Enterprise corruption was defined as participating in a pattern of criminal activity and knowingly investing proceeds from that conduct into another enterprise. The charge was typically a euphemism for the accused having ties to organized crime, specifically, the Mafia.
“You said he disappeared. When was that?” I asked.
“The last confirmed report of his whereabouts was from the day before Thanksgiving.”
“Tara went missing that day.”
“You think they took off together?”
“That’s one theory. Why’d it hit your desk?”
“In addition to the investigation here in the States, AISE has their own inquisition into Emsworth’s crimes. My guess is I’ll be hearing from Interpol next.”
The Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna, or AISE as Money referred to them, was Italy’s version of the CIA. Interpol, whose official abbreviation was ICPO-INTERPOL, was the international organization that facilitated worldwide police cooperation and crime control.
“Is CIA involvement official, then?”
“Just waiting for final sign off.”
“Thanks, Money.”
“Halo, there’s one more thing. It’s actually the reason for my call. You asked about the daughter’s financial records.”
“Did you find anything?”
“At the same time the indictment was about to be handed down, the father’s assets were frozen. I started tracking his prior money trail, and while he’s covered his tracks pretty damn well, something turned up in Switzerland. Right before Christmas, a young woman matching Tara’s description came in and made a significant cash withdrawal.”
When my call ended with McTiernan, I immediately called Striker and relayed what I’d learned.
“This presents an interesting scenario, doesn’t it?” Striker murmured.
“How do you want me to proceed?”
“Let me get back to you on that.”
I was still sitting in the same coffee shop, studying the photos that were part of the dossier I’d been given on Tara, when Striker called back.
“I had Doc contact McTiernan, and we’ve been approved to conduct a ‘fact-finding mission’ on Emsworth, officially the father, on behalf of the CIA.”
I sent a silent plea, hoping he was about to tell me I’d been assigned to it. Sure enough, my prayer was answered.
“Where am I headed?”
“Italy. Tuscany, specifically.”
6
Tara
I’d kept my old cell phone, even though I removed the SIM card, only for the messages on it that I’d saved as voice memos. One was from a woman I’d once considered my best friend.
On the days I felt homesick, I’d pull out the handful of things I’d held onto to remind me of my once-charmed life, turn on the phone, and listen. It always did the trick. Not only couldn’t I go back to the place I’d once considered home, but right now, I didn’t want to.
Tonight was one of the times when I found myself hovering on the edge of missing maybe not my home, but the four friends who had been closer to me than anyone in my family.
The pensione in Sienna, where I was spending the night, was empty but for me, so I went ahead and got my phone out, and hit play on the last message I got from Pen before disconnecting my cell service.
“Listen, Tara,” it began. “As much as we love you, none of us appreciate that instead of asking for help we would have gladly given, you chose to steal from us. The money isn’t important, but the bracelet you took from Aine is a family heirloom, and she’s devastated to have lost something so precious. Maybe you could just make sure she gets that back.”
I hadn’t taken anything from them, except for the money Quinn put in my bag and insisted I keep. I certainly wouldn’t have taken jewelry. That they’d so easily accused me, though, shattered my heart.
Any hope I’d held out that it was my imagination that we’d grown apart, dissipated in one voicemail. What stunned me almost more than anything else, was that Quinn had gone along with the accusations. She’d seen firsthand how upset and humiliated I was about my dad. How could she not have told Pen, Aine, and Ava that they had to be wrong?
Whether Aine found the bracelet, or they discovered someone else took it and the cash, or even if they’d called to apologize, I didn’t know and might not for quite some time.
I cried myself to sleep like I seemed to be doing more and more lately. When I woke the next morning, I decided to do something nice for myself and go wine tasting.
There hadn’t been time for me to visit wineries the last time I was in Italy. Actually, there had been, but my four travel companions hadn’t been interested, so I was outvoted. There were several I’d longed to see along the ancient consular route, Via Cassia, that passed through Val d’Orcia.
A tour company went to three that were in close proximity. Two, I’d never heard of, but the third was a place I’d always wanted to see—the Antica Cascina dei Conti di Valentini—which translated to the Ancient Farmhouse of the Counts of Valentini. From what I’d read, it was one of the few wineries remaining on the Via Cassia route that continued to produce wine the way it had been for hundreds of years. Many of the others had modernized, but they hadn’t.
The group I went with was small, made up mainly of older Americans. Since I spoke fluent Italian, I simply apologized for my limited understanding of English and they left me alone.
I sighed and looked out the window of the bus. Just being in Val d’Orcia, in the Central Italian region of Tuscany, was enough to soothe my soul. The rich green valley, which encompassed the Orcia River, was the perfect place for me to escape my dark thoughts.
This area was said to be the jewel of Tuscany, with medieval castles, ancient villages, gorgeous farmhouses, isolated homesteads, roads lined with cypress trees, fabulous vineyards and olive groves, and golden fields of grain and sunflowers.
I’d traveled many places, all over the world, but none compared to this.
When we drove through the gates of Valentini, I put my hand on my heart. It was so beautiful, it nearly brought me to tears. It was everything I’d imagined it to be and so much more.
I lingered behind, letting the rest of the group make their way into the winery and get settled before I followed.
“Buongiorno, welcome to Valentini,” said a woman, who looked to be about my age.
“It’s so beautiful,” I murmured, as much to myself as to her.
She came and stood beside me, taking in the same views I was. “It never fails to take my breath away, and I grew up here. I’m Pia Deltetto.”
I studied her instead of the view. “It’s so nice to meet you, Tara…err…Catarina Benedetto.”
“Are you with the group?” She motioned to the tasting room.
I sighed. “Yes, I suppose I should go in.” I realized she might think I wasn’t interested in tasting their wine. “I mean, I’ve wanted to visit Valentini for years…just not necessarily with a group.”
Pia smiled and looped her arm through mine. “For years? You look very young for your age, then. How about if we do a taste without the group?”
She led me into a small room off the main tasting area. “This is for our VIP customers,” she said, winking. “At Valentini, we limit our production to—”
“Brunello di Montalcino and Rosso di Montalcino.”
She raised a brow.
“I’m sorry I interrupted. Go ahead.”
Pia poured two glasses from an unmarked Jeroboam.
“This is our latest vintage of Brunello di Montalcino,” she said as we both swirled and sniffed.
I closed my eyes and sorted what I smelled in my head. Cherry and dried cranberry were predominant, with undertones of strawberry and blackberry. The fruit aromas blended with licorice and espresso. I took a sip, letting the wine linger on my palate.
While this wine was fantastic in its youth, aged Brunello, especially Valentini’s, were my favorites. Give it a few years, and the flavors
would intensify.
When I opened my eyes, Pia was studying me and smiling. “You like it?”
I shook my head. “I love it.”
She squealed and clapped her hands. “You have a very discerning palate.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know what I like.”
“Me too,” said Pia with a giggle when a tall, dark, and very handsome man walked into the main tasting room.
“Someone you know?” I asked.
“No. You?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anyone.”
He looked in our direction briefly, and Pia raised her glass. He smiled.
A woman from behind the bar approached and handed him a sheet of paper. While he studied it, I studied him. He was the epitome of my type. Rock solid and muscular, maybe a little too much so, but I certainly wouldn’t complain.
He wore a white dress shirt, with two buttons open at the collar, showing off his chest. His hair was dark brown, but from where I stood, his eyes looked more hazelnut. He had stubble on his chin, but not much. If my former best friends were here, they’d tease me about how I always went for the baby-faced-looking guys.
The bittersweet thought broke me out of my reverie. I looked back at my wine and then up at Pia.
“I know that look,” she murmured. “A happy memory that turns sad.” The expression on her face mirrored my own then broke into a full-blown smile. “More wine!” she exclaimed, refilling my glass. “I think he should join us in the VIP room, sì?”
I took another sip of the Brunello. “It’s your winery.”
Pia rushed out, took the man’s arm, and led him into the smaller room. She pulled another glass from the bar area and poured him some of the wine we were tasting.
“Why, thank you,” he said, raising it to her.
“This is Valentini’s Brunello di Montalcino. My friend Catarina says it’s fantastico. What do you think?”
“I would agree,” he said, taking a sip. His eyes met mine, and he smiled. While at first glance he looked Italian, his accent, I decided, was British, but every so often, he sounded more American. I couldn’t place it.
“I am Pia Deltetto, and this is Catarina Benedetto. What is your name?”
“Ben Knox.” He held his hand out to Pia, and she shook it. “Thank you again for the wine.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, winking in my direction.
He turned to me. “It’s very nice to meet you. Did you say your name was Catarina?”
“I did.” I shook his hand and then pulled mine back when he hung on a little longer than necessary.
“Are you American?” he asked, raising his glass but keeping his eyes on me. “Such an Italian-sounding name.”
“My parents love Italy.” It wasn’t a lie; they’d honeymooned here.
“It’s a very beautiful name.”
“Wait. Did you say you are Ben Knox?” asked Pia.
“That’s right.”
“You are staying in la cascina.”
“Yes.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. You have been here two days, sì?”
“That’s right.”
I noticed the tour guide walk into the tasting room. The others in the group did as well and began cashing out. “Looks like we’re leaving.”
“No! Not yet!” exclaimed Pia. “Where are you staying? In Pienza?”
“Um, most likely. I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“You could stay here.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have accommodations. Much nicer than the pensiones in the village. Not that there’s anything wrong with them. But what we have is better.”
“Um…if you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. Now, more wine, sì?”
7
Halo
Catarina Benedetto, aka Tara Emsworth, was far more beautiful than she appeared in her photos, and in those, she was still the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.
She had a broad smile that lit up her whole face, high angular cheekbones, and stunning deep blue eyes. Her blonde hair, even tied back, hung down almost to her waist, and her bangs fell just over her eyebrows.
When the woman—Pia—led me into the room, I was stunned almost speechless. In fact, I was certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. Could it really be that the woman I’d been looking for was truly sitting in this very room? It seemed inconceivable.
She turned skittish when I asked if she was American, and I immediately regretted doing so. Thankfully, Pia quickly changed the subject.
While Catarina informed the tour guide that she would not be returning to Sienna with them, Pia stepped out of the room to make a call. Not knowing how much time I had, I quickly fired off a text to Striker.
Tara Emsworth located in Val d’Orcia.
Copy that, came his quick response, followed by, Details? I put my phone in my pocket when Pia returned.
“I’ve asked Nonna Bella to arrange for some food to be brought to the winery. Did you have plans this evening?” she asked.
“None at all.”
“I wonder where Catarina is,” she murmured, looking out the window. “I hope she did not leave.”
“Why would you think she would?”
She studied me as if I somehow held the answer. “I don’t know.” Pia tapped her cheek with her finger. “I’m going to go and check on her.”
I took the opportunity to fire off another text to Striker. Turned up at Valentini.
Interesting.
I took a seat at one of the tables in the smaller room, hoping Tara would return to the tasting room before Pia did.
“Pia went looking for you,” I told her when she did.
“Yes, um, I saw her.”
“Are you staying?”
“The tour bus left, so I suppose it’s that or try to find another way back to Sienna.” She looked over her shoulder several times.
“Everything okay?”
“What? Yes. Everything’s fine.”
I was delighted when she took the seat across from me, only so I could look at her, study her, stare at her.
When Pia returned, she was carrying a platter. “This is Nonna Bella’s white bean and prosciutto bruschetta,” she said, setting it on the table. It looked fantastic.
We were served two more courses, and with each, Pia refilled our glasses. The wine had loosened Tara up, and while the haunted look in her eyes never went away entirely, she laughed easily and was animated in our conversations.
At one point, she stiffened when something outside caught her eye. Pia noticed it too and looked to see what it was.
“That is Georgio,” she grumbled. “He is our winemaker.”
“You sound as though you aren’t happy he is,” I commented.
Pia sighed. “I’ve known Georgio all my life. We were childhood playmates, but…”
“But what?” asked Tara.
“We are no longer friends.”
I looked outside and saw the man on his phone, looking this way. Tara excused herself from the table and went to the lavatory.
Her instincts were telling her she was being watched. While Georgio definitely appeared to be up to something, his target was Pia.
“I don’t recall meeting him, but he looks familiar,” I said to her. “What’s his last name?”
“Rossi.” She turned her head from the window and toward me. “What brings you to Italy?”
“Work,” I answered. Not a lie.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist.” Definitely a lie, but that was my cover.
She raised a brow. “A journalist? Interesting. I would’ve thought you would be…something in law enforcement perhaps.”
I laughed. However, her assessment hit a little too close to home. “Why would you think that?”
She waved her hand in the direction of my chest. “You are…molto muscoloso.”
“I like to stay fit.”
“Fit? You are more than fit. You could be…how do you call it…? Mister Universe?”
Laughing again, I shook my head. “Not even close, but thank you.”
She studied me. “Are you writing about Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Is what you’re writing about a secret?”
When Pia’s face lit up, I turned to see Tara walking back to the table.
“Not secret,” I said. “Just not necessarily very interesting.”
“What is that?” Tara asked.
“Mr. Knox is a journalist. Surprising, I know. Because he is such un uomo forte. But anyway, he’s writing about Italy.”
Tara took in my body much like Pia had, not that I minded her eyes on me. “Broad subject matter.”
“Yes, but as I said, my assignment isn’t all that intriguing.”
“Maybe you should find something more compelling to write about. Say, wine perhaps? Valentini’s wines would make an excellent subject.” Tara winked.
Pia leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “Catarina, how do you know so much about our wine?”
She hesitated and her cheeks flushed. “It’s been one of my favorites for some time.”
“Do you remember where you first tasted it?”
“With some friends.”
“I see.” Pia was tapping her cheek with her finger.
“What?”
“It isn’t just our wine you know a lot about.”
Tara laughed. “Are you suggesting I drink too much wine?”
Pia laughed too, as did I.
“No, but I think you know more about Valentini wine than the others who work in the tasting room.”
“I doubt that,” Tara murmured.
“How long will you be in Italy?”
“I’m not certain. Indefinitely…for now.”
While I appreciated the answers Pia was getting out of Tara without it seeming like an interrogation, I could see her growing increasingly uncomfortable.
“What will you be doing?” Pia continued her line of questioning.
Halo (K19 Security Solutions Book 8) Page 3