paolo would gaze into her eyes. He read the inner secrets of her being. Sydney, captivated by his intense look, held back her desire, seemingly embarrassed at times by the way he looked at her. Sometimes he’d catch her daydreaming. Paolo couldn’t help that he was falling in love with her. He understood—they were both married, and he would not cross the line, though he wanted to. The love he had for Sydney nagged at his heart.

  Paolo successfully implemented new product lines as well as negotiated the sale of her business to a close friend of his. Sydney’s business tripled in size while her profits quadrupled. Paolo walked away with two million dollars. Sydney, for her part, was now a multimillionaire who could now spend the time she so desperately wanted with her children and possibly reconcile her marriage.

  “Hello, Sydney.”

  “Hello, Paolo

  “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to say thank you again and I hope we’ll stay in touch.”

  “I most certainly will, Ms. Hill.”

  “It’s Mrs. Hill.”

  “Oh yes, how stupid of me.”

  “You’re too funny. Thanks again, Paolo. Oh, I almost forgot—have a happy forty-third next month.”

  “Thanks, Syd. Hopefully I’ll speak to you before then. Have a great day.”

  “You, too. Bye.”

  “Bye.” Paolo ended the call with a smile on his face.

  CHAPTER 23

  PAOLO AND VICTORIA’S marriage was ending. Paolo dreaded the idea, but sometimes in life no matter how you try, opposites don’t attract. The magnetism of their lives repelled them from each other. They were absorbed in their own personal problems, their own issues of rejection—a self-imposed rejection, controlled by generations of familial genetics passed on to the unsuspecting couple.

  The conflict between Victoria and Paolo became obvious to those around him; his friends and family witnessed it firsthand. The public outbursts, the put-downs, the early-morning arguments, the middle-of-the-night diatribes—he had nowhere to run. He told his friends he was always in a catch-22, he could do no right.

  One evening at a sit-down dinner with his childhood friends Tony and Steve, they suggested Paolo leave her.

  “How can you allow her to treat you the way she does?”

  “Be a man, who wears the pants?”


  “You can have any woman you want, you don’t need her.”

  Paolo felt as if he were Johnny Fontaine in The Godfather, hearing Vito Corleone’s raspy voice ordering him to “be a man.” His friends finally shook their heads and said, “It’s your life, and we’ll be here for you if you need us.”

  Finally, a straw broke the camel’s back. After an early-morning argument in which Paolo was so berated he began to tremble and shake involuntarily, he called a marriage counselor.

  Once again, Paolo and Victoria attended marriage counseling, this time for two years. The decision to enter therapy was Paolo’s, but Victoria soon acquiesced as she knew she was destroying herself mentally. After eighteen months, Victoria stopped attending the sessions, not wanting to explore the pain of her childhood anymore. At forty-two, Paolo still wasn’t ready to leave her, but he realized if he was to remain sane he needed to adapt; he continued to see the psychologist. He came to understand how he was impaired. The doctor diagnosed him as a victim of Stockholm syndrome. Paolo was a hostage in his own home and didn’t have the balls to call it quits. Paolo began to fight back, to restore himself to the nice-natured man he was, no matter what she said. All he wanted was some peace in his life, a woman to love, and the love of a woman.

  One Saturday afternoon in October, a week after Paolo’s forty-third birthday, he sat in his sanctuary, his library, reading a poem he had written. Victoria abruptly opened the door. She stood before him, her eyes seething with anger.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid idiot!” she yelled.

  He sat in his high leatherback chair. His hand started to shake. “Victoria, what are you talking about?” He made sure his tone of voice didn’t match her anger. Her nostrils flared, a sure sign she had gone over the edge.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Honestly, Vic, I don’t know why you’re so angry?”

  “I’m not a fool, Paolo, tell me, where’d you put the damn money?”

  “What are you talking about?” At that moment, something snapped, and for the first time in their marriage, Paolo grew a set of balls.

  “The money in our checking account?”

  Still, he refrained from getting into a head-on collision. He said calmly, with a stern look, “Sit down, Victoria.”

  Victoria’s anger became so intense, a vein in her forehead popped out. Her face turned red. She realized she had crossed the line, a line drawn in the sand for the last ten years, a buffer zone.

  Paolo said nothing and listened to the sobs.

  “I can’t take this anymore, Paolo, I can’t go on this way.” Paolo handed her a tissue and came around the desk. He sat beside her and held her hand, with his other hand he wiped her tears.

  “Victoria, look at me.” She lifted her head and her eyes met his. “Both of us are unhappy. We haven’t been happy for a long time. Who are we kidding, Vic? The time has come for us to stop playing the game of husband and wife. I moved the money to another joint checking account, I forgot to tell you, and I apologize,” he said with deep sincerity. He continued, “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. Money is not an issue. The issue is our sanity—your well-being and mine—just like our therapist has being saying for the past two years.” Two days later, the divorce papers were filed.

  A week later, Paolo boarded his Gulfstream Five and flew to Salerno, Italy. He rented a car and drove to his grandfather’s hometown of Ottati. He arrived just after eleven in the morning. He stood, his hands on the black railing of the Piazza Umberto, and looked out over the rolling green valley and the mountains to the west. The orange-roofed dwellings of Ottati lay below him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh mountain air. He turned and leaned against the fence and gazed across the Piazza. Antonio and Sophia’s restaurant was still there. Little had changed in the village in the last twenty-two years.

  He walked into the eatery. Inside was a bar to his right and a row of tables to his left. A pretty woman was sweeping the floor toward the back. A collection of photographs was taped to the wall by the bar. To his amazement, there was a picture of him, Antonio, Sabatino, Vincenzo, Luigi and Sophia sitting around one of the outdoor tables. I wonder if they’re still alive. Paolo smiled as he remembered that day.

  “You like the pictures?” the woman with the broom asked.

  “Yes.” Pointing, he said, “That’s me.”

  “You must be Paolo.”

  “Yes, I am. Do I know you?” He paused for a moment. “You’re Maria. Antonio and Sophia’s daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they here?”

  Maria hung her head. “No, they passed away a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I loved your parents.”

  “They loved you. They talked about you all the time. My father said you were the lost son of Ottati.”

  “Yeah, he said that to me as well. I wish I’d come back sooner. Sometimes life takes you in a different direction.”

  Maria was a pretty woman with dark brown hair, a thin face, and beautiful, sparkling light- brown eyes. Though she didn’t have her mother’s blue eyes, she had Sophia’s smile.

  “Can I get you an espresso?”

  “That would be great. Are the men in the picture still alive?”

  “No…”

  “Buongiorno, Maria?” the voice came from the doorway. A man in his early thirties with wavy brown hair entered the restaurant.

  “Buongiorno, Sabatino. Espresso?”

  “Grazie.” He stood next to Paolo.

  “Sabatino, this is Paolo DeLaurentis.” She pointed to the picture.

  “You knew my father?”

  “Briefly, he was a nice man.”

  “Grazie, what brings you back to Ottati?”

  “I came to buy a house.”

  Maria looked at him. “So you are coming home?”

  “I guess so.”

  Paolo stayed in Ottati for three days. Maria provided him with a room above the restaurant. He spent his days walking and contemplating his life. In the evenings, he enjoyed dinner with Maria; being the same age, they had a lot in common. Sabatino showed him several houses. He purchased a three-floor stone building that overlooked the valley and the mountains to the west. Paolo hired Sabatino to manage the remodeling of the centuries-old building.

  The following year Paolo visited his home in Ottati two more times—once in the spring and again in late August. He enjoyed the quietness and the serenity of the village.

  “Sabatino, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Keep an eye on the place.”

  “Sure will, Paolo.”

  CHAPTER 24

  PAOLO EXITED THE PARKING garage of his office building and turned left on Whitney Avenue en route to meet Steve and Tony at the Brewster Estate.

  His cell phone rang. He looked at the screen no number was displayed. “Hello, Sydney Hill, how are you today?”

  “Good morning, Paolo. How did you know it was me?”

  “I just knew. How are the children and Peter?”

  “The children are fine. As for Peter…well, we were divorced yesterday.”

  “Divorced? Shit, Syd, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t talk about it; Peter had filed the papers and his lawyer got the court to agree to silence the parties.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s been pretty bad these last several months. Sorry that I didn’t return your phone calls.”

  “No problem, I understand. The stress can be unbearable. Believe me, I know.”

  “I’m sure you do. How are you? What have you been up to?”

  “Just got back from Italy and still living in the maid’s quarters, as my friend Bill would say. I negotiated a piece of property where I plan to build a new house. Just waiting for zoning approval.”

  “That sounds great! You must be excited.”

  “I am.”

  “How was Italy?”

  “Nice
and relaxing. Went by myself.”

  “Sad.”

  “No, it was perfect.”

  “And the ex, how is she?”

  “She’s almost my ex.”

  “You mean the divorce didn’t go through yet?”

  “Nope, I have too much money, and the lawyers want their share. It’s not us, it’s the attorneys. We want it over with. Could be another seven months or so, but it’s okay.”

  “You have more patience than I do. How are Giacomo and Rio?”

  “Doing great. Giacomo will be graduating soon from West Point and Rio from Yale. It will be a very busy month.”

  “Wow, you must be very proud.”

  “Yep.”

  “Can you believe it’s been five years since we met?”

  “Time flies. We did have a good time, Sydney.”

  “Yes, we did. I just wanted to call to apologize for not returning your phone calls. Hope to talk to you again soon.”

  “Me too, Sydney. I miss our talks.”

  “Have a good day, Paolo.”

  “You too, Sydney.”

  Paolo placed the cell phone in the cup holder between the seats. “I miss you, Sydney Hill.”

  A local industrialist by the name of James Brewster purchased a twenty-two-acre piece of property in the mid-1800s. The parcel, surrounded by a ten-foot-high, three-foot-wide stone wall, encompassed three city blocks. Within its walls were rolling hills, a man-made lake, and Brewster’s thirty-room mansion in the center. The two entrances to the estate were dwarfed by servant quarters.

  A philanthropist, Brewster had donated the land to the City of New Haven for a park. The only stipulation was that his house would be demolished within ten years. The destruction of the mansion never occurred, and during that time, the terms of Brewster’s will were forgotten. The city, unable to continue to pay for the increasing expense of maintaining the park, approached Paolo for a donation. Paolo was made aware of the city’s failure to abide by Brewster’s wishes. He offered the city a swap plus an additional cash settlement. The deal was a win-win for the city and allowed Paolo the opportunity to isolate and protect himself.