The Rich Shall Inherit (19 page)

He was walking back alone one night when a car drew up beside him and two men jumped out. He felt the snub of a pistol thud painfully against his ribs and knew this was no ordinary robbery. “Get in,” commanded the taller man, “and take it easy. We’re just taking you to meet someone, that’s all.”

His eyes were blindfolded, and they seemed to be driving in endless circles before the car finally crunched up a gravel drive and stopped. Antony stumbled up a flight of broad stone steps between his captors, and it wasn’t until they were commanded by a soft-voiced man that they finally removed his blindfold.

He was in a lamp-lit room of an opulence he hadn’t known existed. His entire apartment would have fit in a corner of this sumptuous room. The walls were paneled from floor to ceiling, and pale soft carpets were spread across the polished oaken floor. There were many silk brocade sofas and chairs, small tables held bowls of sweet-smelling flowers, and a log fire burned in the enormous grate. A small, dark man, his face furrowed with age, sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, watching him as he stared openmouthed at the fine paintings that adorned the walls.

“You like those, do you?” the old man asked in a tremulous voice. “The one on your left is Ghirlandaio. The nude you are admiring is a Titian; the painting on your left, by Veronese … and on the wall opposite, my favourite Canalettos.” He tapped ash from his cigarette into a silver ashtray. “All looted, of course—not by me, by the Führer’s army.” He shrugged. “If I gave them up, they’d probably end up in the storage vaults of some museum. I feel they are better appreciated here.”

Antony stared at him in amazement. “What do you want with me?” he blurted at last. “Why am I here?”

“I’ve been observing you for some time, Carraldo. You are a very enterprising young man. I understand that, though you claim otherwise, you are still only fourteen?”

Antony eyed him angrily; what did his age matter to this man unless he was the police? But of course he wasn’t … this man was rich, he had power.
Suddenly he knew who this man was …
he’d heard his name mentioned in awed voices tainted with fear. His legs turned to jelly and he clutched the back of a chair with shaking hands. But anger soon took over from the fear. “You
want to muscle in on my business,” he said flatly, “that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? So you can take it from me …. I’ve worked goddamn hard for all I’ve got,
Signore
, and I’m fucked if I’m gonna give it to you … you can do whatever you want, beat me up,
kill me
… I’ll never give it up,
never!”

His face was purple with rage, but the man smiled serenely. “Calm yourself, Carraldo,” he said, lighting a fresh cigarette, “we are here to discuss the matter like gentlemen. Your business nets you a nice little profit—and I know
exactly
how much. Of course, we could have taken it over easily, had we wanted,
you know how things are done.
But I’m afraid it’s too trivial to bother with.” He shrugged, flicking his cigarette ash, and Antony stared at him wide-eyed, his anger gone. He was scared now. He knew what the man had meant, but still had no idea why he was here.

“Sit here, opposite me, Carraldo,” he said, indicating a pale brocade sofa. “I have no doubt you’ve heard certain things about me—about my businesses. And my methods.” Antony nodded. “Then all I can say is that you must not believe
everything
you hear. But I have also learned a lot about you. You are here, Carraldo, because I need young men like you around me. Oh, there are more than enough thugs and brainless idiots available for the more … mundane … work, and they would be only too eager to take what I’m about to offer you. But there are not enough
brains
, Carraldo, not enough young men who can think on their feet, who can make decisions, who can take charge. I think that with training,
you
may have that capability. You are alone in the world, and I like that—no family ties or attachments. I have no sons, Antony Carraldo,” he continued, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette, “and I am searching for an heir to my … empire.” His iron-gray brows rose in his furrowed forehead as he stared at him. “Well, boy? What do you say?”

Antony swallowed nervously. “I know nothing about your business,” he muttered. “I just know what I do … I’ve never been to school … I don’t know about paintings—those names you said meant nothing to me. I’ve never been in a room like this before, I’ve lived in the streets since I was six. What can you possibly want with someone like me? You can get yourself an educated man, someone who knows how to behave. I’ve got nothing to offer you—or your business.”

“That’s exactly my point, Carraldo. I employ university graduates—accountants and lawyers—elsewhere in my business. I’ve watched you closely.
I
know you.
You are young, you can be
tutored, you will learn
… but there is no school where you could learn what you have on the streets of the
bassi. One day my business will
need
you, Antony Carraldo. And the rewards will be big—more than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Antony ran his hands bewilderedly through his mop of dark hair. He was being offered the world on a plate … but he knew this man’s business, he knew he was a top man in the criminal network that riddled Italy. He was a frightening man—yet what he was offering was infinitely tempting … riches … position
… power.
But what was he going to be asked in return? “I’ll never kill a man for money,” he said, contemptuously pushing back his chair.

“My dear Carraldo, no one will ever
ask
you to kill anyone,” the man said with a knowing smile. “You forget, it will be
you
who will give the commands.”

Antony nodded in agreement. He understood. “What happens to me now?”

The man settled back in his brocade chair, smiling.
“You
have made a wise choice. Let us hope you will never have cause to regret it.
You
move in here tonight—your room is already prepared. Tomorrow a tutor arrives from England and you will begin your education.”

“But my apartment, my things …”

“You
will need nothing from the past. Your apartment will be sold and the money placed in your new bank account.
You
will earn
nothing
until your education is finished and I am satisfied.”

Antony stared at him doubtfully; he was making a deal with the devil—and if he failed? He shuddered at the thought of what might happen. But the lure of that ultimate power was very strong….

“One more thing before you retire to your room.” The man’s voice was almost shrill in its coldness as he lit another cigarette. “You are a young boy, barely fourteen, yet there is already much talk about your sexual prowess—and inclinations. From now on you will exercise control over your needs. I will have no scandal attached to my Family.” Turning away, he picked up a book, opening it at a page marked neatly with a silver bookmark.
“You
may go now,” he said coldly.

Antony knew he’d sold himself into some kind of strange slavery, but he found himself eager to learn. He devoured the books provided by his tutor, exhausting him by refusing to quit when lessons for the day were over. Mathematics was easy for
him, he’d been putting it to constant practical use since he was six. But now the world opened up to him geographically, and the past became reality through brilliant history teaching. And the beauty of the written word, of music and art, provided whole new avenues of knowledge and pleasure. When he wasn’t studying, he spent his time in the man’s library, discovering with delight rare volume after rare volume. Taking them carefully from the shelves, he marveled at their age and the fragile hand-illuminated pages. He touched the soft leather covers with sensitive fingers, imagining the bookbinder creating these works of art to last for centuries. He studied the paintings of the masters that adorned every room in the mansion, learning about each artist’s qualities and techniques, and he soon formed strong opinions about those he liked and why.

Dressed neatly in gray flannel trousers and a blue shirt, with a plain dark blue silk tie and a gold-buttoned blazer, he dined nightly with the man. Although, of course, he addressed him by his name, Antony always thought of him as “the man,” as though subconsciously he wanted to keep his identity secret. The man always questioned him shrewdly about his day’s lessons, nodding, pleased, when he answered quickly and intelligently. He decided that Antony was not getting enough physical activity, and that he should take lessons in tennis, swimming, and fencing. Antony enjoyed fencing the most. Wearing a white uniform and a fencer’s mask, brandishing his foil, he felt like Douglas Fairbanks in one of the old movies the man enjoyed several times a week in the small private cinema in the basement.

He was amazed how easy it was to slip into a life of luxury, where things are always done for you. The mansion and its grounds were kept immaculately by a silent band of servants and gardeners; his clothes were washed and pressed; his breakfast was brought to the schoolroom where he would already be studying at six in the morning, and where he also ate lunch. Dinner was always with the man, beautifully served by a white-gloved footman, and always with a fine wine whose excellence and characteristics the man was at pains to explain to him. Of course, there was a price to be paid. The beautiful gardens were surrounded by high walls, and patrolled by armed guards with fierce, snarling black dogs. There were more guards at the gate and by each door. There were alarm systems and floodlights. The mansion had held the man a prisoner for almost half a century. But there was also a constant coming and going of people, some official
looking, some sinister, and some humble from the
bassi.
The man saw them all.

It was a solitary life for a young man, though, of course, Antony was used to that. But it was rich and interesting and he wished it could go on forever, except for one thing. Sex. Or rather the lack of it. Life on the streets of Naples had not allowed sex to be a private matter, and he’d observed his first coupling in a darkened doorway at the age of six. Some of the boys had offered themselves for sex with older men for money, and others had seemed to have frequent sexual encounters that they described graphically and with a great deal of exaggeration. Antony had listened to their talk of what it felt like and how good sex was, and felt the stirrings in his own loins. When he was thirteen and already looking seventeen, he’d gone to an apartment where he’d heard an old man was dying, hoping to get there first and sell them the funeral. The woman who’d opened the door was young, twenty-three or -four, full-bosomed and wide-hipped. Her curly dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, and as she opened the door she stared at him suspiciously, clutching her cheap silk robe across her breasts. With an effort Antony averted his eyes from her bosom and explained that he’d heard she would be needing to make funeral arrangements. “Oh, yes, he’s dying all right.
Thank God!”
she exclaimed. Then, staring at him, she added, “You’d better come in so we can discuss things.”

She’d sat next to him on the worn velvet sofa. Through a half-opened door opposite, Antony could see a man lying in bed, his gray-white face turned in their direction. It was shriveled and old, but his eyes were alert and he was watching them. “I don’t know how he’s hanging on,” she commented, glancing indifferently across the room, “the doctor said he should have been gone a week ago. He’s old—he’s had his day … it’s time he went to his maker and left the field open for a younger man.” She eyed him thoughtfully and then went into the kitchen and came back with an open bottle of red wine.

“How old is your father?” Antony asked politely.

“My
father?”
she exclaimed with a mocking laugh. “That’s not my
father! That
is my
husband!”
Filling two glasses, she handed him one. As she leaned toward him her robe fell away from her breasts and Antony gulped his wine quickly, crunching his knees together desperately as he felt himself harden. Her breasts were like two heavy pears and her olive skin looked smooth, the nipples dusky and pointed.

“Have some more,” she said, refilling his glass, “and then you can tell me what you are doing here.” Her plump hand rested deliberately on his thigh as she edged closer, staring into his eyes and making no attempt to cover herself. Draining her glass, she said hoarsely, “Do you have any idea of what it’s like to make love with an
old
man? To climb into his bed at night and have his cold hands crawl all over you while he fumbles to achieve his own pleasure? Can you imagine what it’s like to have
that”
—she glanced viciously at the half-open door—“kissing you with his spittle running down his face? God,” she moaned, her hands suddenly roaming across Antony’s body, “you don’t know how I’ve
longed
for him to die,
longed
for warm young flesh next to mine.” Antony put his hand on her breast and she trembled. “Ohhhh, God,” she cried, “I just want to be made love to, the way a woman should … is there anything wrong with that?”

Her robe slid from her shoulders as she fell back on the sofa, pulling Antony on top of her. Automatically, he buried his head in her breasts, and it was as if he suddenly became another person. He felt strong, powerful, as though he possessed every woman in the world. The woman moaned again with delight when she saw his erection. As he thrust into her Antony thought he heard a faint cry from the half-open bedroom door, and turning his head, he saw the old man’s eyes fixed on them. “More,” she begged, “harder, harder … go on,
hurt me …”
He slammed into her, increasing his rhythm, biting at her nipples as her nails clawed his back. Even though it was his first time, he outlasted her, permitting himself the ultimate luxury of ejaculation only when she begged him to stop.

Antony threw on his clothes quickly. Still tauntingly naked, she walked across to the bedroom and stared at the old man. “Well, that finally did the trick,” she said in a voice tipped with ice. “The old bastard’s dead.” Her shrill laugh had followed Antony through the door and down the stairs as he’d fled back to the familiar street.