He was alone now, before the guests arrived, in the anonymous square concrete bunker directly on the seafront he called his own place, and where no one else was permitted access—without, that is, a direct personal invitation from the Boss himself. Which meant those invited were there on spurious business of an illegal and possibly lethal kind.
He was sitting in his big leather chair in front of the screen that showed the entirety of his villa: every room, every part of the grounds, almost every blade of grass and grain of sand, even the waves hitting the beach. He knew he could never become careless, take his life for granted. Enemies and danger always lurked, always would for a man in his position who had earned his wealth by eliminating anyone that stood in his way. Somehow they seemed to end up losing their businesses, their homes, their wives, their reason for living, and even occasionally, their lives. He had never tried to count how many enemies he’d had but it no longer mattered. He had come out the winner; whomever had opposed him remained at the bottom of the heap. A few he had permitted to continue running their lives just for appearance’s sake, building here and there, usually on the Costa del Sol where things were easier.
Outside, the waiters waited, and a quartet played softly, the pianist plucking jazzy chords that suited the quiet moment before the guests arrived.
The Boss adjusted his black silk bow tie in the mirror, thinking that as he had grown financially and therefore was more powerful, last-resort measures against rivals or enemies were rarely used. Those days were over; he was a sterling member of the community, a philanthropist who gave lavishly to causes that would get him publicity, make him known as a “good” man to those who counted in that world he craved and yet to which, despite his lavish charity, he still did not belong. It was, he thought—still looking in the mirror at his reflected self that gave no clue as to his true self—as though he was permanently locked out of the world he considered paradise. He and Orpheus. Good company, he supposed.
But it was the women he was really thinking about, those elegant creatures who would soon enter his door in their couture gowns, jewels gleaming at slender throats, with coiffures that had taken hours to construct, simple as they looked; in tall heels that lengthened their legs even though the shoes were killing them; silks gleaming, tulle fluttering, chiffon flowing soft over their bodies, hiding their secret selves. Some of them he knew could be bought for the price of a jeweled necklace, or a few weeks’ pampered vacation on a yacht in the Aegean; for a dinner on his arm at Paris’s best restaurant where she would be treated like the goddess she might suddenly have imagined she had become. Until reality was forced upon her and she found she was lucky to leave with her life intact, if not her body.
The Boss enjoyed violence, he enjoyed the knife against the throat, the threat. For him, sex was aways better with a threat, he had found that out long ago. And besides, afterward, money took care of everything.
But with these new women, the writer, Aunt Jolly’s heir, who was the new owner of the Villa Romantica and its land, the place where he’d planned to build his fourteen-story condos and make more than just a few millions over a short period of time, plus her silly little blond friend who was overeager to be liked and who he had charmed at the café; now there was a challenge. A challenge he would face tonight, with the help of the Russian, of course, though that bastard had not lived up to his promises. Still, in lieu of anyone better, he was being given a second chance. The Matthews woman, whose name he must remember was Mirabella, would be taken out this time. No mistakes could be made. And the little blond darling? Well, perhaps another role could be found for her, for a short time, anyway.
21
Chad Prescott
Chad left his house at two minutes to eight. Precisely at eight, he parked the Jag convertible in front of the Villa Romantica, slung his long legs out the door, and strode up the shallow front steps. He was greeted by the small brown dachshund, which, it seemed, liked to show its teeth to visitors. Chad did not fancy having a piece of his tuxedo trouser leg torn off right now. God knows he wore it rarely enough but it had served him well over the years and he was not yet ready to buy a new one.
“Good dog,” he said, not meaning it, but the dog seemed to take it the right way and backed off, tail wagging, snarl gone.