by Joanna Rees
‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ Brett said.
Solya exhaled a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I’ll need it in writing.’
‘And you’ll get it, just as soon as I’ve seen the goods. My lawyer’s here with me in town. Just like you specified.’
Solya nodded and pushed a thick black dossier across the table towards him. Another flash of those sharp white teeth.
‘Romy Scolari is an orphan from East Germany,’ he said. ‘I have testimonies that will back up the other evidence you see here. She killed a boy and burnt down an orphanage. She’s a murderer who has lied all her life. She also knew the people who killed her husband and attacked the Scolari household. She let them in, to steal all that priceless art.’
It was all Brett could do not to punch his fist in the air in triumph. He slowly turned the pages of the dossier over, feeling an emotion akin to desire.
He’d done it. He’d done it. He’d got exactly what he wanted.
How Solya knew all this – or why – well, who cared? Brett thought. Maybe he had some personal vendetta against the Scolaris, or even against Romy herself. Who knew? Maybe that slut had even worked for him in a place like this once upon a time.
‘This newspaper group of yours,’ Brett said a few minutes later, finally putting the dossier down, ‘tell me more about it.’ He finally allowed himself a satisfied smile. Because you and me, Solya, I think we’re going to have a lot of fun doing business together, he thought. Oh yeah, I can feel it in my guts.
They talked for a while about Solya’s business proposal, with Brett quickly outlining how to bring Solya’s legitimate operation under the Maddox umbrella. Solya ordered more champagne, until soon Brett could no longer tell if he was still feeling euphoric or merely drunk.
There were several more scantily dressed girls and three other men now chatting away in the lounge. Brett noticed that first girl again – the dirty little slut who’d brought their drinks – chatting animatedly to a grey-haired suited man over at the bar. It irritated Brett that she was flirting with him. After all, Brett had seen her first.
‘I see you have an eye for her,’ Solya said.
His white teeth gleamed, his cold blue eyes making Brett feel as if he’d read his thoughts. He might not have found out very much about Solya, but what had Solya found out about him? Brett suddenly had a sense that this man knew him. And not just his tastes in business, but in his personal life too.
‘I guess,’ he said.
‘And do you like them all young, like her?’ Solya asked, staring at Brett. ‘Or perhaps you’re feeling in the mood for something even more . . . extreme?’
Extreme . . . Oh yes, Brett thought, I’ve always liked a bit of that.
Brett nodded and a slow smile spread across Solya’s face.
‘Then why don’t we take our drinks upstairs,’ he said. ‘I keep a few special playthings of interest up there, some of whom I think you might like to meet.’
Alfie held up the screen on the back of his digital camera to show Romy.
‘And this is me waterskiing,’ he said, flicking through the photos on the tiny screen. ‘Look, look, Mom. Check out my wipe-out. Talk about awesome!’
Romy laughed, enjoying sitting next to him, loving the way his hair touched her face. She stroked her hand along his tanned wrist. Her boy was home and he was safe. By the look of it, his holiday with Roberto and Maria had been amazing.
They were in the garden at the back of the Villa Gasperi in Milan, sitting on a low wall beneath the cloistered walk. For a long time after the night of the crash Romy had avoided coming here at all. Roberto had understood, of course, and the Scolaris made a point of socializing elsewhere, or coming to Romy and Alfie’s apartment on the other side of the city.
But after the robbery on the night of Alfonso’s death when the house and wine cellar had been wrecked, Roberto and Maria had stripped back and refurbished the whole place, replacing many of the artworks. It had been important to Roberto to restore Gasperi to its former glory. To erase all trace of the vandals who’d defiled his home. To make it once more the home that Alfonso had always loved.
So when Anna, Alfonso’s sister and one of Alfie’s favourite aunts, had rung Romy to tell her that they were holding Cesca’s eighteenth birthday party here, Romy knew that she’d have to come to the Villa Gasperi again.
She remembered now when she’d first met Cesca in Tuscany and how she’d given her that sparkly hairclip. She’d always liked Anna’s fun-loving daughter and wasn’t surprised when she’d insisted on a fancy-dress party. She saw Cesca and three of her friends laughing now, sitting on a bench on the far side of the garden as they tried on their ornate opera masks.
The garden itself had been transformed. Fire-flares were dotted all around, and costumed waiters were carrying cases of wine and stacks of plates into a marquee that had been decorated to look like an opera house. It was where the dancing would be later on.
Romy noticed that the first of the guests had already begun to arrive. She wondered where Roberto and Maria were and whether they’d changed into the costumes Anna had hired for them. Personally she couldn’t wait to see Roberto in his eighteenth-century get-up and white wig.
‘I’m going inside to check Papa is OK,’ Romy told Alfie, kissing him on the head. He was dressed in a purple velvet doublet and hose, which Romy thought he’d refuse to wear, but Alfie thought was hilarious. She knew he fully intended to enter into the spirit of the party with his cousins. ‘Don’t drink too many fizzy drinks.’
Romy gathered the skirt of her long blue silk dress and walked inside the house and past the kitchen. Even though she didn’t want them to, her eyes flicked automatically towards the corner of the room where Nico had slumped. But the kitchen was full of staff, busy preparing food. She was grateful for how different it all looked.
Roberto was in the den, his embroidered coat only half-fastened up, his wig ignored on the floor. He was standing, wearing his reading glasses, leafing furiously through a sheaf of papers with a look of disbelief on his face.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
Roberto’s eyes were dark as they met hers over the top of his glasses. Wordlessly he handed the papers across.
Romy saw the logo at the top and scanned down the covering letter. They were offer documents from Maddox Inc., stating clearly why they should take over Scolari. They were formal papers for a takeover bid.
‘Did you know about this?’ Roberto asked her.
‘No, of course not.’
‘I had an email from Franco earlier. He has sold his shares to Maddox. All of them.’
‘What?’ Romy couldn’t believe Franco was still talking about that. She’d already made it clear to him that it could never happen, that Roberto would never let it happen and neither would she.
‘But now I can’t find Franco or get hold of him to discuss it,’ Roberto said.
Romy’s mind raced. She hadn’t seen Franco either, for more than a week.
‘And, worse, the media have got hold of it.’ Roberto flicked on the TV. The rolling news channel had a breaking-news banner shouting out the imminent takeover of Scolari by Maddox Inc., a bid that Franco Moretti had now publicly accepted.
Romy felt fury boiling up inside her.
‘But it doesn’t matter what he says,’ she said. ‘Even if he has sold his shares to Maddox Inc., we still have enough – between you, me and Maria – to maintain control of the company.’
‘So what is Franco’s game then?’ Roberto demanded, throwing his arms up in frustration. ‘To publicly pressure me into selling? Does he think I will be intimidated? What does he take me for – a fool? Is this what’s been going on whilst I’ve been away?’
‘I’ll find him,’ Romy said, smarting. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this, Roberto. Right now.’
Romy hurried upstairs to the room she and Alfie would be staying in tonight – a staff room at the opposite end of the property from the one where she and Alf
onso had spent their last night together.
The helium balloon Alfie had bought home from his holiday, of a red racing car, bobbed against the ceiling. She unclasped her dress and stepped out of it and back into her jeans, her phone clamped to her shoulder as she called James. She’d need him to meet her at the office.
Then she saw Maria standing in the doorway. She came in and closed the door. She was wearing a deep-red long dress embellished with sequins. She slowly pulled the white wig from her head. Her short dark hair underneath made her make-up look garish.
‘I’ve never seen Roberto worried like this, Romy,’ Maria said. ‘You need to calm him down and tell him everything is going to be OK.’
Romy pulled on her jumper. ‘There’s nothing Maddox or Franco can say or do to hurt us, or the company. Roberto is still in charge. I just need to get that message across to the media and then find out what the hell Franco is playing at.’ She stepped into her boots and jerked the zips up tight. ‘But just tell him not to worry, OK, Maria? And try to enjoy tonight.’
Maria’s voice was no more than a whisper when she spoke. ‘There’s something you’ve got to know.’ She looked down at the wig in her hands. Romy stopped still, realizing they were trembling.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been selling Franco my shares.’
‘What?’ A shiver ran down Romy’s spine.
‘Just temporarily. It was a private arrangement between us.’
Romy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You mean you did this without Roberto’s say-so? Oh no, Maria. Why?’
‘For Gloria. To clear hers and Marc’s debts – enormous debts, gambling debts, debts that might have got them both killed – and to set them up with their own apartment. I knew Roberto would never give her his blessing. I had no choice but to do it myself . . .’
Romy wanted to shout at Maria. How could she? How could she have done such a thing. But shouting would solve nothing, and the poor woman was clearly heartbroken over what she’d done.
Think, Romy told herself. This still doesn’t have to be a disaster. Even with Maria’s shares, Franco didn’t have a majority shareholding. He still only had 50 per cent. To sell the company from under Roberto’s nose, he’d need to own Romy’s shares too.
And she’d die rather than ever betray Roberto like that.
Romy’s mind was whirring as Dario drove her across town back to Scolari’s HQ. She still couldn’t get over what a fool Maria had been. Or how blindly trusting Roberto had been. But then Roberto had always trusted Franco. The two of them had been like brothers. They’d been friends since they were kids.
So what the hell was Franco playing at? How could he possibly condone a Maddox takeover? When things were going so well for Scolari? Her mind raced. How much had Maddox offered him for his shares? What had they told him would happen if he didn’t sell up?
Stepping out of the lift on the top floor of the Scolari building, she saw the lights in her glass-fronted office were on. And right there – she couldn’t believe it at first – was the man she was looking for, the man with all the answers. Franco was right there waiting for her. Even stranger, he was sitting behind her desk.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she demanded as she stormed in. ‘What the hell have you been saying to the press?’
Franco didn’t reply. He didn’t even get up. She saw that he wasn’t alone. Another man stepped from the shadows to join him. Another man stayed back, against the dark window.
‘Have you met Brett Maddox?’ Franco asked. ‘And this is Lance Starling, his attorney.’
Romy stared at Maddox, a distant memory sparking. But a memory that made no sense. Of a night on board the ship Norway. One of the men who’d been playing the tables. Could she really have seen him before?
‘Mr Maddox has made a very generous offer, given the circumstances,’ Franco said.
She noticed the trace of a smile beginning to spread across Brett Maddox’s unpleasant fleshy lips.
‘What circumstances?’ Why was Franco talking like this? Why couldn’t he meet her eyes? But now she saw what he was looking at. A plain black dossier on the desk.
Romy grabbed it and opened it, but as she looked inside, she felt as if she’d been plunged into icy water. There were pictures of Ulrich, of Claudia. A picture of the orphanage. A newspaper report of the fire . . .
‘You lied to us all,’ Franco said. ‘About who you are. Your past. The boy you killed in the orphanage. The fact that you knew who killed Alfonso. And it would be terrible – for everyone, not least your son – if this ever got into the press . . .’
‘You can’t,’ Romy gasped. ‘You can’t do this. You can’t blackmail me—’ she began, but as she stared at Franco and then at Brett Maddox, she knew that was exactly what they were doing.
‘It’s really very simple,’ Maddox, said. ‘We have all the papers ready for you to sign.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
November 2009
The cold wind blew sheets of fine rain across the grey Hudson and up the grassy slope of the cemetery in Manhattan, where the rows of headstones faced into the bleak grey sky like hardy seagulls.
This was considered the finest resting place in New York, and even to get on the waiting list for one of the few remaining plots here with a view of the Statue of Liberty was next to impossible. The headstones, ancient and new, read like a Who’s Who of New York society.
Thea stood by Griffin Maddox’s granite headstone, adjusting the white roses in the simple pewter vase. He’d died two years ago today and she remembered thinking then, as they’d lowered his coffin into the cold ground, that she’d get something special to stand here beside his grave.
She looked up at the grey marble statue she’d commissioned – an abstract piece from an artist her father had admired. It looked so new, the autumn rain only adding to its lustre, but Thea wondered now how long it would last. Fifty years? A hundred? Longer than Griffin Maddox’s legacy – the one she’d always hoped he’d have left her to manage alone?
She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d seen him alive, regrets overwhelming her about all the questions she’d never been able to ask.
The moment Thea’s plane had touched down at JFK, after her journey back from Australia, she’d rushed straight to the Cedars Private Hospital, delirious from shock and lack of sleep.
She’d found Griffin Maddox prostrate and barely conscious beneath a green sheet in the intensive-care unit, hooked up to drip-feeds and eerily lit by the banks of monitoring machines around his bed.
He’d been brought here to recover after the emergency operation he’d undergone following his aortic aneurism. But he hadn’t recovered. Instead he’d suffered a stroke and two further seizures since.
Thea had already spoken to the consultant cardiologist before coming in. Further invasive surgery would kill her father, the consultant had said. There was nothing more they could do except hope.
‘Daddy.’ Thea gently took his hand in hers. ‘I’m here.’
Griffin Maddox’s watery eyes opened. She felt his fingers contracting faintly around hers. His hands looked wrinkled and old and, as Thea stared at his face, she saw how much the stroke had transformed him. The right side of his face appeared frozen, while the corner of his mouth hung down.
‘Thea.’ Her name sounded more like a cough than a word. His speech was slurred and hard to understand. ‘There are things . . . I should have . . .’
A rattling sound came from his chest. She wiped away the spit from his chin. Thea wanted to cry. Her poor daddy. How could this have happened to him?
‘Don’t. It’s OK,’ she said, staring at him, willing him to get better, to be all right. What if this consultant isn’t the best? she was already thinking, her initial shock being replaced by her determination to make this right somehow. As soon as I leave here I’m going to sort this out, find someone new. We can’t just give up on you. There has to be someone who can make you well again.
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br /> ‘I want you to know . . .’ He was struggling even harder now just to get the words out, his eyes searching hers, as the tendons in his neck tightened like wires. ‘I always loved you – like you were my own. You were always her . . . gift . . . from . . . God . . . But you became mine too, Thea – you became mine . . .’
What was he talking about? Thea’s forehead creased in confusion. None of this made any sense. Was he delirious? she wondered. Did he even realize any more that it was Thea who was here?
‘Daddy,’ she said, tears running down her face. ‘It’s me. It’s Thea. Of course I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.’
He gripped her hand then. The sudden show of strength shocked her. He gripped her hand tightly and didn’t let go. She tried to pull way, but she couldn’t.
‘No, listen . . .’ he hissed, still not letting her go. He was hurting her now. His ashen skin – she watched it darken and swell with blood. ‘You need to understand . . .’
He groaned in pain and twisted his head to one side. One of the machines he’d been hooked up to began to beep. It didn’t stop. It rose in volume. What did it mean? Thea was panicking now. It had to be some kind of alarm.
Griffin’s face was turning purple now. His eyes bulged. A hissing sound came from his mouth, from deep down inside him, as he desperately tried to force his mouth to form the words and speak.
‘What?’ Thea begged, fear coursing through her now. ‘What is it, Daddy? Please, just tell me – what?’
His eyes rolled back. He started to shudder. She realized the beeping sound was no longer intermittent. It had become one long continuous wail.
‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Someone. Please. Help.’
Griffin Maddox’s whole body was jerking now. He was having some kind of a fit.
A thunder of footsteps. Two nurses rushed into the room.
‘Move,’ one of them told her.
Thea pulled herself free. She scrambled out of the way. The nurses crowded round her father. Like curtains being drawn, they blocked him from her sight. They shut her out. She watched in horror as one of them punched the panic button on his bedside table. Another, louder alarm began to wail.
