The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  Title Page

  THE ORSINNI CONTRACTS

  Bill Cariad

  Publisher Information

  The Orsinni Contracts

  Published in 2014 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  The right of Bill Cariad to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  Copyright © 2014 Bill Cariad

  Cover Design and Illustration copyright © 2014 Haydn

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  A Stone’s Throw To Destiny

  Palermo, Sicily, 10Th Day Of January 1979

  Passers-by paid scant attention to the butcher’s van which quietly stopped outside the office building on the busy street adjoining the market square. The van disgorged five men, and the immaculately suited driver and a stocky man in work-overalls entered the office building. The remaining trio, wearing the boldly striped aprons of the macellaio’s they purported to be, withdrew from the rear of the van the metal rack from which hung the gleaming steel hooks. The men in butcher’s aprons positioned the assembly at the pavement’s edge and calmly stood beside it to await the return of their colleagues.

  It would be another hour before this building would receive those who staffed the offices on its four floors, so the van driver and his companion had the elevator to themselves and rode it in silence to the top floor. The elevator’s door opened to reveal a spacious reception area and a wall-plaque informing them that this entire fourth floor was dedicated to one company, bearing the name Contracts Consultancy Inc. Through a glass-fronted door to one side of the elevator could be seen a man seated at his desk, busily engaged with whatever he was doing, and his presence was a surprise to the visitors. Nevertheless the smartly dressed van driver and his overall-clad partner ignored the early-bird-clerk, focusing instead on the large reception desk directly in front of them.

  The desk was manned by an attractive looking female, who interrupted her typing to greet the unexpected but harmless looking male duo who were smiling pleasantly as they approached her domain. Behind her simple barricade stood the closed door to whom she imagined these men had come to see. She knew that there was nothing in the appointments book about an early meeting and wondered if her habitually imperious boss would deign to see them. The smart looking one in the suit began talking to her and immediately had her full attention. As she listened, her initial doubt vanished. Her boss would definitely be seeing these men.

  Behind the door separating him from his receptionist, was the man who had foolishly bitten the hand that fed. The finished telephone conversation still occupying his mind, the man who had been given the soubriquet of ‘Abacus’ stood at the window and surveyed the peaceful scene before him with turbulent thoughts. He had planned for every contingency... except war! The transatlantic ‘heads-up’ call, with its bombshell news that the powerful Bartalucci family who protected him had struck their own protective deal with the Corleone family, didn’t alter the fact that the so-called Sicilian Commission was reportedly on the verge of being ripped apart by an all-out war between the other families. A war which was a distraction he could do without. Which necessitated abandoning his cautious approach and accelerating his plans.

  Stylishly clever Italian grooming concealed the corpulence and a benign facial expression masked the arrogance of the man who stood by the window. His blinkered view of the outside world took in richly patterned Arabian domes reaching for a blue sky above the 12th century Palazzo dei Normanni, but the man wasn’t impressed by such things. He had closed the window to shut out the boisterous market sounds and the smell of polluted air. His own private sights were currently set elsewhere and the tantalising scent of success was all that he needed to fill his nostrils. On the solitary desk behind him rested his brand new Commodore Vic-20 computer, retailing for a mere US $299 but which had already keyed him halfway to becoming a secret multi-millionaire. The well-tailored man with a talent for juggling figures was overweight and over-confident. The weight problem was something he’d lived with for a long time, something which hadn’t prevented him attracting the woman who had given him a fine son, something which didn’t seem to bother his mistress, something which hadn’t curtailed the rapid rise to his current indispensable position. The confidence factor was something else. He had always possessed it of course, but would have scorned the suggestion that it might have come to possess him to the point of carelessness.

  The man turned away from the window and his glance fell on the framed canvas depicting a Brazilian beach scene. Brazil was never far from his mind these days and Rio de Janeiro was where he and his ten million dollars were destined to live happily ever after... and then the door of his office unexpectedly opened and abruptly closed down the fantasies of ‘Abacus’.

  The ensuing question and answer routine was painfully concluded within ten minutes. Additional time was used by a no longer arrogant or indispensable ‘Abacus’ as he complied with supervised procedures on his brand new computer. The van driver led the way back into the now deserted reception area, followed by his stocky companion effortlessly carrying the naked and miscalculating ‘Abacus’ in a fireman’s lift. Duct tape covered the mouth of the overweight figure juggler; he had nothing more of interest to say to his visitors. As expected, the receptionist had obeyed her simple life preservative instructions and there was no sign of her or the previously seen office clerk as the men re-entered the elevator.

  The van driver and his accomplice emerged onto the street and transferred their load to the waiting men in striped aprons. Some passers-by stared in disbelief, but they were probably tourists and curiosity at this stage of the exercise was to be expected. Other pedestrians quickened their steps away from the scene. With practiced ease two of the men in butcher’s aprons hefted the naked man and impaled his body on the gleaming steel hooks, whilst the third man produced a butcher’s knife and swiftly slit the throat of ‘Abacus’ before using the razor sharp blade to open the man’s femoral arteries.

  The van driver was calmly signalling to rejoin the traffic even as the butchering trio were climbing into the rear of the vehicle. The van drove off as quietly as it had arrived. No siren sounds could be heard by those passers-by who slowed to stare at the human being hanging from the steel hooks with his life’s blood pouring into the gutter. Some of the passers-by had seen this form of Palermo pig-roast before and knew that sirens weren’t the answer. The naked man would bleed out before any help could get to him.

  11th day of January 1979, Via Angelo Emo, Rome, Italy

  To some, those of a less aesthetic disposition perhaps, it could have passed for just another building in the north-west part of a city knowingly filled with architectural marvels. However, and not wholly attributable to its commanding view of the glorious Citta Del Vaticano, this particular building still frequently drew openly admiring looks from passing tourists and more discerning glances from the better informed of the area’s indigenous population.

  The guide book fraternity would note that the building had once housed Vatican dignitaries, an
d, since no current information was available to them, would sensibly conclude that the heavily manned gatehouse just inside the formidable looking iron gates signalled occupancy by someone still important enough to warrant such protection. One could imagine some of the building’s younger admirers speculating as to which pop or movie star might be resident within it. Set in what appeared to be opulent grounds, to the older and romantically inclined tourists the majestically styled building looked like a palace fit for a king. Of course the historically seasoned of those tourists would have dismissed the idea of the building’s incumbents being any form of royalty, past or present, but their perspective of history would have been shaped by textbooks which had never fully informed.

  So, in a somewhat perverse way, the romantics almost had it right. Because if such a building could be said to contain a kingdom and if such a kingdom could be said to have a king, then at this point in time the crown belonged to Don Carmine Bartalucci. Of course he wasn’t a blue-blood royal in the accepted sense; nevertheless sufficient of the red variety had been spilled along the way to making him an absolute ruler. To those in the know, Don Carmine Bartalucci headed one of Italy’s most influential Mafia families. So if such a king granted you an audience in his throne room, it would be to this building on the Via Angelo Emo that you would come. Giovanni Orsinni, the Bartalucci family consigliere (counsellor) had been granted such an audience today and had arrived with a worried mind.

  Giovanni Orsinni had not travelled far to counsel his ruler, having simply walked the short distance from his own home which stood amongst the compound of buildings connected to the main house by a maze of ancient underground tunnels. Upon reaching his destination he solemnly kissed the mafioso hand he had faithfully served throughout his life and was cordially invited to sit in the comfortably appointed study of Don Carmine Bartalucci. Persian rugs lay scattered around the room’s floor, and against one of its walls stood the bookcase housing literary tomes which had been written to stimulate debate or inspire creativity. On numerous occasions within this room, life and death had indeed been debated and the latter had often been creatively dispensed to transgressors. There was no telephone on the desk separating the room’s present inhabitants; the two old men currently gathered to discuss family problems avoided telephone conversations whenever possible.

  “I underestimated him,” confessed Giovanni Orsinni, “I never thought he would have the balls to steal from us.”

  Sixty predominantly violent and stressful years had left their mark on Orsinni; a once powerful body had shrunk on its frame and a coating of pure white hair covered his head like a skullcap. Necessity had overtaken vanity, so the classically roman nose on the tired looking face now supported spectacles to aid the weakened eyesight.

  From the other side of the desk the pencil-thin body of Don Carmine Bartalucci straightened in its motorised wheelchair; the pain-lined face conveying its acknowledgement of the Orsinni confession with an understanding grimace.

  “To find a thief in our family,” began the Don, “is by itself unremarkable. But this one was cunning enough to falsify the necessary records enabling him to divert and conceal five million American dollars.” The Don paused to briefly smile across the desk, “But his cunning could not control the need to feed his ego by boasting.” The pause this time was filled by the seventy year old Don’s heavy sigh prefacing his conclusion.“Antonio must learn from this.”

  Giovanni Orsinni patiently waited out the silence following his Don’s initial response. They were discussing the discovered transgression of Arturo ‘Abacus’ Sardi, who until recently had been responsible for laundering the family’s money in Sicily. The man’s contentious rise through the ranks had largely been due to the influence of Antonio Bartalucci, the Don’s son and successor-in-waiting. Sardi’s betrayal had been deviously inventive, and, had it not been for the loose tongue of his wayward son Fabrizio, would still have been financially bleeding the Bartalucci family as he went for the full ten million dollars. Instead of just bleeding to death where they had left him as an example to others who might succumb to temptation.

  Orsinni was anticipating the questions which might follow. He was mentally perusing a menu of answers, most of which he knew would please the Don. Only one complication needed to be presented here, and, although he had already sent experienced men to deal with it, he knew the Don would share his concern.

  “Something still troubles you,” murmured the perceptive Bartalucci, “but I don’t think it’s the money. Your eyes tell me you have found our money.”

  “Si, Don Carmine, he had buried it in an offshore account. After he confessed the error of his ways, he co-operated fully. The transfer back to one of our accounts has already been made.”

  “We teach them too much,” growled Bartalucci, not needing to ask how the disloyal Sardi’s co-operation had been obtained. “Who do you think should replace him?”

  “Conte.”

  The Don’s eyes signalled approval ahead of his voice. “In time, Conte will serve Antonio well. A good choice, consigliere of mine.”

  “Fabrizio Sardi,” said Orsinni, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes as he spoke, “has vowed to avenge his father.” He replaced his glasses and looked steadily across the desk as he continued, “He was overheard asking about your grandson, Lucca.”

  The Don’s eyes narrowed, deepening the grooves on his face, but his voice remained calm. “So you have good reason to be troubled, Giovanni. Does Antonio know of this?”

  Orsinni shook his head in reply. Recovering from a fall from his horse, a sedated Antonio Bartalucci currently lay in a bed immediately above the room in which the threat to his only son was now being discussed.

  “Where is the Sardi boy now?”

  Orsinni almost smiled. Any male under thirty was a boy to the Don and although Fabrizio Sardi barely qualified, the reply was delivered without attempting to point out this fact.

  “He arrived in Sicily this morning, but hasn’t been seen since. I’ve sent men to retrieve your grandson,” he coughed softly, “and my own children.”

  Still controlling his reaction, the Don silently digested this last piece of information along with his thoughts. Everywhere Paolo and Maria Orsinni go, Lucca Bartalucci follows. Their being together in Sicily, birthplace of the Orsinni’s, is also no surprise. The headstrong Paolo’s idea probably, he is a constant worry to the father who is already burdened with a very ill wife. Maria was just Maria, an intelligent girl but still just a girl. Despite the gymnastics foolishness pandered to by Giovanni... a fresh thought emerged, which he immediately shared. “Your son will play his usual games with Lucca’s bodyguards, but he always looks after the other two and they never come to any harm under his wing.” He smiled coldly across the desk with his addition, “Should Fabrizio Sardi be foolish enough to try anything, Paolo will probably take care of him as well.”

  Giovanni Orsinni forced himself to look into the eyes of his Don as he responded. “When Sardi was last seen, he had three others with him.”

  Within view of the two men, suspended on a wall, was an original Lorenzo Ghiberti painting entitled The Gates Of Paradise. Neither man had ever expected to one day enter these gates, but they now stared at one another whilst contemplating a different kind of hell on earth.

  Same 11th day of January 1979, Catania region of Sicily

  Only yesterday, after hearing his teachers describe him as a very bright adolescent, had he looked at the dictionary to see himself defined as ‘a young person between childhood and adulthood’. A definition, he’d figured, which sounded okay but how long was between? He still preferred the memory of his grandfather telling him he was a fine looking man. Today he wished he could ask his grandfather the kind of questions he didn’t think he could voice to his father. Questions like; was it because he was adolescent he was feeling down one minute, and up the next? Or was it because he was differ
ent? He knew he was different from other boys of his own age, but didn’t really understand why. He knew he was different because other boys went to school together, sat in classrooms together, played together, and did all the other things he only did with Maria or Paolo or other people who worked for his grandfather.

  His only classroom was inside his own home, two doors down the hall from his own bedroom, and his only classmate was Maria. Whenever he asked his grandfather’s people why he was different, the answers left him puzzled enough to run out of questions. Maria’s explanation about wealthy parents and the risk of kidnapping had almost satisfied his curiosity, but he always felt she was holding something back. Of course he couldn’t ask Maria about all the things he was unsure of, and he didn’t want to ask her brother because he was a scary guy who never really said much to anyone except Maria. Which was another thing he couldn’t figure out. So there was a lot he was unsure about right now, apart from one particular thing. He, Lucca Bartalucci, was pretty sure he was in love with Maria Orsinni. The sun was shining, they were returning from the beach where he had earned her delighted thanks for the special pebbles he had broken fingernails to find for her, and he felt light-headed from the combination of happiness and despair coursing through his adolescent body.

  As Lucca Bartalucci trailed behind Maria Orsinni, watching her legs move under the dress, listening to the lovely voice saying something to her brother, Paolo, he was reminded for the zillionth time that everything about her, he mentally searched for the word, captivated him. The clouds in his mind were there simply because the problems multiplied each time he attempted to demonstrate how he felt about her. For starters, speech was a problem. He’d often spent ages rehearsing in his mind what he would say to her, then blush with embarrassment as she giggled at his stammered efforts to get the words out. He hated her at those moments, but only until she smiled at him in that way which made his legs go weak at the knees. Then he thought she was even more wonderful.