by Nele Neuhaus
“You look like you’ve been working very hard,” Alex noted sarcastically. They walked toward a broad flight of stairs with two stone lions enthroned at its base.
“I admit,” Zack laughed happily, offering her his arm, “that I enjoyed some time on the beach in between. What do you think about this shack? It’s even better inside!”
“It’s unbelievable that some people live like this,” Alex replied.
“Well,” Zack said, pursing his lips and throwing her a quick side glance, “Vitali isn’t a normal person.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“My God, Alex, you know him better than I do,” Zack said. “You can’t possibly measure him against normal standards.”
A butler opened the thirteen-foot-high white wing doors. They entered the spacious, black-and-white tiled entrance hall. Muted music could be heard in the distance. Alex saw Sergio surrounded by a group of people. She was impressed to recognize Robert Landford Rhodes, governor of the State of New York, who resided in Albany, and Clarence Whitewater, the chief judge. Charlie Rosenbaum, one of the city’s biggest real estate speculators, stood next to him, as well as Carey Newberg, the publisher of Time. When she entered with Zack, Sergio excused himself and approached her, smiling. Alex had butterflies in her stomach.
“Alex! Zack! I’m glad you could make it!”
He extended his hand to Alex first, then to Zack. The sight of his steel-blue eyes made her shiver. They congratulated him on his birthday and chatted a little. Zack wandered off.
“I’m very happy to see you here,” Sergio murmured to Alex.
“Nice little party,” she said with a grin. “Is there anyone who isn’t here?”
“Very few,” he responded with amusement. “I’ll see you outside in a minute.”
He squeezed her hand one more time before turning to greet the newly arrived guests. Alex looked around curiously. The tasteful yet impersonal furnishings of the house might have been a masterpiece of interior design, but the entire place somehow reminded her of a mausoleum.
“It’s incredible, don’t you think?” Zack grinned. “I want a house like this someday.”
“I’ll say,” Alex said, raising her eyebrows. “This is no house, it’s a temple!”
“Well, it’s impressive. If you live like this, you’ve really made it.”
He was right about that. They walked down a few steps to the large terrace. It offered a breathtaking view across a parklike garden, decorated with antique white statues, a large white marble swimming pool, and a pool house. People were crowded around tables and benches on the grass between the terrace balustrade and the pool. A band played Italian folk music on stage risers, and an opulent buffet was served under big white pagoda tents. Everything was beautifully decorated with colorful paper lanterns, burning torches, and splendid flower arrangements. A bar surrounded by cocktail tables was right next to the pool. It was the perfect setting for a high-society summer party.
They met almost the entire board of LMI on the terrace. Vincent Levy, Isaac Rubinstein, and Hugh Weinberg were here with their wives. A bit later, Michael Friedman and Max Rudensky—owners of a famous brokerage and arbitrage firm—also arrived. The mood was relaxed, and when Levy suggested that they take a look at the buffet, everyone but Alex turned toward the steps. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Sergio had stepped out of the house and stopped at the terrace’s balustrade. The warm air smelled like lavender, and swallows shot through the gorgeous misty twilight.
“How do you like my house, cara?” Sergio asked as he stood behind her.
“It’s imposing.” She turned, and a mocking smile flitted across her face. “It seems to me that you’ve built a mausoleum for yourself during your lifetime. Like the pharaohs in ancient Egypt.”
“That’s what I appreciate about you.” Sergio said, smiling at her. “Anyone else would have said how fabulous it is.”
“We’re probably beyond the stage of courteous phrases.”
“Yes, we probably are.” Sergio leaned next to her on the balustrade. Alex gave him a probing look. He seemed relaxed and in a good mood, but she saw an attentive tension in his eyes. She suddenly remembered what Oliver had said to her that night: Are you kidding me, or are you really that naive? She was just about to pepper Sergio with some hard questions when she sensed him noticing someone approaching behind her.
“Ah, here’s my wife,” he said. Alex froze for a second, and then she forced a friendly smile. Constanzia Vitali was a cultivated woman, and her elegant dress concealed her round shape perfectly. She might have been very pretty once, but her beauty had long since faded. At fifty-five, Sergio was so incredibly attractive and full of energy that his wife looked like a withered rose next to him. He casually pushed himself away from the wall.
“Constanzia,” he said as he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, “may I introduce Alex Sontheim? She is one of Vince Levy’s best employees. Alex, this is my wife, Constanzia.”
The two women shook hands. Alex felt a twinge of guilt at Constanzia’s inquiring look.
“You work at an investment bank?” Constanzia Vitali’s face was friendly and without any expression. “That must be quite exciting.”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
Constanzia Vitali turned toward her husband and said something in Italian. Alex, who spoke Italian quite well, understood that Constanzia was asking her husband to give his speech. Sergio answered her in a low voice, whereupon Constanzia turned around without neglecting to throw another probing look at Alex.
“Unfortunately, I have to look after my other guests now.” Sergio placed his hand briefly on Alex’s arm. “Can you take me to the city with you later?”
“Maybe. I don’ know whether I’ll stay that long.”
“It would make me so happy.”
For the rest of the evening, Alex only saw Sergio from a distance. He was in a splendid mood, joking with his business partners’ wives and his friends, dancing with his wife. He was the perfect host. Even without him on her arm, Alex enjoyed the evening to the fullest. Just a week ago, she had moved into the penthouse on the Upper West Side. Now she was a guest at a private party of one of the country’s richest men, and she was treated as someone who quite naturally belonged in this crowd. She felt flattered that so many of the people at the party knew her name.
While the wives listened in boredom, Alex conversed with their husbands about the expected rate hike by the Fed, the higher leverage in option trading versus stocks, the rapidly rising prices of technology stocks and the resulting opportunities for the market, and the consequences of political decisions on the stock market. She was sitting at a table with Zack, Levy, Weinberg, Friedman, David Norman, a board member of the NYSE, and a young man named Jack Lang from a brokerage firm called Manhattan Portfolio Management. The food was provided by New York’s best catering company, and the heavy French red wine was pure poetry; the cocktails, perfectly mixed, contributed to Alex’s failure to notice how quickly time passed.
It was already dark when she looked around for Sergio. He was nowhere to be seen. With one ear she overheard Zack, Rudensky, and Jack Lang whispering about the sensational profit margins possible when investing in venture capital companies. They talked about international business companies, or IBCs, that were incorporated in offshore financial centers such as the Cayman Islands, Samoa, Labuan, or other exotic locations. Alex didn’t jump into the conversation because she was more interested to know where Sergio was. His wife sat a few tables away and was engaged in a conversation with an older gray-haired woman.
Alex eventually excused herself and walked toward the house to find the restroom. As she walked through the vast salons and long hallways, she realized that she’d had too much to drink. She winced as she noticed a man standing across from her. He was smaller than she was; he was skinny, and his ferret-like face was disfigured by acne scars. An ice-cold shiver ran down Alex’s spine. It wasn’t his ugliness, but his strangely lifel
ess eyes that instilled fear in her.
“Buona sera,” he said with a coarse voice, walking past her. Alex stared after him. What kind of horrible person was this? Suddenly sober, she had the feeling that she needed to get back to the other guests as quickly as possible.
Cesare Vitali was in a bad mood. The laughing hordes annoyed him just as much as the schmaltzy Italian music, but he was especially mad at Silvio, Luca, and his brother Massimo. They treated him like a child. They had walked past him on their way into the house about a half hour ago. When he asked where they were going, Massimo replied that they had something to talk about. The men simply left him behind and disappeared into the house, where his father was likely expecting them like a king waiting for his subjects—confident, fearless, and powerful. Cesare wanted to earn his father’s attention and respect, but he somehow always screwed up. His buddies respected him, and the prostitutes on the Lower East Side feared him—which felt good—but in his father’s eyes, he was a failure who had to be kept away from the family business.
Despite the warm temperature outside, Cesare was suddenly freezing. He needed a line of coke desperately. The white powder could make his bad mood disappear instantly and turn him into the big man he wanted to be. He dumped his whiskey over the terrace railing in disgust and stood up. He had a burning interest in what they were talking about in there. Nelson was there too. Something big was brewing. In a surge of anger, he briefly considered just barging into the library. Wasn’t he, just like Massimo, also one of Sergio’s sons? Didn’t he also have the right to be part of those meetings? But he wasn’t invited. He wouldn’t put it past his father to kick him out in front of his brother and the others.
In the guest bathroom, Cesare quickly fished out a tinfoil packet of white powder, tapped some onto a small pocket mirror that he always carried with him for that purpose, and formed two lines with a golden razor blade that hung in a case around his neck. Then he skillfully rolled up a dollar bill and snorted the powder forcefully. It burned in his nose and brought tears to his eyes. Cesare relished the bitter flavor of the cocaine at the back of his throat and took in a deep breath. The chill disappeared from his body, replaced by an intoxicating heat. A wonderful feeling of security enveloped his body. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror and opened the door.
Alex wandered through all the colossal salons until she realized that she was at the far end of the house and nowhere close to the terrace. She was just about to turn around and retrace her steps when she heard muted voices from an adjacent room. She didn’t usually eavesdrop at doors, but this repulsive man with his yellow predator eyes had sparked her curiosity. She held her breath and stopped in front of the room’s double doors. Through the narrow crack between them, she could see a library. Sergio was standing behind a massive desk made of marble and glass with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind him. Alex recognized three of the men. One of them was Nelson van Mieren, Sergio’s lawyer, the other Massimo, Sergio’s oldest son, and the third was Luca di Varese, one of Sergio’s confidants. The skinny man with the acne scars and yellow eyes was standing in front of the desk.
“Do you have any news for me, Natale?” Sergio asked in Italian.
“It is done,” the man responded in a coarse voice. “Zuckerman won’t utter another word.”
Alex caught her breath. At first she thought she’d misheard him.
“Bene,” Sergio triumphantly. “What about the Irishman at the docks, Luca?”
“As they say in the movies, he’s sleeping with the fishes,” Luca replied, “and no one will find him.”
“Good work.” Sergio nodded and sat down at his desk. Alex felt a wave of horror pulsing through her. Her heart was beating so loudly that everyone must have heard it. Confused thought fragments whirled around her head. The men in this room were talking about people who had been murdered! Today, on this beautiful August day, two men had died. Someone had given an order to kill them. Alex closed her eyes. This someone was no other than Sergio Vitali. He had assured her that he had nothing to do with these rumors circulating about him in the press. She had believed him because he was so convincing. She had wanted to believe him. Now she realized that he had shamelessly betrayed her trust. She remembered Oliver’s words again: His entire empire is built upon blood and crime. He is an unscrupulous and brutal gangster.
Alex’s mouth was dry from fear. She was miserable, but she couldn’t run away. Some part of her pleaded to learn the opposite of what she’d just heard was true. She didn’t want to think badly of Sergio. Maybe she’d simply misunderstood his words…
“I’m very satisfied, Natale,” Sergio said. Alex could see his face through the crack in the door. She couldn’t understand the ugly man’s response, but she certainly understood his salutation.
“I wish you a happy birthday and a joyful evening, Don Sergio.”
Don Sergio. Sergio acknowledged this man’s reverence with a casual nod. Alex felt the ground shaking beneath her, and it seemed like an ice-cold hand had grabbed her heart. None of the stories in the papers were invented. They seemed to be grossly understated. Gangster’s whore, she thought. Oliver was completely right, but she’d refused to believe him! She, Alex Sontheim, was the mistress of a Mafia boss, a man who hired killers to solve his problems. She turned around to flee from this house, but then she froze in shock. A man stood in front of her and gazed at her with frightening blue eyes.
“Are you lost?” He looked her up and down in an obscene way.
“I…err…I’m looking for the restroom,” Alex stuttered. The voices of the men in the library could be heard through the doors. She snapped out of it and tried to sneak past the man, but he grabbed her by the wrist.
“Not so fast,” he said suspiciously. “What were you doing in front of this door?”
“I told you that I was looking for the restroom.” Alex thought she might pass out any moment. “Would you please let go of me now?” she asked, with all of the assertiveness she could muster.
“Oh no, I won’t. Because I don’t believe that you got lost. And I don’t think that my father will be amused when he finds out that you’re eavesdropping at the door.”
My father…
Alex stared at the young man, and she recognized the astonishing resemblance. This is exactly how Sergio must have looked at twenty-five. The young man was Sergio’s son. She felt sick with fear. She had overheard the men in the adjacent room talking about two murders. She thought about the Mafia movies that she had seen in which accidental witnesses were thrown into the East River with a concrete block strapped to their feet. Sleeping with the fishes. And Sergio, the man she thought she knew, was Don Sergio—the godfather of New York. It would be very easy for him to make her disappear.
“Listen,” she whispered, “this is nothing but a misunderstanding.”
“We’ll see about that in a minute.” Without knocking, the young man pushed the door open and dragged Alex with him. Sergio stopped midsentence and stared at his youngest son and Alex in surprise.
“Cesare, what is this?” Sergio snarled at his son.
“Papa!” Cesare exclaimed in triumph and tightened his grip on Alex’s wrist. “This woman was standing outside the door eavesdropping!”
Sergio looked at Alex in astonishment.
“Let her go!” he ordered. Cesare obeyed reluctantly and gave her another push that almost made her lose her balance.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping at all,” Alex sputtered. “I was looking for the restroom and got lost, and suddenly this guy grabs me and drags me in here.”
“Cesare, you are a goddamn miserable idiot!” Sergio said in Italian, trying hard to contain his anger. “Why do you bother my guests? Were you snorting cocaine again?”
“She was standing outside the door, Papa!” The young man suddenly seemed insecure. “You should thank me for—”
“Thank you?” Sergio hollered so unexpectedly that Alex winced. Never before had she seen him this angry. He was truly terrifying in
his rage. He spoke Italian so fast and used so many colloquialisms, she could barely understand him.
“You brought her here, you stupid, brainless idiot! She doesn’t understand a single word anyway, but what will she think now? Why the hell can’t you use your head for once? I honestly believe that you’ve boozed your brain away!”
Cesare looked hurt. He said nothing. No one in the room moved. Alex was not a fearful person, but at this moment she was overcome by a terrifying dread. Sergio was a stranger; these men were strangers. Cesare laughed hoarsely. His glassy eyes sparkled with hatred.
“You’re telling me that!” he said to his father in Italian. “You’re the one who screws this whore and then invites her into Mama’s house.”
His face was twisted in anger and disappointment.
“Shut up!” Sergio shouted.
“Why should I shut up?” Cesare asked with a nasty laugh. “You think that I don’t know what you’re talking about? You think that I’m a little boy, but—”
Sergio raised his hand and slapped Cesare’s face, which sent him reeling.
“Get out of my sight, Cesare,” Sergio said, his voice muted to an angry whisper, “before I lose it and do something that I’ll regret. Get out of my house!”
Cesare held his cheek and stepped back. His eyes darted around furiously.
“You’ll regret this! All of you will regret this! Fuck you all!” he screamed.
Luca and Silvio jumped up, looking at their boss.
“Let him go,” Sergio said in Italian. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s nothing but a coked-up idiot.”
He walked over to Alex and put his arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry he scared you,” he said, and then he turned toward the men and sent them out. He let go of her and walked over to the small bar in of one of the bookshelves.