The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  Maria sat on her bed to read Tommaso’s letter, and could hear now his voice speaking the words he had written: I’ve been reading up on ‘women of strong character’ and came across the writings of an American feminist who died in 1950. You may have heard of her, or even read her, her name was Edna St Vincent Millay and she was a Pulitzer Prize winning poet. One of the published letters she wrote to someone, has stuck in my mind. She wrote... ‘Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking round in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell.’

  Oddly enough, I was recently browsing through the works of one of our own English poets, a man named Keats, and he too wrote something to someone he obviously cared about which also brought to mind an Italian woman of strong character. Keats wrote... ‘I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you, everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.’

  You said I should come and find you when I was ready to talk. I’ve been ready for some time now, so maybe the next time I come I will find you.

  That evening, when Graziella sat down to dinner with the young woman she thought of as her daughter, she noticed, but didn’t comment on, the diamond and emerald bracelet on the wrist of Maria Orsinni.

  Having candidly, albeit immodestly, revealed to Maria his company’s concurrence with his submitted opinion that it made more financial sense to pay her fee rather than shell out to kidnappers, Stanhope the strategist made several appearances throughout the year. Consequently, Maria’s matto avventuras took her to Greece, Mexico, Holland, France, again, and of course Sicily, the kidnapping capital of the world. She missed two more Tommaso visits that year and at its end, as she stood at the graveside of Graziella, knew that he would be saddened to have missed the old woman’s funeral. Supported by the male nurses, Canizzaro stood beside her and wept unashamedly. Maria felt the chill of certainty coarse through her body with the thought that her uncle wouldn’t last much longer. She decided to speak to Stanhope; Tommaso must be found.

  1988 roared into Roma on gale force winds and driving rain; showering Maria Orsinni with good news and bad news and knocking her off balance. Her twenty-fourth birthday was only three days behind her when Stanhope rang to say that Kennedy had been located and had been made aware of Canizzaro’s state of health. ‘They’ve had some rough storms where he lives and some of their power lines are still down, so don’t expect a phone call. You can expect Tom, though, I reckon. My foot messenger told him about Graziella, so he knows you’re feeling low.’

  The following day, Sergio Sabbatini rang to tell her that his mother had died and he must leave shortly for Sicily to attend to the necessary arrangements. ‘Would she do him the honour of accompanying him to the funeral?’ she was asked; a simple sounding not so simple question which immediately required an answer she had to think about. This wouldn’t just be as straightforward as one friend supporting another friend at a funeral, and Sergio knew that. Helena Sabbatini would be buried in Catania; where Maria’s own mother’s ashes had been scattered; where the Orsinni name had been known for decades. Saying yes to Sergio would result in a known carabiniere officer standing at the graveside of his mother beside the woman known to be the daughter of a former consigliere to the Bartalucci family. Saying yes to Sergio would make his mother’s funeral the most talked about Sicilian event of the year still to come. She said yes and flew out to Sicily with Sergio later that day; and on her second day in Catania the news reached her that Claudio Canizzaro had died in his sleep.

  On her return from Helena Sabbatini’s Catania funeral, Maria found Tommaso Kennedy waiting for her at the villa. He was leaning against the car with its window sticker proclaiming it to be an airport hire vehicle. He was wearing crumpled jeans and a blue denim jacket over a black cashmere sweater; and his green eyes were twinkling in the way she had remembered, and had missed. He was unshaven; two days growth, she estimated, and her quick glance to inside the car took in the back-seat travel-blanket evidence of him having slept there since his arrival.

  “You came,” was all she could think of to say in that first instant of reaching him.

  “I thought I might be able to help,” he quietly replied.

  Maria was tired and dispirited; she had now lost the last of what she had come to regard as her own very special family unit; Paolo was still the brother she adored, but he was his own man going his own way and would never be the one to replace Graziella or Canizzaro and be waiting to welcome her home whenever she returned from wherever. For the first time in her life she felt alone, and right now it wasn’t a good feeling.

  “What about your own business in England?”

  “On hold till I get back.”

  “I would welcome your help, Tommaso, I think I’m going to need it.”

  Earning her profoundly felt gratitude, helping her was exactly what the Englishman had proceeded to do. Now billeted in a spare room at the villa, Kennedy the mild mannered financier had become Kennedy the rock and had shepherded her through all the ‘post-death’ formalities. Apparently concerned about her physical appearance, he also set about tackling her diet. For three days and evenings in a row before the funeral date, he sat her down in the favourite restaurant her uncle would never frequent again and cooked her nutritional meals which he made sure she ate. Throughout this pre-funeral period of activity their conversations were carefully confined within the limits of the current circumstances; the personal element which they both now knew existed between them wasn’t discussed or physically acknowledged in any way.

  But from minute one of day one of his arrival, Kennedy had been alarmed. The Maria Orsinni he had found here wasn’t the one he had last seen in a New York restaurant. He knew it had to be more than simply the passage of time, or the understandable reaction to the loss of someone she had cared about, which had hardened her face and robbed her smile of warmth. Never having forgotten what he had seen her do in a Palermo warehouse, he could only wonder now about what kind of things she had been doing over the past two-plus years since he had dined with her in New York.

  In honour of the man who had served many of its inhabitants, and had made some of them very rich, Claudio Canizzaro’s funeral service was conducted within the Vatican City at its 16th century church of Santo Spirito in Sassia. Unsurprisingly, given Canizzaro’s past business interests and his involvement with the art world, the congregation’s ranks were swelled by influential pillars of Italian commerce and high society. Had there been any readers of body language in close proximity to the trio at the front of the Nave, they would have seen the ‘I know you’re a rival’ signals passing from male to male on either side of the female.

  At the front of the Nave, flanking the black costumed Maria Orsinni, were the figures of Sergio Sabbatini and Thomas Kennedy.

  The two weeks immediately following Canizzaro’s funeral were busily filled by more legal formalities; which included the Will-reading ceremony. Much to his surprise, Kennedy was asked by Maria to be present when the Will was read.

  “My uncle,” qualified Maria, “once told me that the man was his friend, as well as his lawyer, so he can probably be trusted. But I don’t have your experience of such people, Tommaso, and I am weary and may miss things, so I will feel better knowing that you’re there to read between the lines of anything he has to say.”

  Consequently; his financier’s antenna at the ready, Kennedy accompanied Maria into the Rome offices of Saviano & Pritzi and was introduced to Roberto Saviano; former friend and lawyer to the late Claudio Canizzaro. The professionally affable lawyer was in his late sixties, estimated Kennedy, who immediately saw in the man all the hallmarks of someone who only dealt with a select clientele. Kennedy’s early vibes were positive ones.

  English being the agreed upon language to be used, Kennedy listened as Saviano quietly complimented Maria�
��s composure at the funeral service which he had attended; then was amazed when he heard her tell the lawyer that her composure then, and now, was entirely due to the gentleman beside her. Hoping his blushing had gone unnoticed, Kennedy listened as Saviano told Maria that he would be honoured to be of service to her regarding the future management of her business affairs; and knew his blushing must be visible now when she replied that she would discuss that with Signore Kennedy and get back to the lawyer at a later date with her decision.

  Kennedy then saw Saviano smile as he said that his already missed friend, Claudio, had spoken highly of Signore Kennedy so would be happy in heaven to know that the financier was now at her side and guarding her interests. At which point Saviano shared his knowing look with Kennedy before addressing Maria. ‘Stripped of the legalese, Maria,’ said the lawyer, ‘when the various inescapable forms of officialdom have taken their bites, you will be left with the villa and the works of art within it. You will also be left with a personal fortune of....’

  A little later, struggling to convey a semblance of nonchalance, Tommaso Kennedy left the offices of Saviano & Pritzi with the wealthiest woman he had ever known.

  Thirty minutes later they were back at the villa, seated in the kitchen clutching cups of coffee and perhaps understandably preoccupied with their own individual thoughts. Kennedy was thinking that she looked a lot healthier than she had done several weeks ago. He was also thinking that she looked very sexy in her black skirt and white blouse. He was about to break the silence, but was pre-empted.

  “What are you thinking about, Tommaso?” asked his coffee-drinking companion.

  “I’m thinking about... how relaxing, companionable silence can be.”

  “What are you really thinking about?” was asked behind a smile.

  “My pain.”

  “You’re in pain?” queried his surprised looking and anxious sounding companion .

  “Our old friend, Carl Gustav Jung, said that there is no coming to consciousness without pain.”

  Kennedy counted a few seconds of silence before his response was received.

  “Are you telling me you’ve been sitting there... unconscious?” was asked behind another smile.

  “Good to see the Orsinni smile again. Not unconscious, exactly, more like border line neurotic. But then again, friend Jung said that neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering.”

  Kennedy kept a straight face as her laughter filled the kitchen before she came back at him wearing a grin on her face.

  “Are you telling me that you’re neurotic?”

  “Show me, said Jung, a sane man and I will cure him.” Her laughter sounded good in his ears again before she responded.

  “You’re just a crazy Englishman and I don’t understand what you’re trying to say to me.”

  “Nothing worse, said my old pal Jung, could happen to one than to be completely understood.”

  Kennedy saw her smile at that and decided to send out a probe. “It’s good to see the smile and to hear you laugh again. I certainly can’t offer you anything in the physical protection department that you couldn’t personally better, and my financial fortune can no longer compete with yours, but at least I can make you laugh and get you to eat your greens.”

  “Scusi?... My greens?” she spluttered behind a giggle.

  “Even a millionairess superwoman needs her vegetables, and you are looking better as a result of your having sampled the Kennedy cuisine ”

  “I am? Did I look so bad, Tommaso, before you began making me eat my... greens?”

  “You didn’t look like,” he began, “the woman who sat with me in a New York restaurant. But then, that was a long time ago and perhaps your lifestyle has hardened you more than you would have wished.”

  Maria gazed across the kitchen table at the Englishman who had spent the best part of a month with her and had made that time easier to bear by doing so. He still wore now the smile he had used to soften his words. His use of the word superwoman reminded her that Tanaka had said that would have been Tommaso’s image of her in the Palermo warehouse. Tommaso was probably right, she thought, when he’d arrived here she couldn’t have looked anything like the woman he’d taken to Felidia’s restaurant. Her lifestyle of choice had taken its toll. She had become a fighting machine; sacrificing her femininity in the process, perhaps. And perhaps Tommaso was reading her mind.

  “You just need,” resumed Tommaso, his green eyes twinkling, “a break from that lifestyle. You need to sample the Kennedy cuisine in a different habitat. Like my Sussex cottage, for example, Signorina Orsinni. ”

  Maria smiled as she looked into the green eyes. Her own remembered words of Jung floated into her head: Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.

  “What are you thinking of now, Tommaso?” she asked, remembering his letter to her.

  “I’m thinking about you and I making love,” he replied.

  “A scandalous thought, Tommaso,” she said behind a smile.

  “To enact it,” he responded, his eyes boring into her own, “we need to be somewhere other than this kitchen, and we need to get to that somewhere fast before I ignore that conclusion.”

  “I know just the place,” she told him, her skin already tingling with anticipation.

  “Then don’t just sit there, woman, lead me to it,” commanded the man with twinkling eyes.

  Maria was to remember the rest of that afternoon for as long as she lived. Tommaso’s lovemaking didn’t disappoint; she was as completely satisfied the first time as she was on the third and her Sicilian blood sang in her veins and her skin was on fire when they made love for a fourth time whilst under the shower.

  Over the following few days, further ‘first class excursions on the Kennedy love train’ as Tommaso called it, were only interrupted by their arrangements for the forthcoming journey to England’s county of Sussex. Booking the flight was straightforward, Maria’s packing was not.

  “If your English weather is as bad as you say it is, then I have nothing to wear,” she would cry.

  “You look good with nothing on, so don’t worry about it,” she would be told.

  Roberto Saviano was advised of her ‘open-ended’ plans. So Maria’s signature was put to the instruction which would ensure the necessary accounts were in place for her return whenever that might be, and the lawyer wished her well for her visit to England.

  Sergio Sabbatini did his best to hide his dismay, but Maria smiled tenderly and told him her relationship with Tommaso shouldn’t, and didn’t, mean that this was the end of their special friendship. She could see that he wasn’t too happy with the word friendship.

  One month later, in the Sussex cottage shared with Tommaso, he surprised her with the news that he had been in touch with Tanaka. There’s someone we both want you to meet, she was told. She was driven to London and taken to the dojo being run by a man named Peter Haldane. We have a mutual friend in Wan Lai Tang, Haldane told her, I would be honoured to welcome you to my dojo.

  On the drive back to the Sussex cottage, Maria was still effusively thanking Tommaso for his thoughtfulness.

  “I have to ensure that you don’t lose your fighting edge,” he said, “Who else is going to protect me from any bad guys?”

  One month later, Maria surprised Tommaso with some news of her own.

  “I suppose,” he began, green eyes twinkling, “I’ll have to legalise you now.”

  “The alternative,” responded Maria, “is that I make your son an orphan before he is born.”

  “It’s a boy?”

  “Just a gut feeling,” she told him with a smile, “Would it matter to you if it was a girl?”

  “Having two women in the family who would love me forever wouldn’t be any strain at al
l,” he replied, frowning as he added, “Are we going to argue about the country of birth?”

  “I thought we could go to bed now and talk about it,” replied Maria, smiling.

  “Ah,” said Kennedy, “So be it, an Italian child, then. Well, take me to bed anyway, woman. We can argue about names between the clinches.”

  Two months later in a Sussex church; his Japanese-American chest swelling with pride, Tanaka walked Maria Orsinni down the aisle and presented her to Thomas Kennedy at the altar. The small congregation witnessing the event comprised some personal friends of Kennedy, several local villagers who had taken the Italian woman to their hearts, and Donald Stanhope and his newly introduced fiancé, Joy Reynolds.

  As she penned her new Maria Kennedy signature for the first time, Maria smiled with the thought that this was a contract which would require her mastery of entirely new skills.

  The Orsinni Reprisals

  You can find out what happens next by reading

  The Orsinni Reprisals

  But to give you the flavour of what’s to come, you can turn the page right now and read the prologue to Maria Orsinni’s next adventure.

  Prologue

  Suspended Sentence

  County of Sussex, England, March, 1991

  Maria Kennedy watched impassively as her husband’s killer vibrated with life. Over recent weeks she had learned a great deal about Sir Harold Morrison. He shook hands with his smug looking lawyer now before dislodging the mask of remorse as he smiled his thanks to a back-slapping well-wisher. Maria saw the shoulders, freed from their burden of doubt, lift and square in readiness for their triumphal return to dealings in the city; contemporaries at the club, and the cocoon of family ensconced on the country estate. Money and connections, reflected Maria, both once more proving to be excellent conversationalists.

  The more seasoned of the remaining onlookers had brought their own cushions, upon which they perched wearing disgruntled facial expressions. Perhaps hoping, thought Maria, the next attraction on the County Court list would provide more in the way of entertainment than a simple run-of-the-mill contested drink-driving offence. The by-product of a fatality mildly shocking but, given the times they lived in, insufficient to satiate palates regularly jaded by more salacious fare.