Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  She turned to her sisters. “Just let me handle this, OK?”

  The door creaked open. “Yes?”

  Rose batted her eyelids. “We’re here to see Principe Roberto Parigi.”

  “The Principe is in Rome,” said the man, a thick-necked security guard type, in perfect English.

  Rose pouted. “I was sure he told us to meet him here. He’s going to be very disappointed if we’re not waiting for him.”

  The guard’s dark eyes swept up and down Rose’s body, and he grinned.

  “Special order? Americans? I suppose you should come in.”

  Covered by the noise of the creaking gate as it swung open, Daisy hissed, “He thinks we’re hookers!”

  Poppy smirked. “Ssh, Rose has something here. That dirty old bastard.”

  They fixed wide smiles on their faces as the gate swung open, and revealed the guard plus another. Both of them carried submachine guns slung over their shoulders. Daisy blanched, and Rose squeezed her hand.

  “A very special order,” Rose said, waving her hand at her sisters.

  The guard and his pudgy companion took in the three of them, then started to cackle.

  “Sisters! Triplets! He’s a lucky son of a bitch, that one,” the pudgy guy said, in Italian.

  Rose smiled at them both. “I believe we are supposed to wait in the main hall?”

  They were showed inside the Palazzo. “Stay here—I will check with his staff,” the guard said shortly. Rose waited until he had walked up a flight of stairs, then beckoned to the others. “Let’s go.”

  They walked quickly through the ancient halls, examining the drawing room, the corridors, the dining hall with its huge fireplace, the portraits, and tapestries, all the while their mouths open, drinking it in. Rose thought it was the loveliest building she had ever seen. That it belonged to the man who had murdered her parents made her feel physically ill; her stomach churned, and she had to sit down.

  But not for long. She was resting on an antique carved bench when the guard returned, his eyes colder.

  “They never heard of this order. Are you sure it was here?”

  “Maybe it was the place in Rome.” Rose sighed. “Oh well, guess we’ll drive down there.”

  “You know the address?” the guard asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Rose had done her research. “Of course, baby. Appartamento Cinque, Numero Ottanto, Corso Vittorio Emmanuele Due.” She rattled it off from memory. “It’s the penthouse.”

  He grunted. “Very well.” He lifted the gun and gestured to them to get out. They moved fast, and headed back to the car.

  Poppy groaned. “Another long drive.”

  “You don’t want to take a break now, do you?” asked Rose.

  “Absolutely not. That goon had a submachine gun, means the guy is pretty serious. He’ll probably call Roberto. We should get there before he has time to figure out what to do with us.”

  Poppy put the car in gear and sped off screeching down the road, burning rubber; it was Italy, so nobody noticed.

  “You know we can’t prove anything,” Daisy said, as Poppy took a hairpin bend at lightning speed. “What if he just laughs at us and says we’re crazy?”

  “We’ll work something out,” Poppy said. “Maybe Rose just makes another call to Salerni.”

  Daisy blinked. “What, like violence? We don’t want to use any violence…”

  “Speak for yourself,” Poppy retorted.

  “Hold on.” Rose jumped in to prevent the fight from starting. “There’s no need for that. We don’t want to be like he was. Plus, I don’t want to go to jail. Or get myself into a vendetta.”

  “So we just let him get away with this?” Poppy demanded.

  “Absolutely not,” Rose said. “But there are other ways to go about it.”

  “And what, exactly, are you going to do?” asked Poppy, turning on to the autostrada and gunning the accelerator.

  “Ruin him,” Rose said simply, “and destroy all he holds dear. And we won’t need to shed one drop of blood to do it.”

  “This, I gotta hear,” Poppy replied.

  Sixty-Seven

  “I hope that was acceptable, Roberto,” the girl murmured. He looked at her, the Pratesi satin sheets pooling around his scrawny torso, a hideous contrast to her healthy young figure with its smooth, peachy skin. He scowled, and she dropped her eyes.

  “I mean, Prince Roberto,” she said. I hate him, she thought, but he was good for a couple of grand if she played the game the way he liked it, and she wanted to stay in her rent-free apartment and keep her chauffeur.

  “That’s better,” he corrected her. He never let sluts like this one call him by his first name. “And you were just about acceptable. I find you are getting rather dull. Do better next time.”

  “Of course, Prince Roberto,” she said, dropping her eyes to hide the fury in them, and gathering up her clothes. She would dress quickly and then leave. The bathroom and comforts of the suite were not for her. Roberto liked to be alone after sex, to gloat, and the women who serviced him usually couldn’t wait to leave his presence.

  In this, as in everything else, his quirks were tolerated.

  After the model had gone, Roberto Parigi lingered and smoked one of his Cuban cigars. He also took a glass of dessert wine and a biscotti. It was a favored ritual, one his cousin Luigi had once told him he employed; the sensuality of lovemaking followed by the sensuality of a good smoke, and decent wine. For Roberto, the years of cigars had been a faint reminder of his sweetest victory. He had, in a mockery of his cousin and the gypsy witch, withdrawn to his room after his public show of grief at the funeral, and smoked his cousin’s cigar, and drunk his wine.

  It tasted very sweet.

  Today, as he was sipping his vino santo, Roberto missed the message that was delivered to his penthouse suite. It was taken from the fax machine by Signor Grucci, who did not look at it—because he dared not interfere with Roberto’s plans. Roberto dressed without any knowledge of it, and quitted the hotel. His driver and limo were waiting to take him back to Corso Vittorio Emmanuele.

  Roberto had no clue that anything unusual was about to happen. To him it was just another day.

  *

  Poppy found a parking spot. It wasn’t legal, but so what—they’d get fined, like any other Roman motorist. That was hardly important. If they towed the car, she didn’t care about that either. The important thing was getting to Roberto’s place in time.

  Poppy stepped out, and groaned as the blood rushed back into her legs. They were standing outside Number 80—a sleek, modern-fronted building in the middle of all the ancient houses, Renaissance churches and palaces. She looked at her sisters.

  “Ready, girls?”

  Daisy reached out, took Poppy’s hand and squeezed it, then took Rose by the hand, and squeezed it too.

  Rose found her eyes misted over and when she spoke, they were thick with tears.

  “You know, it almost doesn’t matter what we do with him. Because for the first time, I feel like I’ve found my sisters.”

  Daisy smiled. “Me too. But it does matter, Rose. Let’s go get this bastard, OK?”

  *

  “But I don’t understand,” Signor Grucci said, politely. He looked at the three women, perplexed. They were certainly Parigi’s type; incredibly good-looking, even if slightly older than he was used to, and exotic. Obviously triplet sisters. Well, it was just like his boss to go one better than the traditional male fantasy of twins. But hadn’t Parigi just finished with the French whore?

  He hesitated. His caution did battle with his natural cowardice. Parigi did not like other men messing with his whores. If they were insulted, or dismissed, he had to be the one to do it. No member of staff was permitted to be rude to a woman until Roberto was through with her.

  “I do. They told us at the Palazzo about the mix-up and that we should come here,” Rose said firmly. She affected a Texan twang. “The fee’s pretty big, Mister, an’ he had
us flown in real special-like, on the Concorde to London and then down here on the Gulfstream IV. I don’t think we should skip it. But if you say so, ’cause our house will be invoicing the john…”

  Grucci blanched. “Don’t refer to the Prince in that manner.”

  “Whatever,” Rose said nonchalantly. “Come on, girls, let’s split.”

  “No! Wait!” Grucci mopped his brow. Damn whores! What should he do? Flown here on Concorde and the Gulfstream; that was indeed the company plane, they had four of the jets. He ran the numbers in his head. That was some cab ride Roberto had paid for, and presumably he’d want to see the merchandise. Triplets; that was unusual. He leered slightly at them, and checked his Rolex.

  “The Prince should be back soon,” he said. “You may wait here in the corridor.”

  *

  The girls didn’t have to wait long, which was probably just as well. Daisy was nervous and jittery; Poppy squeezed her hand, trying to calm her pulse, not wanting her to blow their cover. Poppy herself didn’t know quite what she felt. Anger, expectation, curiosity, loathing, nerves … everything seethed together in her stomach, but she took that expensive private school education and put it to its first real use. She kept her face a mask, and glanced at Rose. Rose’s eyes glittered like a cobra’s, and Poppy felt glad she wasn’t Prince Roberto Parigi.

  “He’s here.” The oily little man was back. “You go into the living room, go.” He shepherded them inside. Roberto enjoyed the company of these women, but didn’t like to have anyone else interact with them. Like all johns, he felt a mixture of contempt and shame. Roberto was inured to his own immorality, his conscience had been utterly ignored for years; but his sense of his own rank was very much alive.

  It didn’t do for him to be openly seeing whores, as opposed to gold-diggers; so Signor Grucci was in the habit of pretending he had not noticed them arrive.

  “Good morning, Principe,” he murmured, “I believe the doorman mentioned you had some visitors waiting; I didn’t see them.”

  That was the normal, socially acceptable code for “hookers in the area.”

  Roberto blinked. He had not called for anyone to be sent over. A mix-up at one of the discreet, exclusive brothels he sometimes used? He had Elaine; he had not placed any calls for a month, at least …

  Still; he didn’t wish to deal with this while Grucci was present.

  “That will be all,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, Principe,” said Grucci, bowing slightly and withdrawing. Great; he’d get an early lunch hour.

  As soon as the penthouse elevator door hissed shut behind Grucci, Roberto opened the gilt-laden double doors that led to his sitting room, to dismiss the sluts with a flea in their ear; he didn’t like mistakes, especially when he’d just been with Elaine, and had no use for more …

  There were three young women sitting, together, on the end of his couch. He blinked; they were beauties, for sure, with long, flowing black hair, glossy fountains of it; slender, with light olive skin and high, angular cheekbones. Truly stunning, his favorite type of woman. And, he noted, as he stared with surprise, all exactly the same. Identical triplets.

  His first thought was approval of whichever madam had sent them around. If he did not want them now, he could use them later. He took a step forward, and all three girls stood up.

  “I didn’t order you,” he said, in Italian.

  Rose answered. She had spent all last night thinking about exactly what she was going to say.

  “You are Prince Roberto Parigi,” she said. “I am Contessa Rose Parigi. This is Contessa Daisy Parigi. This is Contessa Poppy Parigi. You killed our father, Conte Luigi, and our mother, Contessa Mozel. We have found you. We know everything. And we have come for revenge.”

  At first Roberto thought he was dreaming, or that the French whore had slipped some hallucinogen into his wine.

  And then he saw their eyes.

  His heart started to pound and thud, and he felt dizzy. He staggered into a chair.

  His skin went ash-gray.

  “Did you think we would never ask questions?” Daisy demanded.

  A small glint of hope crept into Roberto’s eyes. “I know you did! Yes. I know you asked questions. And you came back with nothing. You can prove nothing!”

  Rose smiled. “We are Mozel’s daughters. Do you know what happened to us, after you tried to bury us? But yes, of course you know; you had to get that report after you scared off Janus.”

  He had, and he had hated it. Rage and fear washed over him.

  “You got lucky,” he said.

  “No. We earned everything we have,” Rose said. “And you stole everything you have. We are here to get it back. Every last cent. And to make sure you end your days disgraced, and in jail. Do you know what will happen, Roberto? You have no children, and you won’t get any, now. You’ll die disgraced, and we’ll inherit everything—the company, the palace, the title.”

  “The title?” he spluttered. “Gypsy brats, that witch’s brats…”

  Rose put her face close to his. Though smaller and slighter, she seemed to tower over him.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “Gypsy girls will be the Princesses of the Parigi. I will have a portrait of my mother painted, and hang it in the hall of your—our—ancestral home. And maybe trace my other relatives, my mother’s relatives … seeing as you hate gypsies so much. Think of them, living in the Palazzo, and enjoying all you hold dear…”

  “What a good idea, Rose,” said Daisy. “Filling that dusty old pile with gypsy children…”

  Roberto gasped. His eyes narrowed with pure hatred, and then fear. He clutched at his chest, gasped again, and then slumped to the floor.

  The girls looked at him.

  Rose was the first to move. She flipped over the scrawny, lanky body, and straddled his chest. She pushed down violently, breathing into his mouth and doing CPR. Daisy was already on the phone to the doorman, downstairs; he could summon an ambulance. While Rose kept pumping, Poppy broke the spell that had come over her and found the bathroom, and the medicine cabinet. She pulled out the bottles until she found aspirin, then violently unscrewed the top, sending pills everywhere. As she raced back into the living room, she saw Roberto was back, breathing raggedly, and spluttering.

  “Aspirin?” Rose said.

  Poppy nodded.

  “Give it here.” Rose took the tablet, crushed it between strong fingers, and shoved it down Roberto’s throat. He swallowed, reflexively, gasping for air. The doors were flung open, and the building’s doorman burst in.

  “He had a heart attack,” Daisy said.

  “I call ambulance.”

  “You know CPR?” Rose asked. She mimed pushing down on the chest. The doorman nodded, and she looked down at Roberto. His color was off, but he was breathing steadily, and staring at them with eyes that were little pinpricks of hatred and terror.

  “He’ll be OK,” Rose said. “Let’s get out of here.” She spoke to the doorman in her own, halting Italian.

  “My name is Contessa Rose Parigi,” she said. “Look after my cousin Roberto. We have not finished our business with him.”

  Then she stared down at Roberto.

  “You’re not getting off that easily,” she said. “Get ready, Roberto. Because we’ll see you in court. But ruining your reputation? That starts right now. We’re going back to our hotel, and we’re going to start giving interviews. And I think you’ll find the press will be fascinated. Because, after all—”

  Daisy smiled, and finished her sister’s thought.

  “It’s such a good story,” she said.

  Epilogue

  Daisy was right; the press loved the story, and not just in Italy. It ran worldwide. It was juicy: a prince, a gypsy, a scandal, billions of dollars … The girls presented their evidence, and handed out pictures of themselves next to pictures of Contessa Mozel.

  “Maybe he’ll shoot himself,” Poppy said.

  Rose shook her head. “He’s a bully, and a cowa
rd. He wouldn’t have the guts.”

  Roberto Parigi was utterly disgraced. He hired lawyers, but nobody gave him a chance. Society in Rome wouldn’t receive him, while the three sisters were feted. The girls milked it for all it was worth; they announced themselves as Contessas Rose, Daisy, and Poppy, and they were accepted as such. Roberto’s lawyers threatened with libel any magazine that called them by their titles, but nobody was listening. The glossies told him to prove it; the whole world knew that the court case would end with the Prince in jail, and the girls as billionairesses. The story made the Gucci family intrigues look dull. It was broadcast everywhere, and Roberto’s girlfriends couldn’t wait to come forward with their tales of his poor performance in bed, his cruelty and egomania.

  The case was sealed when an old servant of Luigi’s came forward. She had a locket containing a lock of Mozel’s hair, and a letter from Luigi, signed, to prove it. The three sisters took DNA tests; they matched. Roberto di Parigi, who had buried three small empty coffins, was arrested for murder. But the girls did not comment on that. Justice would take its course, and he was beneath them.

  They flew home after six weeks. Being aristocrats and instant celebrities was all very well, but they had to prepare for running the family company, and for other, more important things; such as weddings.

  “Do you realize you’ll be richer than me?” Magnus Soren asked Daisy.

  “Do you care?” she responded.

  “Not particularly,” he said. “And anyway, you won’t be for long.”

  “You’re a competitive, type-A bastard, Magnus,” Daisy smiled.

  “That’s me,” he admitted, kissing her lightly on the lips.

  *

  Poppy was the first to get married. She had two weddings, one Jewish, one Episcopalian. The Episcopalian one was small and discreet. The Jewish one had five hundred guests, and lasted almost twenty-four hours. Daisy and Rose were her bridesmaids.

  “How long’s the honeymoon, Senator?” Daisy teased her new brother-in-law, Henry LeClerc, who was celebrating his recent win in the polls.