by Cathy Ace
He turned his head slowly, and saw the weapon was being held by Alessandro Ambrosi himself; Doug could see Ambrosi’s hand was sweaty – he hoped his fingers didn’t slip.
‘Get out, now!’ demanded Ambrosi.
‘No I won’t get out – I am not leaving you alone with Antonia for one moment,’ replied Doug, not knowing what had prompted him to be so courageous in the face of a firearm.
‘Get out, now!’ squeaked Ambrosi, and he prodded harder at Doug with the gun. ‘I don’t want your precious Antonia – I just want to get into the back of the car. Move now – pronto!’
‘Do it,’ whispered Antonia. Doug’s mind raced as he unbuckled himself and opened the door; he kept his body within the doorframe and his face to Ambrosi, as he fiddled with the seat-lifting mechanism, finally tilting it forward out of the way. Ambrosi warned him not to try anything as he wriggled his short, portly frame into the rear passenger seat, then Doug slammed the seat down and jumped in before Ambrosi had a chance to force Antonia to drive off without him.
‘Where you want me to drive, pig?’ shouted Antonia, staring at the little man in the rear-view mirror.
‘Do not worry where we go – just drive and I tell you where,’ Ambrosi barked at Antonia.
She turned and sneered at him, ‘And you do this at the end of a gun? Like a coward?’
‘Coward or not, I am the one in charge – now drive!’
Antonia did as she was told; the tires screeched on the glassy cobbles as the little car sprang to life again. Doug was thrown against the headrest, and scrambled to pull on his seatbelt as he tried desperately to think of some way he could get Antonia and himself out of their predicament. He no longer even saw the history whizzing past them, instead, scenes from films he’d watched on television over the years flashed in front of his mind’s eye; sadly, all the films had one thing in common that was most definitely lacking in the current situation – an action hero.
He kept trying to work out how he could defuse the situation, but nothing came to his frantic mind. As Alessandro Ambrosi shouted directions at Antonia he wondered if they’d be able to leap from the car – without getting shot – during one of the periods when they hardly moved, grinding through pockets of gridlock, but he quickly realized there was no way for him to communicate any such plan to Antonia without Ambrosi knowing. Doug had lost his sense of direction entirely, and began to be convinced he was seeing palazzos and piazzas for the second and third time. Maybe Ambrosi was trying to throw off a possible tail? Antonia had said the police were supposed to be watching him. At that thought, Doug’s spirits lifted – if the police had been watching Ambrosi, they must have seen him grab them and force them to drive off. His heart got another boost when Antonia’s phone rang and she told Ambrosi she’d have to answer it because it would be the police, wondering what had become of her.
However, to Doug’s great dismay, this information led to Ambrosi grabbing the phone, answering it himself, in Italian of course, and barking at the police. Antonia’s eyebrows rose and she said, ‘Why you want us to meet the police at my villa?’
Doug was glad Antonia had thought of this method of letting him know what was going on.
‘I will prove I did not kill Gianni,’ replied Ambrosi roughly, ‘this is why, Antonia – now drive!’ and he poked the gun toward Doug with a threatening gesture.
Eventually they arrived at the villa, and Antonia drove slowly through the formal gardens that surrounded it. Doug knew he should have felt relieved when he saw the police cars and the armed officers adopting positions from which they could shoot, without being shot at, but he didn’t feel more secure – in fact, he felt a great deal more concerned; what if gunfire broke out? He or Antonia could easily be hit by one of the dozens of men who were all now aiming their weapons at the little car.
‘Be calm,’ shouted Ambrosi as they arrived at the entrance to the villa. Doug could see nervous faces peering from behind curtains on the upper floors of the hotel, and could imagine the staff and guests had been told to make themselves scarce. In all his experience of life, which he was beginning to realize wasn’t that great, he had nothing to help him out at this juncture; he had no reference point, no role model, nothing to go on at all. All he knew – that Ambrosi didn’t – was Antonia had a gun in her handbag; but Doug couldn’t reach her bag. Even if he could have reached it, he wouldn’t have known what to do with a gun, so Doug resigned himself to that knowledge being useless.
As the car crunched to a halt, there seemed to be a moment of complete stillness. To Doug’s mind, even the birds stopped singing. It might have just been a few seconds before Ambrosi spoke, but to Doug it felt like a lifetime, as he turned and stared into the potentially deadly barrel of the small gun.
‘Get out, English!’ he barked.
That did it; something in Doug finally snapped. ‘I’m a Scot actually, not an Englishman, thank you very much, Alessandro, and I’ll get out only when I am sure Antonia is in no danger whatsoever – which means I’ll get out when you chuck that gun away.’ Doug felt as though someone had commandeered his power of speech; he had no idea what he would say next, so even he was surprised when he added, ‘Look, Ambrosi – there are more than a dozen marksmen training their weapons on you right now, so you’re not going to get away from here. Who holds a gun to a defenseless woman’s head to prove his innocence? It makes no sense. You’ve brought us here. You knew the police would be here. You even told them you had us at gunpoint – so what the devil are you planning? It can’t be to shoot us, right here, with all these people as witnesses. So just throw the gun out of the car window, and let’s get on with being civilized human beings.’
None of Doug’s stomach churning terror could be heard in his tone, or seen in his manner; he knew this because he noticed Antonia’s eyes flicker with . . . he wasn’t quite sure what, but he hoped she was impressed. He certainly was.
Ambrosi’s shoulders sagged, and Doug saw his chance; he grabbed the barrel of the gun, levered it out of Ambrosi’s hand and threw it out through the open passenger window. As it landed on the gravel with a light clatter, Doug shouted, ‘Run!’
In a matter of seconds, Antonia and Doug were both out of the car and running toward the police who, in turn, all rushed toward the car. Once the police had hold of Ambrosi, Doug grabbed Antonia and pulled her to him.
‘Are you alright?’ he panted.
‘Si,’ she replied quietly, ‘I am.’ She straightened her blouse, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled warmly. The couple watched the police drag the handcuffed Ambrosi across the gravel driveway toward them.
The policeman with rather more elaborate fittings on his uniform than the others – the one Doug suspected was in charge – spoke rapidly to Antonia, who responded in a low voice. Doug didn’t recognize any of the uniformed police as having been in attendance the night before, but did see a couple of faces he knew – two plainclothes officers who’d returned, literally, to the scene of the crime. A few brief exchanges in Italian followed their arrival, then Doug’s hand was taken by Antonia as she, the handcuffed Ambrosi, the two detectives, and an armed officer, all began the short walk to the grotto.
No one spoke; Doug reflected on all that had happened since he and Antonia had walked the same path the night before, and he found it hard to comprehend that what had occurred had actually involved him – Doug Rossi. The Doug Rossi who had always truly believed that if you took the bitter with the sweet, everything would turn out for the best in the end. He had to admit he was, for once, in a situation that could never turn out for the best; Antonia’s beloved brother lay dead in a police morgue and there’d be no bringing him back, even if they did discover the truth about who had killed him, and why.
Doug was astonished to realize the situation hurt him because it hurt Antonia; he was grieving because she was grieving. He couldn’t help himself; her loss was now his loss. She’d never be whole again without her successful busi
nessman brother, whom she’d clearly loved a great deal. Nothing could change that – it was all bitterness and loss, and it always would be. Doug felt a bit overwhelmed.
The grotto seemed to have shifted position in the gardens; the walk to it the previous night had seemed a long and wonderful one, now they were there before he knew it. Its appearance had also diminished; as Antonia had lit the lamp the night before, the grotto had shimmered and sparkled with tiny points of light that made it look magical and mysterious, now Doug could see it was built almost like a little cement igloo. Even the niche area set off to one side – that had held so much promise, but had so tragically hidden a dead body – was no more than four or five feet in length. Doug felt he was in a theatre with all the lights on, with scenery stacked at the back of the stage; all the illusion was gone, and only artifice remained. Doug felt the disappointment in the pit of his stomach.
As he grappled with the loss of the previous night’s dreamworld, he reminded himself that at least he’d seen it and felt it, and that for a few moments, it had been real; that would have to be enough for him. Then another, nameless, worry crept over him, and he looked at Antonia with alarm. Thankfully, he saw no change in her; just warmth and glowing skin, strength and vulnerability, and the smile at the corner of her full lips as she looked at him with her disarmingly direct gaze. Doug’s moment of panic was gone. Once again he could concentrate on what was happening around him – and he needed to focus, because most of it was taking place in staccato Italian, with hands being thrown about all over the place, and Antonia shooting rapid translations at him.
Ambrosi was shouting; he was protesting something – Doug assumed his innocence. Antonia was holding her own in her deep, strong voice; Doug assumed she was continuing her assurances that Ambrosi was somehow connected to her brother’s death. The detectives looked bemused, letting them get on with it, and the uniformed policeman was clearly trying to work out how to light a cigarette while holding onto his gun. He finally holstered the weapon, lit a cigarette, then took out the gun again, training it on the handcuffed Ambrosi. This set off the two detectives who also lit cigarettes, and finally Antonia paused and did likewise. Unfortunately the little silver gun she’d been hiding in her handbag fell out as she retrieved her lighter. Every member of the group drew a surprised breath as it fell, but it was gathered up nonchalantly enough by the younger of the two detectives. Its appearance led to a vicious stream of invective from Ambrosi, who also seemed to be aggrieved that everyone but him was puffing away as they shouted at each other.
Doug couldn’t believe it when the younger detective lit a cigarette for Ambrosi, and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. Ambrosi exhaled smoke through his nose as he continued to talk and, unable to follow what was being said, Doug became fascinated by the length of the ash that refused to fall from the accused man’s cigarette, no matter how violently he shouted at Antonia and the policemen. It seemed that, for a few moments, Doug’s world was reduced to that lengthening, and gradually drooping, pillar of grey ash. It fascinated him. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He barely noticed the detective hand a small brown bag to Antonia, or that she poked about in the bag, cursing.
What finally drew all of Doug’s wandering attention was Antonia’s triumphant shout of ‘Assassin!’ as she held aloft what looked like a tiny diary or notebook.
She pointed accusingly at an entry. ‘See Dooglass, Gianni writes he is to meet with Ambrosi – last night. It is here in his book – see detective – see?’ She thrust the book under Doug’s nose, then, before he’d had a chance to even focus on the page, she pushed it toward both Ambrosi and the detective. ‘Ask Ambrosi, why does Gianni write he is to meet him?’ she demanded of the detectives in a low, commanding voice.
Doug noticed that Ambrosi, whose cigarette ash had finally fallen onto his otherwise immaculate tan wool jacket, looked worried. He shook his head and said, ‘I do not meet Gianni.’
‘Liar – li odio!’ shouted Antonia. Doug could feel her frustration. Here was a clear sign that Ambrosi was lying; the entry in Gianni’s diary seemed damning.
‘I do not lie,’ said Ambrosi in a pleading tone. ‘He want to meet me. I say no. I refuse to meet him, but he insist. He know I come to your birthday party. I believe he comes here to try to see me after I say I do not wish to meet with him.’
One of the detectives spoke to Ambrosi in a low, menacing voice. Ambrosi’s shoulders dropped further with each sentence. The detective translated for Doug. ‘I have told this man we do not believe him. I have told him I believe he wants to tell me the truth. He thinks he cannot tell me the truth because it will make clear he is a criminal in other ways. I tell him we know this already, so he should tell the whole story.’
As the detective spoke Ambrosi spat the cigarette end from his mouth and ground it into the dirt with his heel. He looked at everyone in turn, slowly shook his head in resignation, and said, ‘I tell the true story. I speak in English, for the English.’
‘I keep telling you I’m a Scot,’ interrupted Doug, but he got stern looks from the detectives, so thought it best to shut up.
Ambrosi spoke quietly, his features softening. ‘Antonia. Your brother Gianni, you love him, I know. But he is not a good man.’ He shrugged.
‘Liar!’ shouted Antonia.
‘Contessa, per favore,’ retorted the young detective sharply, and Antonia fell silent.
‘It is as I say. When he was a child he was wild, yes?’ said Ambrosi.
Antonia looked at her feet as she replied, ‘Si, but this is normal for a boy – he runs, he plays, he fights, he gets into trouble with the police. He is not a bad boy.’
‘Maybe not a truly bad boy, but he is a truly bad man, Antonia,’ said Ambrosi. Doug thought he sounded disappointed. He wondered why.
‘At the end of his life, your father, he called me to him –’ Antonia seemed ready to interrupt again, but the older detective raised his hand in warning – ‘it is true. I come to this villa to see him when he lies dying in his bed. We agree then, no more vendetta. It is over. Done. I learn some history about my grandfather and your great-grandfather, and it is not so good. I think my family is wrong, I tell your father this. The vendetta is false. Unfair. So I promise to look after you and Gianni for him when he is gone. You?’ He looked fondly at Antonia. ‘You want nothing from me – you think of me as an enemy, so you keep me close. This is good because I can see you are always safe.’
Antonia glared at him, but he continued, ‘Your father, he knows that I have not betrayed him to the government, but we both agree to let the world think I have done this. But I promise your father I will find out who has really done this, who has told his secrets, and who has given the government information about him so they can take his money. I promise I will find out who has robbed you and Gianni of your future. You must understand, Antonia, I would not betray your father to the government – I too hate the taxes we must pay. If I want to hurt him, I do something that does not benefit the crooks who run this country. I have no time for them. They walk with smiles on their faces when they want you to vote for them, but they carry knives behind their backs, and all have bank accounts filled with money from those they say in public they are against.’
Doug thought it was bizarre that every member of the little group shrugged their shoulders and nodded at this statement; it seemed they’d all found some common ground at last.
Ambrosi continued, his tone subdued, ‘For many years I keep trying to find out who gives your father all his trouble and, finally, I hear from someone I trust very much, it is your brother, Gianni, who has given the government the information about your father, to get himself out of big trouble with the police. Bad trouble, Antonia. The police – they know this.’
Antonia looked pale. ‘No, non e allineare – it is not true,’ she whispered. She glanced at the detective, clearly wanting him to deny it, but he nodded in a way that showed his acceptance of these facts. Doug saw Antonia’s sho
ulders droop, her back bend just a little; she moved closer to him, leaning heavily upon his arm. All the attention was on Ambrosi, who Doug was beginning to see in a slightly different light. It was also clear to him Ambrosi had more to say, and was determined to say it.
‘Antonia – my dear child – the government, those crooked men, they let Gianni stay here while your father lives, but when your father dies, they tell Gianni to leave Italy. He did not choose to go, as he told everyone. He was told to live in another country, so he goes to America, to his cousins. There, with money I give to him – yes, it is true – he begins a business. At least, this is what he says. But, Antonia, he is a liar. All the time he say we must send the clothes, and the shoes, and the leather goods, and all the other items he says he will pay for, but he does not pay. Now – this year, after all these years – I say “No more money. Enough.” Nothing more is sent to America for him to sell, and keep all the money. Whatever I promise your father, Antonia, I am sorry, it is enough now. It is done. My own business interests, they are suffering. Now I must look after my own family.’
‘Even if I believe what you say, why does Gianni come here, last night?’ pleaded Antonia. ‘And why should I believe you did not kill him? If it is true he has stolen all this from you, you have even more reason to kill him.’
‘Antonia, I am with you, all night,’ replied Ambrosi, evenly. ‘You know that. And I tell no one about Gianni coming to Italy because I do not believe he is here. I think they stop him at the border, or at the airport – it is the authorities who made him leave, why would they let him return? And why should I think he comes to the villa, if I think he cannot get into Italy? But last night, when I see what has happened – and I know he is not dead by my hand – I leave here, I make phone calls to America, to Gianni’s business partners, and they say that it is not just from me that Gianni buys his products. Now, I know he does not buy them from me, he steals them from me. So I believe he steals from others too. I find out the other people he is supposed to buy from – who he steals from – and I know one man he has been stealing from is a very bad man. Here, detective – in my pocket – I have his name.’