The Dark Horse

By Anthony A. Newman

Vincenzo Mazzanti had seized an opportunity early in his life; which in time had taken him and his family out of the doldrums of post-war Italy by spearheading a highly successful, but illicit Mafia business.

 Now advancing years and with thought of retirement, his decided chosen successor was to be an underdog; his eagerness to please and desperate to prove of grand-daughter, Noemi.
 With Mazzanti's request, this unwittingly heralded the start of fierce rivalry and a growing and resentful division within the family, but also an increasingly bloody internecine with another powerful entity, and with it an unpredictable rogue and psychotic element, desperate to take over their territory and avenge past wrongs.

 Does this inexperienced dark horse have what it takes to confront their newly founded destiny, or will this passed-on legacy be a dangerous, forlorn, and destructive experience for all?

 

Author of ‘The Underworld’, Anthony A Newman is back with a new gripping complex novel focusing on two warring Mafia entities with their increasing struggle for power and territory, as well as the corruption and trust that leads from it, but also, the loyalty and families from within them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Nov 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9783755401025

Book preview

ANCIENT SAYING

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside of people. He said,

"My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.

One is Evil – It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorry, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,

resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is good – It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,

empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: Which wolf wins?

The old man quietly replied, The one you feed.

ABOUT THE PROJECT

My first novel, which was first published in 2019, took me the best part of twenty-five years to complete. It was a mammoth task truly, from start to finish, but as I completed and got the debut novel out there, I sensed in a way that I was far from done with the whole writing process.

Having one book published was always an ambition and it was written when I was largely finding my feet, so to speak, in both my life experiences as well as my creativity.

During 2019 I wanted to do something else, something more. A continuation from the first of sorts in a sense, but with different elements interweaving into a new story and with new ideas.

So where did this idea begin? The conception, as well as the story of this book, actually started in a bodega in Barcelona. In May 2019, my wife and I, on vacation, and whilst sitting outside in the sun having a drink, a spark suddenly ignited in me. Even though I didn’t put pen to paper at this stage the creative cogs were already turning and on my return home I almost immediately started.

So twenty-five years for the first novel to be complete, and here we are now, and with my second concluded. The Dark Horse has been born after just under eleven months of labour. It has been a pretty much constant creation and like the first, my mind has been working overtime with ideas, plot, and premise, and now finished it's over 10,000 words bigger than the first. It’s been a creative burst of energy at times, with the odd slow-pulsing dread of despair and doubt thrown in too for good measure.

This book was written and completed with the original title of Internecine during the Covid-19 pandemic in April 2020. During this time, many thousands of people died and many millions of cases were reported worldwide. It was a truly horrific human tragedy, unparalleled to anything in what has occurred previously in anyone’s lifetime. I dedicate this book to the people of Lombardy, which is where this book is largely based, and where in Italy the greatest amount of casualties has occurred. My sadness to the people who this has affected leaves me empty, and my whole heart sends nothing but love and affection at this sad period in our history, as well as to everyone that this has impacted upon. I decided to change the title to something which I felt best fitted with the book, and so picked The Dark Horse. 

I would like to thank my family who has helped and supported me on this project and especially to my wife for allowing me to shut myself at times off whilst I took on the task of writing this. XxX

I also like to particularly thank my very good friend Angus Rymer for not only taking an interest in this project but also in playing a pivotal part in the editing process. I am pleased you enjoyed it as much I am appreciative of your interests. 

I would like to point out that I am not supporting or condemning the activities of terrorists and individuals, as well as any groups and elements they belong to, as featured strongly in this book.

All characters (including names) described in this book are pure fictions of my imagination. Any similarity to characters and character names is purely incidental and does not depict anyone either living or dead.

Anthony A. Newman

Jersey, 2020

QUOTE

 "There is no greater agony

 than bearing an untold story inside you."

Maya Angelou,

American writer, poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist 1928 - 2014

CHAPTER ONE

She sipped her gin and ice slowly. She preferred to drink it this way, without the usual mixture of tonic, only substituting it for a cube or two of ice, and a wedge of lime, which she found made it a much more refreshing indulgence.

She found it to be welcoming to finally be able to sit down and put her feet to rest. The day’s shopping and sightseeing in Barcelona had certainly been more tiring than she had expected, but nevertheless just to be away, somewhere new, albeit for a few days, meant everything. In any case, the Catalonian capital had been far more rewarding to her than she had anticipated. There was a certain charm, sophistication, and at the same time relaxation about this coastal city.

She sat under a welcoming canopy and out of the harsh mid-afternoon sunshine, whilst watching the throngs of pedestrians outside the bodega. To just watch them walking from place to place was so reassuringly comforting to her. She couldn’t remember the last time her whole entire body seemed at ease with itself and its immediate surroundings.

Her long brown hair seemed to cascade over both sides of her face and almost conjoin together over the front of her buttoned-up summery shirt.

She reached into her Valentino Garavani bag to reveal a pack of MS filters and a lighter. There really was nothing that went better with a drink, than a smoke, she thought.

As she lit the cigarette, an attentive camarero produced an ashtray to the table. She nodded her gratitude, as she blew out the first drag from it.

She took another small sip, acknowledging and admiring the taste of the Larios and its cold liquid before it softly burned the back of her throat.

She glanced down onto the table and continued to be surprised, and somewhat delighted that she had managed to obtain a copy of that morning’s Corriere della Sera, and slowly scanned the front-page headlines whilst taking the odd draw from the filter which slowly burned down between her fingers.

As she turned the page of the paper, she sensed someone approaching in her peripheral vision on her right side and suddenly looked up. She smiled when she noticed who it was.

He was middle-aged, his black hair had been sleeked back on the sides. He was dressed in a grey suit with a pastoral blue shirt. She noticed he had since removed the tie he had on earlier that morning.

‘Luka!’ There was a sparkle in her voice as she greeted him.

Luka returned her smile and gently kissed her on both cheeks before sitting down opposite her at the table. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you, have you been waiting long? he asked.

‘Only several minutes darling. It’s not a problem. It’s a nice spot to sit, chill, and people-watch and, of course, sip my Larios’ she replied.

‘Well, why not? It’s a lovely day for it.’ There was a certain comfort in Luka’s reply.

The ever-watchful camarero returned to the table.

‘Una botella de Estrella por favor’ came Luka’s request without making direct eye contact with the server.

‘Ciertamente señor’ and the camarero turned and headed back into the dark interior of the bodega.

‘Get everything sorted? asked Noemi.

Luka didn’t reply. He nodded and smiled in a way that gave her the clarification as well as the assurance she required.

‘So, I am presuming it’s in place? as she stubbed her now spent filter into the ashtray.

‘All is in place’ he replied. ‘Calls for another Larios I’d say.’

Noemi smiled, as she took off her designer sunglasses to reveal her dark absorbing eyes> This was quite a contrast from the bright conditions which surrounded them. She quickly rubbed them, before returning the sunglasses to her head.

They sat, bereft of conversation for the following minutes Each was taking and absorbing in the surrounding area, which included a luxury yacht marina and palm tree-lined boulevard. Some of the superyachts inside that marina were probably priced near €200 million and could have contained crews of up to twenty or even thirty people.

It remained a hot afternoon, as did most afternoons this time of year on the coast, but noticeably there was more of a welcoming breeze blowing in from the ocean. They both looked up and noticed a small squawking company of green monk parakeets flying overhead as they noisily settled in the nearby London Plane trees across from the now filing up bodega.

As their gaze was elsewhere, the camarero silently returned with a bottle of Estrella and a small courtesy bowl of mixed olives.

‘Gracias y otro Larios por favor’ asked Luka, this time giving the courtesy of making eye contact with the waiter who simply just nodded back.

‘When should we see things moving? Noemi suddenly asked.

‘Almost straight away. I have been assured there will be no further obstacles nor delays’

Noemi smiled. ‘Good to hear that you have ironed out the issues’

‘The issues no longer present a problem’ as he grabbed hold of the bottle and took in a sizeable mouthful.

‘It’s reassuring Luka you have our best interests at heart' she replied.

‘Of course, I always do’ he smiled.

Noemi’s lingering gaze at Luka came to an end when she stood up. ‘I must go and powder my nose, excuse me for a moment please’ she said as she picked up her bag.

Luka nodded and took another gulp of lager whilst watching Noemi get up in her flowing linen dress and elegantly step inside of the bodega, and out of sight.

Luka reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He looked around in the general direction of the marina and the pedestrians for a good minute or so. It was certainly busy out there, and people were obviously getting to the idea that this humid, hot weather required a cold drink to cool themselves with; as it now appeared all the bodegas up and down the Passeig de Colom were filling up fast. He also noticed the African salesman on the other side of the street, sitting under the relative coolness of the palm trees, whilst they plied their trade, propositioning potential customers for the purchase of counterfeit branded clothes and accessories.

Luka turned back to the table and lit his cigarette. He watched the blue-grey smoke rise as he reached over for a green olive from the bowl. He began to feel suddenly perplexed, and he wasn’t sure why. It had been a productive day, without any mention of a hiccup but something now niggled him. He quickly turned around again and drew from his cigarette. He looked at the people walking past the bodega. He found himself studying them, although he did not know what for. He turned back and had another olive and a mouthful of lager.

He continued to sense something wasn’t as it should be. He stood up and turned around, again looking at, what mostly appeared to be tourists, walking past the confines of the bodega’s outside area. All he mostly spotted were families and innocent people, smiling, walking carefree in the glorious sunshine of a summer’s afternoon in Barcelona. There appeared to be no threat to him here, surely?

Still standing, he turned back to the bodega. Noemi was taking her time he thought. She seemed to have been gone longer than he would have expected, but maybe there was an explanation?

If only she hadn’t had the two designer shopping bags under their table, he would go in and see where and how she was. He decided to wait a few more minutes before making a decision and going in. There was probably a perfect and reasonable explanation for why she was now gone for what seemed five minutes.

This wait did not help with his growing concern that something was not right but for the time being, he decided to stay put by the table with her bags and wait for Noemi to return.

CHAPTER TWO

During what was now the peak summer months, she had practically pleaded to the tablao manager, to offer her early afternoon sessions where entertainment, mostly aimed at tourists, could be experienced. Not surprisingly, it took, little persuasion in granting this Summer Spectacle, and so throughout a sixteen-week period, and for up to two hours over an extended lunchtime, she would perform.

Her enthusiasm was infectious; as was the recognition she was starting to get as an accomplished artist. This growing acknowledgment from others, as well as confidence from within, gave her the incentive to master her art at a higher standard as well as give the audience something that they could not see anywhere else in Barcelona city during the day.

With the entertainment, the tablao provided, and what some would consider over-priced tapas coupled with a customary inflated entrance fee, lunchtimes at the Tablao Villa Santa Rosa had become pretty lucrative in recent weeks. The young new starlet, the beautiful and talented Alba del Serra had already made herself recognisable as providing an entertainment service that hadn’t been in place for many a year during the day.

With the stomping of feet and swinging of skirts, flamenco is a passion of both the visual and audible senses. Many would be amazed to watch and experience how it made them feel. Essentially the art form of Flamenco was made up of three parts, guitar playing, song, and dance. As for most traditional flamenco dancers, Alba had never received any formal training. However, her mother, Flor del Serra, was once a famous dancer of the art in and around Catalonia, and she had passed down her technics and style to her oldest daughter. I guess you could say Alba was now literally following in her mother’s footsteps.

With the afternoon’s matinee performance just finishing, Alba smiled appreciatively to the doting rapturous audience who loudly applauded her and the others on stage. She immensely loved the appreciation that this gratitude from strangers gave her, and truly longed that the Tablao Villa Santa Rosa would grant her a possible residency that exceeded the sixteen weeks she had initially agreed to. Ideally, she would love the management team to permit her to perform several evenings a week, as well as the lunchtimes. Maybe even start within the quieter months and on a trial basis,

After she thanked the latest assemble of customers, she placed her castanets into a wooden box on the side of the stage, reached alongside it, and grabbed an open bottle of water, taking a small mouthful.

‘Outstanding as ever Alba’ came a familiar voice behind.

‘Gracias’ she replied, smiling to herself without turning around to face the person talking to her.

‘You know; we really must talk about a longer contract’

Alba turned around to face Paco Morente, a middle-aged man who always had a soft-spoken nature about himself.

‘Well talking is all we seem to ever do, what about agreeing to something for once Paco? she spoke coyly.

‘I know, I know. Your beauty and talent will be rewarded Alba, I promise. Go and get yourself some tapas, you deserve it.’

Alba smiled. She knew his promises amounted to little, but she also knew, that patience was one of her greatest virtues. She can bide time as long as she put in the effort, and that was something that was never in question in her mind.

‘Gracias Paco’ she replied.

She picked up the wooden box and her water and walked to an empty table, where tourists had been sitting around watching her performance a couple of minutes earlier.

Paco Morente was a mild-mannered man and had been manager of the tablao for the last twelve seasons. It had gifted him with affectionate notoriety, and financial wealth that had long exceeded his expectations.

He made it his business to personally greet each audience member before and after any performance at the tablao. It was his way of sealing a professional service together and gave him somewhat of a personal touch. He would tend to stop and listen to anyone who wanted to talk to him as well as thank those who had enjoyed the performance enough to want to say so. Apart from his mild-mannered talking, and his carefully groomed long straight moustache he was also well known for his constant hand-shaking of the public and with a customary smile. This made him seem immensely approachable and somewhat likable to pretty much everyone who had the good fortune of meeting him. It was like a bond of friendship and loyalty on one hand but was also intended to be a symbol that he was in charge and ultimately the boss. A consummate professional who seemed to care for his staff as well as be part of a greater good in his community, Paco was also tough enough when he needed to be to not tolerate the bullshit that was sometimes flung in his direction.

He grabbed a plate of tapas, mainly containing some Albondigas in a rich garlic and tomato sauce, along with some cutlery, and briskly walked up the single flight of stairs to his office situated on the first floor. His office was surprisingly small, no bigger than a single bedroom in size. At one side of the room was a large series of shelves, practically from floor to ceiling. These housed mainly ring-binders of financial ledgers, invoices, and historical statements from his various business interests, some of which had since long bitten the dust.

He sat down at his desk, which was opposite the shelving, dragging aside a small stack of paper to make way for the plate in which he put down there. Using the side of a fork, he started to cut a meatball in half. Without warning, his mobile telephone suddenly sprang into life from inside his trouser pocket.

‘Yeah, what is it?’ he answered his voice almost in a monotone.

‘She’s in place’ came the male voice on the other end.

Paco listened for a second or two before speaking again, ‘Good, stay with her and wait for that first signal. What is she doing now?’ he asked.

‘She has ordered a drink, sitting outside’ quickly came the male’s reply. ‘She is looking around; she is so far alone’

Paco listened quietly, picturing the situation unfolding as it was being relayed back to him.

‘She has reached into her bag, out has come a cigarette box, she takes one out and lights it, whilst reading a paper at the table.

‘OK, so no sign so far of…’

‘Yes, here he is’ interrupted the male voice. ‘He has seen her and is walking towards her. They’ve just kissed and he has sat down opposite her at the table’

‘Good, ok’ replied Paco, as he cut a sauce-covered meatball in half with the side of his fork.

‘They are talking; a waiter has come to their table…. he has ordered a drink. They continue to talk, she just smiled briefly’

‘Just wait for the signal…’ Paco spoke.

‘There, we have it, she has just removed her glasses and now rubbing her eyes’ interrupted the man on the phone.

‘Fine, wait till the next signal’ he replied.

‘Will do, now silence between them. They’re looking around. The waiter has returned with his drink and a bowl, presume olives, I don’t know’

‘And I don’t care, just wait for the next signal’ reaffirmed Paco.

‘He has ordered something with the waiter, and now they are talking again’

‘Tell me when the signal is made’ Paco replied quietly.

‘There. She has just grabbed her bag and got up. She is making her way inside. The eagle is now alone, repeat the eagle is now alone’.

‘OK, be on stand-by, and careful no innocents, I repeat, no innocents’ instructed Paco.

‘Message received. He has lit a cigarette, and is looking around and now drinking his beer’

‘Greenlight in thirty seconds’ spoke Paco.

‘Understood, thirty seconds’ came the reply

A half a minute of no further conversation gave Paco the chance to eat another meatball. All he could hear was the sound coming from his phone, which he had put on speaker, and the noise of him chewing and swallowing his food.

‘The eagle is down. I repeat the eagle down’ suddenly the male voice came through clearly.

‘Understood, thank you’ and with that Paco hung up the conversation.

He continued to sit for a minute, remaining silent and still and looking somewhat emotionless, pondering to himself what the outcome of the Eagle falling truly meant, or indeed what it could mean.

CHAPTER THREE

The conversation noise was a collection of laughter, excited emotions all mixed in with a general amount of chit-chat.

Despite the numbers still not quite reaching the capacity of just over two thousand, the Teatro alla Scala was now only five minutes away from the opening night of Giuseppe Verdi’s, La Traviata. It was a production that the La Scala had performed so many times before, and because of its popularity, tonight was the first of what would be twelve performances that would be played out over the next nine weeks or so.

Her long black hair seemed to blend in and fuse together with a black top she was wearing. Her eyes were like sparkling stars and with the clarity of a clear blue summer sky.

She sat, like the others, patiently waiting for the performance to commence. Her seat in the Palco Centrale faced directly in front of the stage, where she would be able to see the entire production. It was regarded as being one of the best areas in the theatre. She studied the other members of the audience, who were largely dressed in a similar fashion to herself, displaying the understated elegance and sartorial simplicity one would expect to find within the Milanese elite.

Milan had long been a place for fashion, vibrancy, and wealth, and a night at the Opera was no better place to experience all those essential upper crust elements under one roof. These were her kind of people, the anonymous collective, the Milanese elite.

‘You know the first time I came here was to see a young Maria Callas, it was 1956 and she was so beautiful back then. I mean her voice was like one of an angel’s and she sang like a bird and just looked a million dollars’ he recounted nostalgically.

‘Papa, really you would have been a young man in 1956?’

‘Hey, listen I am still a young man’ he laughed, ‘I was a handsome man in my twenties if you must know. I was a quite a catch back then let me tell you’

‘Papa, you’re still a catch, even fifty years on’ she smiled at him.

‘Only you’re Nonna would agree with that you know, that’s if she was still alive’

She smiled, Nonna was her grandmother, her Papa’s wife of over fifty years. She was particularly close to Nonna Sarah. She had raised her to the same extent, and with the same affection and love as her own mother had done.

‘I miss Nonna, Papa, everyday….’

‘I miss her too dear’ he interjected.

She smiled at him. She could see what the loss of her had meant to him. Her life, within his, was always there and always will be. The greatest love of his life had been taken from them all barely a year earlier, and yet somehow the bond between her and her Papa had strengthened and deepened because of it.

‘Maria Callas was aged thirty-three when she sang in La Traviata here, at this very venue, in 1956, and you know you are the same age now, as she was then’ he recalled.

‘You sound so wise, sometimes Papa’ she smiled.

‘Only sometimes?’ he questioned, whilst trying to fend off a glimpse of a smile.

‘OK, so it’s fair to say La Traviata is one of your favourites then Papa?’ She was intentionally ignoring his remarks.

‘I guess it is. I have always liked and enjoyed it, but now and here, it reminds me of your Nonna, and of course, the times when we could come here. When you get to my age, you can only look back, because looking anyway else can suddenly make you feel depressed and somewhat melancholy’

‘Oh Papa, the future’s bright’ she smiled, reassuringly.

‘Well maybe for a beautiful thirty-something babe like you, but for me, a sometimes doddery old duffer, I know I have had my best years, and it’s done me well, beyond well even. Anyway listen, so what is your view on opera?’ he asked, changing the subject altogether.

‘We have the best seats in the house Papa’ she replied.

‘We have some of the best seats in life, my darling, but only hard work and determination has got us to this fortunate position. Besides, that is not what I asked.’

‘I know Papa; I was only joking. I suppose to really answer your question, opera to me is a friend who I only see, once in a while.’

‘You mean like twice a year?’ he asked.

‘More like once in five years’ she admitted.

Wow, some friendship you have got going there’ he laughed. ‘You know, you’re too polite, even to your Papa at times, but I need to ask you something more serious, something in which I need to know with a definitive answer.’

‘Ask away Papa’ wondering what it could be as she suddenly sensed the importance in the question, noticing his demeanour suddenly change from playful to now be preoccupied in thought. ‘Maybe make it quick Papa, I sense the performance is shortly to commence’ hastening him to ask the question she was now really intrigued to hear.

He looked into her blue eyes, ‘I want you to become more… front of house’.

‘front of….? She was puzzled by the question he was asking of her.

‘I want you to take over from my day to day duties’ he elaborated.

‘Oh Papa, I am not an ideal person for that’ she answered suddenly.

‘Nonsense. You are young, cunning, beautiful, and obviously can avoid a difficult question by giving a diplomatic answer. Once in five years suggests you don’t like opera, it’s OK, I get it!’

She took a deep breath and thought for a moment before answering him.

‘Oh Papa, I don’t know what to say. I am truly humbled, really, but I need some time to consider this’

‘I completely agree, in that case, you have the time till we get to the intermission’

‘That is not really long enough Papa’

‘You have been active for a while, assisting where you can. I am more than impressed with how you have conducted yourself. This moment is the following step in your, what I would call, natural progression. Let’s call it your intended path.’

‘What about your son, surely he is more of a natural choice Papa than me?’ she asked.

‘Admittedly, yes and no. He admires and respects you, and even though I love him as he is my son -  but don’t tell him this, but I admire and respect you more. Besides, you would do more of an honourable job and draw less attention to yourself than he possibly could. Therefore, you my child are, in my eyes, a better and more natural choice than he could ever be.’

‘So, Nico is happy with that? I mean you have spoken to him, right Papa?’ she asked.

‘No, not yet, but he does as I say. After all, I am his father and when I tell him something, he listens or should listen to me’ he replied almost sternly.

‘Let’s say that I accept your gracious offer and that I take over, will he still be listening to you then, or will he feel like he has been dealt a bum deal by his father? Look, Papa, I must say I would love the chance to prove myself to you. I love you for asking me, truly, but I am not the natural and obvious choice you think I am’ she questioned.

‘I am a good judge of character, I always have been able to know the difference between the wheat and the chaff. It’s been an ability of mine to know when someone has been less than honest with me, shall we say. My son will discredit the business in little to no time, dismantle the reputation I have built up over the years, and he will trounce our family name and status into the mud before too long. As I say, everything that I have built up over the years would be quickly ruined if he were to oversee and run it. This would happen probably without him even realising it. Believe me, you are my first and only choice, and besides, you have always proved yourself more than capable to me. You’re not an obvious choice, I get that but you see, that is what makes this so perfect. You have an hour till intermission, and I would expect you to have given me your answer by then.’

She continued looking at him, not replying, as the lights in the auditorium dimmed. She slowly reached out to gently squeeze his wrinkled hand, as the stage curtain slowly raised and seconds later the music instantly began to herald in Act I.

She pondered, or at least tried to, over the sudden rise in sound, to slowly understand and absorb what her grandfather had asked of her. ‘Was she so surprised?’ No, not really, if she was to be bluntly honest and truthful. But she was taken aback by the timing, however, and here of all places. But surprised? No. She in some ways had seen this moment on the horizon coming for a while.

If she was to take the mantle of being the family business owner, she needed to do it in her own style and in her own way and not live within the shadow of ‘El Colonnello’.

If only she could seek advice from others, maybe that was why Papa had brought her here tonight, so that she couldn’t be dissuaded? He knew that whatever the decision she was to choose, was to be hers, and hers alone, and having input from others, would maybe somehow influence her from making, what he wanted inevitably, to be the right choice and decision.

Still looking at her Papa, she noticed the aged furrows on his face were more pronounced now as the stage light seemed to give them more prominence. To her, he looked like he was at peace, and in what seemed like a trance-like state. He just stared, transfixed, at the performance in which Violetta Valéry, a well-known working girl, who was celebrating her recovery from a long illness, is told by Alfredo, a young handsome bourgeois, his confession of love to her.

She smiled at him, he was largely unaware of her looking at him. She knew he had a good heart, and that throughout his life, had made decisions, both virtuous and sometimes not so, and occasionally in tough and difficult circumstances. I guess you don’t get to be the grand old age of 80 something, without these imbalanced choices being made from time to time. In a sense, it defines you as a person. She knew, however, that he had made decisions that at times, weren’t popular, and occasionally, although rarely, these lead to situations that were far from ideal shall we say.

Sometimes the mark of a man is how he handles himself with the unpopular decisions, the tough choices, and the situations where things can really get ugly quickly. Could she be that next such person to follow in this man’s, or indeed any man’s shoes? Would she want the decision making to be left at her door? Could she live with and stand by those unpopular decisions? Would making tough choices give her indecision she would possibly live to regret?

She knew there was a certainly increased proliferation of women taking over in this line of business. She also knew first-hand that some were as ruthless and foreboding as their male counterparts. But was she a callous, brutal, hard-nosed, merciless bitch? Could she shed her innocent-looking charm and replace it with a more hard-hitting, no-nonsense version of herself?

‘Well, certainly laying on the charm offensive does work for most things’, she thought as she cast her eyes back onto the stage.

She also realised she would have a good support network, that would assist her if, or when, she fell, and there would be many who would help her back up. She knew that if she was to take on the role, she would not ever be alone, although she recognised that Papa’s only son, Nico may take the news of her promotion, somewhat unfavourably, as it wouldn’t be him.

As the singing, died down momentarily, she turned back to her grandfather, his eyes slightly glazed in emotion from the performance he was engrossed in.

‘Papa, are you OK?’ she asked, knowing that there were seldom people who had ever experienced and seen him show a sentimental side to himself.

Papa turned his head briefly to face her ‘Of course I’m alright, I am more than alright’ he protested.

She smiled back at him, realising that showing emotion to anyone was as rare as witnessing Haley’s comet.

‘Papa, I have been thinking about what you have offered me, with regards to the business’ she spoke quietly.

Papa said nothing, just again turned his vision and stared into her eyes, eagerly waiting for an answer.

‘I am very honoured for you to have offered this…’

‘Yes or no’ he suddenly snapped.

‘Yes Papa, it would be a great privilege to take over your business’

‘Good. You know it’s not an easy gig? It’s a damn challenge, that’s what it is’ he claimed.

‘I think a challenge is a good thing. It will keep me on my toes’ she replied.

‘It’s a good thing when the chips are stacked in your favour, that is for sure. But there is always a shifting tide with this responsibility, you just need to be aware of this.’

‘I will no doubt experience a steep learning curve. But Papa, I will learn from the best won’t I?’

He suddenly smiled. ‘Well this is great news, I am more than pleased with your decision Noemi I can tell you. So, that just leaves me to say, welcome aboard, and that you start immediately.

‘Immediately Papa?’ she asked.

‘After we leave La Scala, my business and my succession will pass over to you, and it will begin. I am truly delighted, there is no one more who deserves it than you do’ he smiled.

‘I won’t let you down Papa, that is my solemn promise to you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

The songbird’s twittering notes hadn’t gone unnoticed to Maarten, who was busy splitting logs he had already sawn. The bird’s melody was practically the only sound, apart from the more distant noise of running water he could hear.

He looked up, trying to discover the origins of the birdcall, and discovered to his inquisitive eyes that is was indeed a Citril Finch that was providing him with an accompanying song.

He looked down, concentrating again on the last few logs that needed chopping before he would stack the entirety of his morning’s work into a nearby shed for use over the winter period. He never knew how much wood he would ever need to sustain him for the colder seasons, but he realised this was always largely dependent on where he and his family would be over that period.

He made the virtually last-minute decision to take four days out, making it a six-day stayover with a weekend in-between. He needed time out to charge his batteries and muster some mental strength before heading back to Geneva, in what would now be three days’ time.

He had called the western shores of Lake Annecy home for the last nine years. He loved the comparison the area gave him, the steep dense wooded forests, the snow-capped mountains, especially in the colder months, and all set within the backdrop to the turquoise waters of the lake itself. It was a far cry from the hullabaloo of the city He enjoyed both, and in similar amounts. The lake and the surrounding environment were the yin to Geneva’s yang.

He retreated back to the lake for roughly the same amount of time five or six times a year. His modest dwelling was much more than a summer residence to him and his family. It was a base for exploring further south to the winter ski-fields of Tignes, Val-d’Isere, and Alpe d’huez, and further, still the exuberance of France’s Mediterranean coastline, with the likes of Cannes only being a good six hours drive away.

Being by the lake and away from the accustomed civilisation was a relaxing indulgence to him. With it came a complete serenity, that he never took for granted. Its peacefulness alongside its alluring charm was something he missed every time he drove back north. Despite returning back every three to four weeks, he never tired of revisiting the familiar lakeside property he blissfully called his second home.

Along with chopping logs for the winter fire, he also spent time fishing on the lake in his small aluminium bottomed boat for trout, pike and if luck was on his side, the allusive giant pike. He loved to live off the land as best as he could, it was something that was passed down to him from his father who lived on the Dutch waterways and who had fished practically all the time in his later years. He found it a therapeutic release, a tranquil relaxing way of spending half a day without a phone, and a concern from the obtrusive outside world. Finding a pastime, like fishing was a great release and benefit to him. It seemed to give him back control of his mind. Besides if he hadn’t have chosen such a lifestyle, in the surroundings of a wilderness retreat per se, he knew he would suffer in more ways than he could possibly begin to realise. He would easily get bogged down with tiresome, stressful pursuits and that wasn’t something he cared to consider and contemplate.

He had never been as happy as when spending his vacation days than at his country retreat by the lake. To him, it was a worthy get away from his day job, which at times was becoming more demanding of late than he could ever remember. Besides not only that, standing with just a fishing pole with a float on the shoreline or in the middle of Lake Annecy gave him anonymity. He was practically no one here and yet to him, he was everything.

Once or twice a week, he would venture into Annecy city, sometimes dubbed as the Venice of the Alps, to get the usual supplies and groceries. When his wife would come down and join him for a few days, would sometimes go with him into the city for the evening, or a nearby smaller town, and sample a traditional meal at a restaurant. Other than that, they kept themselves to themselves, and their neighbours even though they noticed their coming and goings, knew little of the couple and the lives they lived outside of living by the lake.

Outside of his exclusive retreat, Maarten was a well-liked, well-thought-of man in his late fifties who worked hard. Despite a personal tragedy that occurred some five years ago, had stuck by his regimented principals of what he considered to be good and righteous and just got on with it.

His wife however was more closed and insular than him. She was once a top investigator who travelled the world, but mainly Europe, and took cases on when she was called for. She was a renowned pioneer who solved investigations and became a very sought-after resource within police and crime control departments. She often didn’t work alone, although she liked to take on cases in somewhat covert situations. She generally found ambiguity worked better for her than being a person who worked mainly as a team player. He knew that she preferred to keep the number of people who knew her professional identity to a minimum. This approach often yielded better results for her, as well as the investigation she was working on at the time.

The ability to ‘do her stuff’ under the radar of most employers largely worked. It gave her better, more desirable outcomes, and even though she wasn’t driven by success, she was often applauded for her results and cunning audacity.

Travelling down from Brussels, from where she worked and partially lived, to Annecy every now and then, gave her a sort of cloak of invisibility, which at times she desperately needed, and often for different reasons.

He knew stacking logs was a wearisome pastime. He was sweating and tired. After spending the last hour and a half of cutting