The Rich Shall Inherit (63 page)

His collection grew over the years to include examples from Italy’s finest periods: Giotto from medieval times, Paulo Uccello and Fra Angelico from the early Renaissance, a magnificent Raphael and a Correggio from the High Renaissance. And then he fell for the more sumptuous, theatrical, and fleshy pleasures of Tintoretto, Titian, and Veronese. He collected books, medieval psalters, and illuminated breviaries; he bought a pair of fantastic globes of the fourteenth-century world; anything rare and beautiful was welcomed in his house.

Art collecting was a solitary pleasure because Franco had no friends outside of business, and the business and his Family occupied his entire time. He lived in a world where no one could be trusted, and he never brought a woman back to his home—he had an apartment in Naples for that. He had always found his life sufficient, though one day, he’d supposed, he would marry a suitable girl and produce an heir. He’d thought he had built a system and a life-style that brought him sufficient beauty and pleasure to balance the stress and ugliness of his responsibilities and his position. No man should expect more. Or so he’d thought until he’d met Poppy.

He’d sat alone in his sumptuous library many nights, thinking about her; he had sat at his desk, staring into space when he should hve been working, wondering what she was doing and who she was with; he’d lain, unsleeping, in his wide wooden bed that had once belonged in a Doge’s palace, remembering the fresh, sweet smell of her hair and her skin, and the mischievous insolent upward slant of her smiling blue eyes. He’d paced the floor cursing Felipe Rinardi for what he’d done to her, wanting to kill him, and his anger was such he would have struck the
lethal blow himself; but then he’d told himself if it weren’t for Felipe, she would have been married to Greg Konstant and living in California, thousands of miles from his world, and light-years away from his comprehension. Because he would never in his life have met a woman like Poppy.

Even now, at this important meeting, when it was vital that he keep his concentration, his thoughts kept drifting back to her and to their life together at the little farm at Montespan, where they both pretended they were not the people they had become. He had called this meeting himself, summoning his top executives; the lawyers, the financial advisors, and the bankers, as well as the men who directed the operations at street lavel. Though Franco would never forgive his father for betraying him in his will and appointing Stefano his heir, he had been a dutiful son. He had increased his father’s business more than a hundred times, until now he dominated the southern Italian underworld.

He looked around the table, assessing his men. On his left was Carmine Caetano, the lawyer who had warned him of his father’s betrayal and who was still his top man, loyal to him and to the Family. He would never doubt Carmine, not because the old man loved him but because he had proven to him that he was a good leader. He had made Carmine into a very rich man.

Gaspari, the banker who he had personally chosen to head his bank, the Banco Credito e Maritimo, sat next to Carmine Caetano. He was a big gray-haired man who, with his striped suits and conservative appearance, gave an impression of solidity and respectability to his position. Franco had started his first bank the year his father died and now there were seven, including a branch in Marseilles. The banks were a useful legitimate tool for funneling the vast amounts of money earned from his many businesses, and now Gaspari, too, was rich; and he was loyal.

Salvatore Melandri was a Sicilian. Like Franco, he’d been to business school in the United States and he had an astute financial brain as well as a Sicilian peasant’s street smartness. Salvatore always knew what was happening before it happened and Franco found him invaluable, and rewarded him accordingly.

On his right was Giorgio Verone, a young man not yet thirty years old who had climbed his way through the ranks to become Franco’s right-hand man. Giorgio was tough and ambitious; he carried out orders to the letter with never a mistake. He listened, he learned, he understood, and he was a coldly ruthless killer who was not afraid to take up a weapon and do the job himself.
Franco never confided all his plans, all his thoughts, all his worries to any one person, but perhaps of all his top men, Giorgio was the closest to a friend.

The other dozen men around his table were important each in his own field, but none of them knew the whole structure of the Malvasi Family business, nor would they ever. They each took care of their own sector and reported to Franco. Like Giorgio, they had all come up through the ranks, usually from the tough city streets. They belonged as closely to the Malvasi Family as they did to their own.

Franco was respected as head of the Family. He was just and generous. A man could go to him with a personal problem and Franco would invite him to sit by him, to talk to him, tell him what he needed. And if Franco felt it was justified, the man would not be turned away empty-handed. Franco paid for operations and for funerals for people he’d never heard of; he donated large sums to children’s charities; he paid for candles to be lit and masses to be said. He went to first communions and was a godfather to many children. He gave supremely generous Christmas bonuses to each of his Family, and he kissed their wives and their children when they came to the villa to pay their respects.

And yet there was unrest. He felt it like the first faint tremor of an earthquake, and he didn’t know what it was, or why. He shrugged his shoulders dismissively; he had learned to trust gut reaction, but there was something more urgent on his mind at the moment.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you are probably aware of the reason for this meeting. The word is out, even on the streets. The Palozzi Family is jealous of our power. You all remember the battle when we took over a part of their territory ten years ago. Now they want it back. Mario Palozzi came here himself to see me last week. His proposal was that if we returned to him the areas we had taken, he and his Family would be forever grateful; the Malvasi Family and the Palozzi Family would march side by side as allies. In other words, gentlemen, Mario promised to be good to us if we gave him what he wanted. Naturally, I told him that anyone on the receiving end of such a gift would consider themselves my friend. I told him that the Malvasi Family owned those territories legitimately, that they were won when his own Family lacked leadership strength. ‘We must go forward, my old friend, not backward,’ I told him. ‘And in friendship, not in war.’ We embraced as he left and I sent my good wishes to his
wife and children.” Franco paused, glancing at the faces around the table. “But I was looking into the face of my enemy.”

“The Palozzi Family are Calabrian troublemakers,” exclaimed Caetano the lawyer contemptuously, “always have been and always will be. If they weren’t starting up with us, they’d be doing it to some other Family. Mario Palozzi is a fat, stupid peasant with delusions of grandeur. Even if you gave him the power, he wouldn’t know what to do with it!”

“Mario is sick of being poor,” Gaspari the banker said. “He’s a big spender and he’s lazy.”

“He’s too fond of playing the tycoon,” added Melandri the business school graduate. “The word from the street is that he keeps his wife and seven kids in a modest house in his own village, while he lives it up with his women and his entourage in a palace in the city. I doubt that he can cause much trouble, though; he has neither the money nor the backing of his own men.”

“It’s true, Mario is a fool,” said Giorgio Verone, the young man who’d risen through the ranks until he was close to the top. “But he’s an angry fool. And it’s true that his men are restless. There is less and less money coming into the Family’s coffers because Mario has lost all control. Most of his people are on the take, from the kids collecting the numbers money to the young hoods in protection; more money ends up in their pockets than in Mario’s. His other business ventures have failed. Mario is broke. In my view the Palozzi Family could be taken over without too much trouble.”

Franco glanced at him sharply. “You know what that involves,” he said coldly. “And you know I’m against unnecessary bloodshed.”

“I know, sir.” Giorgio Verone’s mouth curved into a smile. “But is
Mario’s
blood really considered
necessary?”

“Even though his affairs are not in order, his Family are pledged to support him,” Franco replied coldly. “Inevitably there would be another bloody battle. I am concerned not to let the image of the Malvasi Family become one of ‘street thugs.’”

The telephone shrilled in the quiet room and Giorgio sighed as one of the men went to answer it. He was just getting into his stride; he knew if he had enough time he could persuade Franco that Mario Palozzi needed to be eliminated. Then, of course, the Palozzi Family would be given a new leader. And who better than himself? Giorgio had worked hard; he’d started distributing
for the numbers racket when he was seven and it had been a long, hard, bloody climb to where he was now, at twenty-nine. He was in his prime; he was streetsmart; he had contacts; and he knew every single racket that existed. And he wasn’t afraid to use a gun.

He watched Franco’s face broodingly as the man told him who was on the phone. The frown that sat permanently between Franco’s brows lifted and he suddenly looked ten years younger. He looked almost boyish, thought Giorgio, like a man who’s just won a fortune at the tables.
Or a man in love.

Franco glanced hesitantly around the table and Giorgio assessed his dilemma; he desperately wanted to speak to the person on the phone, but he was in the middle of a very serious meeting.
A life-threatening
meeting.

“Tell her I’ll come to the phone,” Franco said. He rested his hand on Giorgio’s shoulder as he stood up, adding, “Please continue your discussion. I’ll catch up with you in a few moments.”

Salvatore Melandri took up the cue, like the well-trained business executive he was. “Mario has lost all credibility with his men,” he said angrily, but Giorgio was watching Franco walk from the room, sensing the effort he was making not to look hurried. If he could, Franco would have run to that telephone. And Giorgio knew who was on the other end.

Poppy’s voice was so muffled that at first Franco hardly recognized her. “Poppy,” he called sharply over the crackling line. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“It’s Greg,” she sobbed. “Oh, Franco, it’s
Greg!”

His grip tightened on the receiver. “What about Greg?” he demanded.
“What about Greg, Poppy?”

“He … he’s …” She dissolved into sobs again and he frowned.

“Try to calm yourself, please,” he commanded. “What is the matter? Are you ill? Are you hurt?”

“I
saw
him, Franco,” she whispered.
“I saw Greg.
He was here at Numéro Seize … here …
with Véronique.”

Franco leaned his forehead against the cool, pale green wall in front of him … Poppy had never told him about Greg … they’d never even discussed her past. But she knew he knew everything about her; he’d investigated her past before he’d even met her that first time in Marseilles; even then he’d wanted to
know who the mysterious Poppy was … it was all in that secret file, kept locked in the safe behind his bed. “Has he gone?” he asked, suddenly afraid.

“Yes … oh, yes …” she sobbed.

Franco’s relief was so profound that his voice shook. “It’s all right then, darling,” he told her, “calm yourself. Call Simone, ask her to go to the farm with you … you should get away from there for a while.”

“But Franco,
I need you!”
Poppy wailed. “I’m
desperate
, Franco. I drove by the Seine today and I … I thought … oh, dear God, I don’t know what I feel, what I think …
I just saw my past, Franco, and I realized what I’ve become.”

He glanced at Giorgio, standing by the door.

“We are waiting for you, sir,” Giorgio said. “I think we have come up with some interesting possibilities.”

Franco frowned. Giorgio was out of line suggesting that he was keeping them waiting; at any other moment he would have dealt with him properly, but right now Poppy was sobbing over the phone and his heart was breaking.

“Please
, Franco,” she whispered,
“please, oh, please come.
Only you can make it right. I love you, Franco. Tell me it will be all right, tell me we love each other, that we are all there is in the world. Tell me Greg doesn’t exist.
For God’s sake, Franco, come with me to Montespan.
At least there, when you are with me, I know I am
real.”

“You are too distraught to drive; have someone take you,” he ordered. “Wait for me there. I will be with you as soon as I can.”

“Tonight?” Poppy pleaded.

He glanced at Giorgio, still waiting by the half-open door. “Tonight,” he agreed.

Giorgio walked back to his seat at Franco’s right hand. Now he knew exactly how the land lay.

1907, FRANCE

Montespan was the only place besides the Rancho Santo Vittoria that Poppy had ever felt was home. Like the Konstant House it had that same welcoming quality, the feeling that it belonged to her and she to it. It had been the first house they had looked at and she had fallen in love with it right away. “I don’t want to look at any others,” she’d told Franco, standing in the courtyard, admiring its low-sweeping slate-tiled roofs and twin symmetrical chimneys, its wide windows with their lopsided green shutters, and the pink-washed walls and the ranges of outbuildings that extended on either side like embracing arms.
“This
house is ‘home.’”

Inside were stone-flagged passages and floors of pale elm. The ancient fourteenth-century beams they’d expected to be blackened with age were their original pale weathered blond and the house felt light, wide, and airy. Franco had laughed as she ran from room to room exclaiming over new delights, a hidden store cupboard, an enormous stone fireplace, a pantry with an especially deep sink where she could bring her cut flowers to arrange. And their bedroom.