The Italian Deception

by Darby Philips

  “No. Tell me what this is about.”

  There was zero time for this. “Do you love me?”

  Her eyes scrunched together like she couldn’t understand the question in this context.

  “Do you love me?” he said again.

  She nodded.

  “Then I need you to trust me. We’re leaving now.”

  “This…this is insane.”

  “I know. But all you have to believe is that I love you and that you’re in danger. We’re in danger.”

  She hesitated, as if she were deciding.

  “After we’re safe, I’ll tell you everything. I promise.” She slowly nodded. He let go of her and grabbed the bag off the counter.

  She dashed into her bedroom, saying, “I’ll just pack some things quickly.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” he yelled, following her through the door.

  She stood on her tiptoes in front of her closet. She looked like she was reaching toward the back of the top shelf.

  He thought about Eric and the Grimaldis again. They had to go. “Portia,” he said, moving toward her.

  The cellphone in the other room rang. He spun toward it before realizing it was just the phone.

  When he turned back to Portia, she held a pistol in her hand. It was pointed at him. Her eyes stared into his and she fired. Everything went dark.

  ###

  Something slammed into his head, waking him from his unconscious state. He recognized the boathouse where he’d rescued Eric. A burning line of pain blazed along the left side of his head.

  Giovanni slapped his head again. He and Papa and Portia stood in a half-circle in front of him.

  Swiveling his head, he saw Eric directly across from him, slumped in a chair. His shins dripped blood and one leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Blood ran down his cheeks, and his right eye looked like a swollen peach. He appeared to be unconscious.

  Guilt clutched his chest with iron hands. He’d done this. Eric was here because of him. If he hadn’t insisted on going to Portia’s, on trying to save her, they wouldn’t have been recaptured.

  He stared at Portia. The woman he loved. She stood over him with a wicked grin.

  “You must be wondering why? My real name is Portia Cattaneo. My father is the head of the Cattaneo crime family. He and the Grimaldis were rivals, but they came to an agreement. Giovanni and I would get married and run the two clans. At first, I resisted. I was my father’s only child. I wanted to run his business by myself.”

  She wrapped her arms around Giovanni’s neck. “But, in time, Giovanni and I became lovers. We understand each other’s needs. And, eventually, I agreed.” Portia put her lips to his and they kissed passionately. Seeing her taunting him hurt more than any torture.

  “When they mentioned how you didn’t have a woman in Italy, I thought it would be fun to play with you.” She walked back and leaned over him seductively. “Finding out what you wanted, and saying the things you wished to hear. It was all a game.” She smiled wickedly, proud of her deception. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “And I liked fucking you. You’re very different from Giovanni. He’s like a racecar driver. You’re more like a pianist.”

  His eyes locked on Giovanni, who smiled. “And the more involved you became with our business, the more we wanted to keep tabs on you. Portia enjoyed the deception.” He was so excited, he bounced from foot to foot. “And so did I. Every time you were with her, I was watching. As soon as you left, Portia and I made love.”

  His heart was broken. His pride was gone. But he had to think of Eric. He had to find a way to escape. And he thought pissing them off was a good start. He laughed. It was fake, but he kept at it and stared at Giovanni. “You mean you had sloppy seconds?”

  He kept laughing even as Giovanni lunged at him. Portia moved away and Giovanni pummeled his face and gut.

  “Stop,” Papa Grimaldi said.

  Gradually, Giovanni pulled back, breathing heavily. Paul’s stomach and ribs boiled in pain.

  Papa used his club to push Giovanni back and stood in front of him. “Who else knows about us?”

  “Everyone,” Paul said.

  He slammed his club into Paul’s thigh.

  “Where is the money?”

  “Giovanni stole it.”

  For a moment, Papa paused and glanced at his eldest son. Then he turned back and slammed the club into his thighs and stomach repeatedly. “No lies. Tell us where the money is!”

  “We’ll never find the money if you kill him,” Antonio said. He leaned against the wall, his hands folded across his chest. The statement was practical, functional, and he’d expect that from him. But there was also irritation in his voice, like he thought he knew a better way.

  Papa Grimaldi whirled and slammed the club into his son. “Never tell me what to do!”

  He saw the exchange and realized Antonio was defending him. He’d saved his life. According to his code, he owed him. Paul wondered if he could exploit that.

  He didn’t know how long the torture lasted. It alternated between Papa clubbing him and Giovanni pummeling him. They kept asking him where he’d hidden the money. Eventually, he heard Portia utter the words that nearly broke him. “Let me try.” She grabbed a knife and moved toward him. Time slowed.

  The salty smell of the ocean mixed with diesel fuel assaulted his nostrils. Something from the top of his head dripped into his eyes and ran down his face into his mouth. It tasted coppery, like his own blood. He tried to move, but thick ropes secured him to a chair.

  As he looked up, he saw light glint off the steel of a large knife that descended toward his throat with frightening speed. He tried to move out of the way, but the ropes locked him in place.

  His eyes darted to the one wielding the knife. His vision was blurry, but he blinked the blood from his eyes and saw Portia grinning wickedly as the knife sped toward him. At the last moment, he jerked to the right and the knife scraped across his jaw line and plunged deep into his shoulder. Burning, tearing pain flooded through his body. He screamed.

  Chapter Thirty

  ***

  Jacob’s alarm startled both of them.

  He shut it off and said, “I’m going to stay a little longer today. We really need to discuss this more. You’ve made an amazing breakthrough. You’ve learned that the woman you loved—the woman you wanted to marry and have children with—shot you in cold blood then tortured you. How does that make you feel?”

  “How the fuck do you think it makes me feel?”

  “Paul, please. I’m trying to help.”

  Paul stood up and walked around the couch. He leaned forward and grabbed the back of it. “The pain is like a hole in my chest. But, around the hole, there’s anger. I want her to feel the pain she inflicted on me, but I don’t think I can hurt her.”

  Jacob set down the folder and stared at him. “I think your main issue is that you still don’t know if the person you fell in love with was the real Portia or the actress. Let me ask you a question. Could you ever forgive her?”

  “Never.” The words came out like a punch.

  He nodded. “Then you need to understand that what you felt for her is over. It’s in the past. No matter what she felt for you, or you felt for her. No matter who she really was, or pretended to be. She could have escaped with you and Eric, but she chose to shoot you. Actions show feelings much more accurately than words. And you can never forgive her actions, so it’s over. The feelings you had for her should be over. Once you understand and accept that, I think you’ll be able to move forward with your memories and your personal life.”

  Paul walked back around the couch and sat down. On some level, he knew what Jacob was saying was true. But having another person put it into words somehow made it real, like he could face it instead of hide from it. “You said ‘main issue.’ What’s the other one?”

  “I’m convinced part of you is trying to forget what happened next.”

  He spoke with a certainty that Paul fo
und unnerving. Then he understood. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, sipping his Diet Coke. “No one does. That’s why we’re here. But every person has a breaking point that is determined by their values and experiences. And I think you reached yours. What happened after that conflicted with your core values and caused the dissociative amnesia.”

  Paul took several deep breaths and mulled over Jacob’s words. Inside him, something unlocked. Mental images he’d previously remembered stood out like different colored balloons rising into the air. He tried to focus on the them, organize them, but the black void rose up and swallowed them. The darkness faded into a sunrise. He tried to regain the images, but he couldn’t.

  Jacob must have known what he was doing because he said, “Trying to remember what you’ve forgotten, and knowing you’re hiding something from yourself, are two entirely different things. Essentially, you’ve been trying to break down a wall that you keep rebuilding. Whatever you did or didn’t do. All that is in the past where it can’t be changed. The only thing you can do is accept it, learn from it, and move forward with your life. Once you do that, I think you’ll remember everything.”

  Paul felt like he wanted to pull his hair out. He stared at Jacob. His calmness irritated the hell out of him. To his credit, however, he wasn’t telling him to ‘share his thoughts.’ This was all about him. What he needed to do to remember his past. To keep him out of jail. To finally get some closure in his life. And to put his past in the past. “It all boils down to acceptance, huh?” he smirked as he said it.

  Jacob returned the gesture. “There’s an old saying by Reinhold Niebuhr. ‘Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’”

  “I’ve heard that before, but never really understood how hard it was.”

  He took a last sip of Diet Coke and put it away, glancing at his watch. “But I really have to go now,” he said, cleaning up. “Think about what I’ve said and we’ll pick this back up on Monday.”

  They both stood and Jacob put a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive yourself, Paul.”

  After he left, Paul sat down and peered out the window, thinking about acceptance.

  As he watched Jacob’s Mercedes drive down the only road into Hillcrest, his thoughts drifted to his mother. What Jacob had said made sense. Perhaps he could remember everything about this undercover operation and his dissociative amnesia wasn’t related to his mother’s condition. But Paul couldn’t escape the real possibility it might be an early sign of dementia.

  He brought out his phone and dialed his mother’s room at Westview Sanitarium. After several rings a perky voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Mom,” Paul said.

  “Paul,” she replied. “It’s so good to hear from you. How is high college?”

  “Good. I’m doing really well.”

  “Of course, dear. I knew you would.”

  He paused preparing himself for the answer to his next question. “Mom, did you ever forget something really important and then remember them later?”

  She didn’t respond. Her breathing became shallow.

  “Mom? Please, think hard.”

  She remained silent. Her breathing returned to normal and she said, “Of course not dear. Now, enough of this talk. Have you seen your father? I haven’t heard from him since yesterday and I’m worried. I miss him.”

  Paul’s spirit sank. Neither of them had seen him after he was released from prison fifteen years ago. It was probably for the best she didn’t remember the beatings or the trial. He thought about continuing their conversation but knew that five minutes after he hung up she’d forget he’d called. “I love you mom.”

  “I know that dear. I love you to. Now go play with your friends. I have to get back to my…I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

  “Nothing, mom. Just saying I love you. Bye.”

  “I love you too dear. Bye.”

  He hung up and stared out the window wondering if his mind would betray him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chuck hurried out of Founder’s Hall before the psychologist left Conference Room C. He waited in the hallway until the man walked out the front door then followed him. As the psychologist drove away, Chuck snapped a picture of his license plate.

  Six months ago, an anonymous individual had offered him $100k to befriend Paul Taylor, extract any information about his Italian operation, and kill Paul when directed. With the fake identity Anonymous provided, Chuck thought it would be an easy job.

  Over the last few months, Chuck had learned that Paul was desperately trying to remember the last 24 hours of the Italian operation. Chuck theorized that if Anonymous was willing to pay $100k learn it, Paul must have forgotten something pretty important. Something that might be valuable to other people.

  He sent the psychologists’ license plate number to Anonymous and then texted: Paul is seeing a psychologist at school. They’re relating Paul’s past. A lover named Portia and a group called the Grimaldis.

  The responding text was almost immediate: Anything else?

  Nothing yet.

  Find out everything they talk about. If I learn anything pertinent about the psychologist, I’ll contact you.

  Paul and the psychologist will probably talk about a lot of stuff. How do I know if they talk about the information you want?

  There was a brief pause before Anonymous replied: Paul knows the location of a specific item. You’ll know it when you hear it. If he tells the psychologist, kill them both and report it to me.

  As Chuck read the message, he wondered again what Paul knew.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Shelly sat in her car overlooking a small neighborhood park as the sun sank. Across from her, children played on a sad blue and red merry-go-round while a distracted nanny stared at her phone.

  Through the park and across the street sat Abelie Esposito’s house. Tom Forton had found her. The former Ndrangheta mistress who’d betrayed the mafia for love of an American agent had changed her name to Jennifer Moretti upon arriving in America. She worked as an accountant in a bank where she met her husband, had a child, and moved to the suburbs. Shelly could see Abelie reading to her daughter in the white kitchen through big bay windows.

  She waited for the traitor to visit her, to make sure no one had talked to her. She felt a tinge of regret involving Abelie in her plans, but it was the only way she knew to find the traitor and help Paul.

  As the minutes wore on, she focused on Abelie more, how happy the mother seemed. It reminded her of the early years with her own family. She remembered all the things they’d shared: reading to her daughter; picnics in the park with her husband and daughter; birthdays; first days of school; and all the other little moments in a family’s life.

  And now their marriage had devolved into Frank trying to trick her into a physical confrontation he could use to claim Tiffany as some kind of trophy. She would not let that happen.

  The sad thing was that Shelly’s work history with the FBI would be a mark against her. The Ndrangheta were expanding into North American with surprising speed. Her expertise was needed and to effectively combat the crime syndicate would require long hours. A fact Frank’s high-priced lawyer would exploit.

  Fear sat like a stone on Shelly’s stomach. She couldn’t let that happen. Frank had already demonstrated he couldn’t be an effective parent. If Tiffany lived with him she might grow up into a woman Shelly didn’t respect or, worse, one she didn’t like.

  Shelly wondered if she’d divorced Frank sooner, would Paul and she have gotten together? She shook her head, realizing those thoughts were for another time. She turned her mind toward Frank and his lawyer’s next move and lamented she no longer had her FBI resources.

  Around 6:00 p.m., a black man in a battered white truck drove around the park for the second time. His eyes seemed intent on Abelie’s house. The man’s hat was pulled low,
and he had a fashionable beard, but she thought he resembled Luther Freedman, one of her three suspects.

  She reached for her gun, cocked a round in the chamber, and waited. Luther parked three houses down from Abelie’s house. He sat in his truck for ten minutes, surveying the area, then got out. He wore a brown UPS uniform and had a package tucked under his arm and a clipboard in his hand. He hurried to Abelie’s front door, looking like a man rushing to deliver a package.

  Shelly started the car, drove around the opposite side of the park, and parked behind Luther’s truck. The hardest part of the next few minutes was the timing. She couldn’t do anything before Luther acted, but she had to be prepared to save Abelie. After he revealed his intentions, she could ambush him at gunpoint and force him into her car. She’d drive to a specific location and begin the long process of learning if he was working with other people.

  She pulled out a small parabolic disc and pointed the electronic ears at Abelie’s front door. Luther rang the doorbell and Abelie came out, the baby in her arms. Shelly tensed.

  “Package, ma’am,” Luther said as he handed her a clipboard to sign. It was a southern drawl. Shelly knew it was fake. Luther was from Michigan.

  Shelly gauged her distance from them. She could dash out of the car and run to the front porch in less than seven seconds. An eternity. Still, if she got any closer, the agent would see her then he’d never betray his intentions.

  The agent peered past Abelie, as if trying to see if anyone else was home. Not good. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out something. Shelly was about to rush out of her car when she heard Luther say in a compassionate voice, “Abelie.” The way he said it was not the tone of someone who meant harm.

  The woman froze at hearing her name.

  He continued, “I knew Marco. We were good friends. Your name came across my desk, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”