“That was good work,” Sergio said, satisfied, as van Mieren reported on the operation’s success.
“They have their assassin, and he’s got nothing to do with any Colombians.” Nelson smiled. “There won’t be a gang war, and everybody calmed down.”
“Your name is out of the headlines,” Massimo affirmed. He was relieved that his father had recovered so quickly and was able to once again make decisions. On their way from Long Island to Mount Kisco, the helicopter flew over Queens. During the flight, Sergio dictated to Nelson a list of people he should contact. He needed to know who was still on his side and what Kostidis had up his sleeve. Sergio was completely sure that the mayor wouldn’t believe the story of the self-confessed assassin. More than ever before, he had the feeling that Kostidis was a serious threat. It was late afternoon when Sergio entered his house near Mount Kisco. His second eldest son, Domenico, came to meet him with a concerned expression.
“Papa!” he called. “Thank God!”
Sergio hugged him clumsily with his right arm.
“How’s your mother?”
“She refuses to take the sedatives. But she’s somewhat composed. I still can’t believe that Cesare is dead.”
“Yes, it’s terrible.”
Sergio crossed the entrance hall, followed by his sons and Nelson van Mieren. He entered the grand living room. Constanzia was sitting on the massive leather couch with her daughters-in-law Victoria and Isabelle. Her sister Rosa and cousin Maria were also with her. Dressed in black, the five women had tearstained faces. Sergio’s eyes fell on a large framed picture of Cesare that someone had decorated with a black ribbon, and his stomach cramped painfully for a moment.
“Good afternoon,” Sergio said.
“Mr. Vitali”—a young doctor from Mount Kisco walked toward him with quick steps—“my condolences. It’s a real tragedy.”
“Yes, it is, indeed. Thank you.” Sergio nodded. Constanzia caught sight of her husband at that moment and jumped up with surprising agility. Her face, swollen from nonstop crying, contorted into an enraged mask.
“Assassino!” she screamed and charged Sergio before anyone could stop her. “L’hai ammazzato! Bestia! Assassino! You had him killed! Your own son!”
The other women jumped up, appalled, and Massimo and Domenico rushed to embrace their rampaging mother. They were visibly shocked by the allegations she flung at their father. The doctor stared at the woman in shock.
“He annoyed you!” Constanzia screamed. “You always despised him because he wasn’t as cold as you are! You had him killed, you cold-blooded bastard! Just like you sent my father to prison, when you knew it would be his certain death! You ordered the deaths of so many who were in your way, and now my baby, my darling. Oh, dio mio!”
She was reeling, and her tirade erupted into loud wailing. Her voice barely had anything human left in it.
“You’re not in your right mind, Constanzia,” Sergio said, extending his hand toward her.
“Don’t touch me, you murderer!” she screeched.
“No one did anything to Cesare,” he said in a calm voice. “He panicked and hung himself with his own belt. He was probably all coked up again.”
He noticed the incredulous glances of the doctor and his daughters-in-law, he saw the doubt in Nelson’s eyes, and he knew that even both his sons believed their mother in that moment.
“You never liked Cesare,” Constanzia said in a quieter voice. “The only thing you cared about was your damn business! I hate you!”
“Please give her a sedative injection,” Sergio said, turning to the doctor. “The pain of our son’s death is too much for her nerves.”
“Yes!” Constanzia laughed with utter hatred. “You just keep telling them that! But I know you, Sergio Vitali! I know exactly what you’re capable of! You’re as cold as ice!”
“Mama!” Domenico said in desperation. “Be quiet, please! Let’s go upstairs. Papa just returned from the hospital. He’s also grieving.”
“No, he’s not.” Constanzia freed herself from their grip. “This man never grieves. He has no emotions because he has no heart.”
Then she turned around and left the salon, followed by Victoria, Rosa, Maria, and the doctor. Sergio sat down awkwardly in an armchair.
“Bring me a whiskey, Massimo,” he said. His son obeyed, while the others stood there, silent and ill at ease. Constanzia’s uncontrolled fit of rage had profoundly shocked them because she was always calm and friendly.
“Why are you staring at me like that, Isabelle?” Sergio asked Massimo’s wife. “Do you really believe that I ordered Cesare’s death?”
“No,” the young woman said quickly, shaking her head, “of course not. It’s just terrible to see her suffer like this. She was very attached to Cesare.”
“I know,” Sergio replied. “It’s hard for her. She refuses to accept death. She also blamed me for her father’s death when he died of cancer. She’ll calm down again.”
Alex sat at her desk and read the Times article about Cesare Vitali’s suicide. She shivered as she recalled her first and only encounter with Sergio’s youngest son, which could very well have ended fatally for her. Her assistant Marcia peeked in through the door.
“Mr. Vitali’s on the phone,” she whispered dramatically, “and Mr. St. John wants you to call him back. It’s urgent.”
“Thanks.” Alex picked up the receiver. She had been waiting three days to hear from Sergio. She was in deep and time was flying by. First the attempt on Sergio’s life, then his son’s death, and now—after the alleged assassin was arrested—a terrorist dominated the newspaper headlines. Alex was quite sure that the men in that car were not former bodyguards, but perhaps it was best that no one found out the truth. She for one had banished any thought of that terrible night from her mind.
“Sergio?” she said.
“No. This is Massimo Vitali.”
“How’s your father?”
“Better. He wants to see you, Alex. If you can arrange it, right now.”
“I’m very busy,” Alex said evasively. She didn’t want to see Sergio.
“It’s important. My father asked you to visit him at his Park Avenue apartment. I can send a car if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take a taxi,” Alex answered. “And Massimo—I’m sorry to hear about your brother. I read it in the newspaper today.”
“Thank you,” Sergio’s son said in the same cold voice of his father. “So when will you be here?”
“In an hour.”
Alex stood up without further ado. It was better to get this visit over and done with instead of procrastinating. Mark Ashton’s desk on the trading floor was empty, but Alex ran into him in the hallway. He had just returned from lunch.
“Did you reach Oliver?”
“I’m meeting him this weekend,” Mark responded. “He said that he would help me if he can.”
Something else occurred to Alex.
“Did St. John ask you today about Syncrotron by chance?”
“Yes,” Mark said, looking at his boss in surprise, “he sure did. Is that a new client?”
“No.” Alex grinned and winked at him. “It’s part of my plan. We’ll lure St. John down a dead end and watch what happens next.”
Sergio lay on the couch in his Park Avenue apartment. He’d made one phone call after another to ensure the loyalty of his “friends,” but the result was devastating in almost every case. Most of them had someone make flimsy excuses on their behalf, and the ones to whom he spoke acted very reserved, or even turned him away.