From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel)

by Ian Harwood

  “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.

  Chapter Fifteen

  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.

  “And while you’re at it, let’s have another toast to the man who will lead us down the path of transforming our fashion house into an internationally recognized and revered brand in the luxury markets.”

  From nowhere, a tray appears with two glasses of bubbling champagne glittering in the bright spotlight. Juliet’s eyes are still caught by my mine and she nods slightly, as though confirming that she isn’t lying. I frown, but blindly accept the glass, slipping the chilled flute between my suddenly clammy hands.

  From the depths of my shock, I can hear catcalls. “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

  Apparently, the crowd can see my stunned bewilderment and that in turn has nudged all thoughts of a party out of
their heads.

  Christ, my head isn’t capable of containing a single thought.

  It’s a mass of blurred recollections and memories. It’s difficult to get my head in gear, but eventually, I lift a hand and have the presence of mind to utter a simple statement, “As your new Managing Director, I order you to start the party.”

  Drowned out by cheers, I almost stagger from the stage; one hand clutching the flute of bubbly and the other clinging to Juliet’s hand.

  I’ve done it.

  My goal is reality.

  That realization in itself has me sitting down heavily on my seat. Instantly, people clamber around me. Slapping my shoulder, shaking my hand. I don’t even have a minute to grill Bernard, because as soon as they’ve congratulated me, they pay their respects to the man himself.

  Juliet’s just sat there, a smug but contented smile on her lips, watching my complete astonishment in the face of such an announcement. I’ll be honest and say that I expected the role of MD to have gone by the by. With Juliet and her father so close now, I thought Bernard would cling to his position for a few more years, maybe until death parted him from it, and then he’d pass it on to the flesh and blood interested in the firm.

  Instead, he’s passed it on to me.

  After what felt like hours, but was probably only the one, the crowd around us died down and congregated around the bar which was at the back of the room, next to the dance floor. The tables and chairs had been organized at the front of the room, near the podium.

  It was a relief to be away from the clusters of people that had swarmed around me like flies around shit. With all of the remaining nine folk at the table having disappeared to find their own fun, even Rebecca who had wandered towards the bar without any mishap, I was left with Bernard and Juliet.

  “You could have told me,” I said; inexplicably annoyed at the way this momentous occasion was revealed to me.