Chapter 4
Mark just attached some documents to the e-mail he wanted to send to his father. He sat behind the big, marble table reflecting. He intentionally left out a few documents. Though he was the leader of the American market, the head of the whole organization was Enrico DiAngelo. He bungled some businesses because he handled them in his own way instead of time-honored methods. None of them was a big mistake but he knew his father would be furious. Mark was the heir but he knew that being in a friendly relationship with Enrico DiAngelo was strongly recommended, even for him, Enrico's only son. He would correct those mistakes and keep quiet about them till then.
Mark sent the e-mail then his glance got lost at the back garden beyond the window. He just looked at the well-kept plants, the water of the swimming pool rippling in the gentle autumn wind and sparkling in the brilliant sunlight. He looked at the glaring, blue sky. The weather was nice and it reminded him of the summer. The summer that DiAngelo couldn't really enjoy because he managed his business all the time.
Three years ago Mark just organized the American market, now he enlarged his area towards South and West. He had sense for the business. He watched his father and had learnt a lot from Enrico since his childhood.
Mark DiAngelo was similar to his father in many respects. Both of them were self-confident, strong-willed and short-tempered, but when Mark wanted something he just raised his voice or produced a blood-chilling smile and he got what he wanted immediately. Mark usually sorted out his matters peacefully. Against this, Enrico DiAngelo was a merciless man. He didn't look in an angry way, he didn't drop a hint. If someone roughed Enrico up, he'd better run away from the face of the Earth. Enrico DiAngelo never asked twice, never waited and mainly never forgave. He was mistrustful. Mark rarely got really angry, but Enrico often raged and he used very cruel, inhuman manners. When Mark lost his patience, he could be a very bad boy, of course. The biggest difference between him and his father was that Mark had never killed anyone, yet. But his father's blood flowed in his veins, too, that made him wayward and dangerous like a living delayed action bomb.
Mark's thoughts suddenly turned and he saw
Mark imagined the house, the two marble pillars by the two sides of the dark, pinewood front door. He saw the white walls and heard the sound of the pebbles covering the parking lot in front of the house as he walked on them slowly. He saw the terrace stretching out, the white stone balustrade, and the cane garden furniture. He closed his eyes as he imagined the back garden of that house, the greensward beyond the stone balustrade, the emerald cypresses encircling the garden and stretching towards the sky. He saw the rhododendrons at the base of them and the rockery with the houseleeks at the far end of the garden. He saw the deal floor all over in the house, the weighty, dark, carved wooden furniture, the big, cream-colored couch opposite the fireplace in the living room. Homelike atmosphere was everywhere and sumptuousness at the same time.
Mark wanted to be there, in that house he loved with the woman he worshipped. He wanted to spend a little time with Rebecca in
After one and a half hours, Mark sat in the living room with Rebecca by his side. She was telling about the drama that she had just started to write. The television was turned on in front of them, but they didn't pay attention to the news. Mark stared at Rebecca, he took pleasure in the sight of that raven hair, those big, shining eyes, and the passion and admiration for her turned into a dim smile on Mark's face. He looked at her full lips as they moved while she talked to him and then he couldn't hold himself back. He leaned towards Rebecca and gently kissed her. This tenderness was not characteristic of him; only Rebecca could produce this effect on DiAngelo.
"You didn't listen to me" she blinked after the kiss.
"I heard your every word, bellissima, but your beauty drove my thoughts away." Mark smiled. "I'm sorry."
Seeing that deceptively innocent look on his face, Rebecca burst out laughing then pressed close to him as Mark put his arm around her shoulders. She loved what she felt when Mark held her. She loved to be in Mark's arms, she loved it as DiAngelo gently kissed her face. At such times she felt as if she wasn't who she really was but a simple woman. In Mark's arms Rebecca became a weak woman.
She knew well who Mark actually was; she knew that her feelings, her desire, would get her into trouble. He was not an angel. Earlier, when she saw him on a photo and when she got some information about Mark from her employer, she thought of DiAngelo as a heartless, unprincipled gangster but now she knew his other face and she was lost. He was a gentleman, a friend, and a great lover. Although, he was a gangster, too. Actually this fact entranced Rebecca as much as his kindness and his attractive force did. The fact that he directed a whole empire by himself. It didn't matter what an empire that was. She was mesmerized by Mark's power, masculinity, brute force and dominance. In his arms Rebecca felt secure and was in danger at the same time.
"I wanna take you to
"I have a house there and I would like to spend a few weeks there with you. That house is much more intimate than this one. No cameras, no security guards ..."
"Only your ill-mannered bodyguard." Rebecca said giggling.
"And my driver, but you wouldn't see them. That house is big enough." Mark smiled.
"Well ... If it won't bother you that I'll write my drama ..."
"Not at all." DiAngelo shook his head and his smile became broader. "At least you won't be bored while I'll manage my business."
They had a talk about when they should go away. Night was falling outside, semi-darkness filled the living room and the TV threw out strange lights on their faces. Joe appeared behind them in the door of the room.
“Mark …” he said but suddenly lost the power of speech as he set his eyes on the television. He wanted to tell them that the cook got the dinner ready and that was served, but shocked him what he saw and heard. Seeing his stunned face Mark and Rebecca both turned back to the television. The newsreader was just telling about the happenings of that day and in the corner of the screen was a picture of a young woman. A picture of that woman who Mark slapped recently.
“A guest found Risa Tocchi’s dead body today afternoon, in a downtown restaurant. Heroin overdose caused the young Italian model’s death...” the newsreader said.
Mark slowly looked back at Joe above Rebecca’s shoulder and his glance spoke for itself. Whatever questions Joe had about the girl’s death, that wasn’t the right place and time to discuss. Seeing this sinister look Joe stunned even more.
“The dinner is served” he said in a low voice then headed out of the living room. Mark and Rebecca stood up and went to the dining room hand in hand.
Joe went to Stefano’s section of house and joined him for dinner. They sat by the small table facing each other but Joe just looked into his plate.
“Cos’hai?” the driver asked seeing his confusion.
“I still don’t speak fucking Italian, Stef.” Joe moaned.
“I just asked what the trouble is ... You’re strange.”
“Strange?” Joe looked at Stefano raising his eyebrow.
“Your tongue’s always running, buddy ... but now you’re just sitting here ...”
“I’m lost in thought, but everything is okay.” Joe shrugged but after a few minutes he couldn’t keep his doubts for himself. “Stef, what do you think ... Would Mark be able to ... kill someone?”
“Well ...” Stefano sighed putting down his fork then he sat back and just looked at Joe for a little while. He thought over the answer then replied nodding: “He would. I know him since my childhood and I know his father, too. As you know, Mark usually settles his concerns peacefully ... but he’s a DiAngelo. That means if he would get that point he wouldn’t show mercy to anyone.”
“Listen, Joe! Mark is an Italian man. We both know where he’s from and who he is. Those people in
“So that wouldn’t be a problem for him to kill a woman.” Joe summarized.
“Not at all. Those Italians in that society don’t respect women, neither Mark. Maybe Rebecca is the only exception.”
Joe just looked at Stefano for a few minutes then began to smile.
“Fucking dago assholes” he shook his head giggling. “Women are the most wonderful creatures on the Earth.”
“Oh, I agree” Stefano nodded smiling widely. “What I said doesn’t concern me.”
“You’re Italian, too” the bodyguard rolled his eyes.
“Damn, I’m just a driver, not the Godfather.” Stefano laughed. “I respect women and cars more than anything else” he winked still smiling but then became gloomy. “Why did you ask it?”
“Aw … I was just thinking.” Joe shrugged.
After dinner, Rebecca started toward the bathroom. Mark told her that he had to talk to his bodyguard about something and he went to Joe’s room. He bowed his head, slid his hands deep into his pockets and his shoes knocked on the marble covering with every step he took. The noise of his steps echoed from the walls as he headed down the hall. As he reached the door of Joe’s room he raised his head and knocked. Joe had already arrived back from Stefano and now he opened the door and just looked at Mark for a few minutes.
“Come in” he said then and Mark slowly stepped into the room. He closed the door and turned back to Joe, looked deep into his eyes and began to speak after this.
“Ok, it’s undeniably a tricky situation but … I didn’t hurt the girl” he said.
“For God’s sake, Mark!” the bodyguard groaned. “What are you talking about? The girl wasn’t hurt … She’s dead.”
“I didn’t kill her, Joe.” DiAngelo replied calmly.
The bodyguard knew well that Mark himself couldn’t kill the girl, because he was like Mark’s shadow, he followed DiAngelo everywhere. Mark couldn’t take a step without him out of the house. But there was another big difference between Mark and his father. While Enrico DiAngelo directed only a few people (capos as they said), Mark never worried about how many people stood under him in their hierarchy. Mark had plenty of contacts and dogs and it was comfortable for him because in the greatest part of his time he didn’t do anything, just idled and burned his money, while his people handled his business following his instructions.
Mark rarely showed up at deals and usually stayed away from the biggest transactions. He didn’t want to become entangled in suspicion, and he had successfully stayed out of trouble up to the present. This was why Mark DiAngelo could keep his name and could show himself at parties and other events. To average people, he was just an immensely rich man, a businessman, directing clubs and restaurants and in his real business life only a few people knew his real name and face. For example that grey-haired Mexican; “The Old Man” and 3 or 4 other associates. But Mark trusted in these people, he knew they would never finger him and not only because he knew their faces and businesses too, but because there were business morals even in their society. Mutual respect. And for the other, minor associates, his name was not Mark DiAngelo but simply “The Italian” and beyond this he was faceless.
So Joe was sure that Mark himself didn’t rub out the girl but he wasn’t sure at all if The Italian’s people did on the instructions of their boss, or Mark was totally innocent of the girl’s death. DiAngelo could see his doubts on his face.
“And I didn’t give order to kill her” he said still calmly.
“As I see, news of her death didn’t bother you.”
“Aw, forgive me for not shedding a tear for a model who, when she was my girlfriend, at first threw my money around then lied to my father about me.” Mark pouted. “And at last she appeared in my life again and tried to bleed me.”
“Really?” Joe raised his eyebrow.
“She told me if I don’t pay her 5 million dollars she will give me away to the cops.”
“Was that slap for this reason?”
“I can’t tolerate someone threatening me.” Mark shrugged his shoulder innocently. “Mainly because she took me for a fool. She had no evidence against me. But I don’t kill an empty-headed girl just because she tells me something stupid.”
“You just slap her.” Joe rolled his eyes.
“Ok, I got it … and it’s not my business.”
“You’re right.” DiAngelo nodded. “I just wanted you to see it clearly, not assuming about me something that I’ve never done.”
Mark’s voice was calm and his glance was frank … but Joe was still confused. Too much coincidence. The quarrel, the slap, the girl menaced Mark … and now she was dead. DiAngelo took another serious look at him and then left Joe alone in his room. The bodyguard sighed, lay down onto his bed and just stared at the ceiling trying to knock those gloomy thoughts out of his head.
Though Rebecca started towards the bathroom after the dinner, when Mark got out of sight and earshot she went to his workroom. She disassembled the phone with expert and quick movements. She wanted to put a bug into the phone but for her greatest shock there was another bug already in the telephone. Rebecca reassembled the phone, slid the bug back into her pocket then quickly left the workroom and went to the bathroom. She opened the tap and started to throw off her clothes.
“Who put that bug there? Who monitors Mark’s calls?” she thought to herself.
Though she wanted to do the same, now she had fears for DiAngelo. No one came into the house except six persons. She didn’t bug the phone, neither did Mark in all probability. The cook? Foolishness. The charwoman? Improbable. The gardener never came into the house … and the whole residence was so well protected it was like a fortress. So only two persons remained. Joe and Stefano. Why would they spy?
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