From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) Read online

  Monica is a beautiful woman. Intelligent, sexy as hell, and she has this tendency of going without a bra.

  Any man’s eyes would wander, be that man committed or not.

  A gentleman wouldn’t look; but I’m no gentleman. Especially not when my eyes are being purposely directed towards the sight of Monica’s pert and unfettered breasts.

  The amount of time her shirt slips down as she’s leaning over me… It can’t be accidental.

  At first, I ignored these blatant displays – and Christ, doesn’t that make me sound like an old fart! – but I figured it was disloyal to Juliet. And now, six weeks in, I’m starting to look.

  I’m not perfect; have never stated that I am, but I’m starting to feel guilty!

  My urges, once dampened down, are starting to fire up. I need to see Juliet. I need to do something. I’m only just realizing how highly sexed I am and with temptation sat beside me every minute of the workday, I don’t know how long I can stay true to a woman that has made me no real promises and to whom I’m not committed.

  I’m sick of complications.

  The minute I leave this bloody office, with its bloody horrible nicotine stench and stain that makes me feel like I need another shower as soon as I’ve left, I’m going to call Juliet.

  If I can just connect with her; just talk, then I’ll feel better. She’s called; a few times, in fact she was on the phone last night. But our conversations have been a bit stilted and that’s down to me. This situation is entirely out of my hands and I hate being out of control. If I can talk to her like I used to do, and if she can talk to me the same way, then that would be a start.

  I need her blistering honesty. I need to discuss this farcical situation with her and get her point of view. That might go some way to making me feel better, because at this moment, I feel like a marionette doll. I’ve not felt that way since I was a kid. When fate was pulling my strings; making me a husband and a father one minute, then robbing me of both my child and my wife the next.

  And I’ll be honest; my mood has been sour ever since my attorney forwarded me the divorce papers a week ago. I signed them and am now just waiting for the decree nisi. God knows how long that will take.

  It isn’t that I want to be with Brook; I don’t. But I feel as though I’m in a spider’s web and every time I turn, I’m being further entangled in more of the silk. It isn’t improving my ill humour.

  One bright spot bleached some of the grey from my days. Sandra didn’t contaminate me with any infectious disease, so that’s something to be cheerful about! My doctor informed me a week ago; unorthodox to give me such news over the phone, but when you go private, they’re willing to go that extra step.

  And so they should at the fees private practices charge!

  As relieved as I am to know I’m clean, it doesn’t have me clicking my heels every time I step out the door.

  Sandra’s bloody lucky that I received the all-clear; otherwise she’d be up in court on GBH charges.

  “Mr Steel, you’re right. This is a police investigation and your say will change no aspect of our methods. We are there for a purpose, but I fear that I’ve kept you in the dark, as you fail to realize the importance of our presence at the factory.” Ali sits back, steepling his fingers over his belly as his eyes continue to flash between Monica and I. “We’ve managed to ascertain that over eighty per cent of your workforce has ties to the mafia.”

  “Eighty per cent?” I ask, aghast. When this farce of an investigation actually comes to an end, what the hell will the company do for staff?

  “Yes. To the eyes of the staff, the situation has not changed. They are still a small cog turning a large wheel.”

  Monica huffs. “Bullshit, Gianni. Please cease trying to frighten my client into continuing to cooperate with you.” She places her hands on the table and leans over it slightly, as soon as she does; her perfume seems to permeate the air. It’s not a sickly scent like a lot of the women over here favour. Not heavily floral, but light and fresh.

  Christ, even her smell is sexy.

  “Give me facts. Show me this report that makes such a claim.” She turns to me again and drops her elbow. Because her attention was on Gianni and not on me, I had a two second window to study her and I note the slight bend of her arm as she purposely slackens the tension in the material of her shirt so that I have the perfect angle to see down her top.

  So, she is doing it on purpose.

  Well, that’s something. I’m not imagining it.

  Always preferable to thinking that I’m hallucinating! Or being paranoid!

  “Don’t listen to him, Joe. I’ll bet that nearly sixty per cent of Gianni’s alleged figures have ties, yes, but aren’t a party to illegal acts. They’ll just be working for a pay packet. They’ll be scared for their lives; their families. How many lieutenants have your sources discovered?”

  Gianni shrugs, making no attempt to either deny or affirm Monica’s statement that he’s lying. “We have determined that there are at least four; but there could be as many as twelve. There are many departments to the factory. As far as we can tell, each section has a head and that head reports to the boss himself.”

  “In the event that you can completely eradicate all presence of the mafia from the factory, how many of the people with ties to them would be taken into custody?”

  Gianni smiles. “Touché. About thirty all in all.”

  “So you purposely misled my client into believing nearly one thousand members of his staff are engaged in illegal activity?” Monica’s voice is ice cold but rather than piss Gianni off, the smile that had appeared in the face of his slight defeat, merely widens.

  Christ, their relationship is complicated.

  It’s another reason to stay well away from Monica.

  Outside of the fact that I don’t really want her. In all honesty, I want a willing, spread-eagled Juliet. I’m not sure if that’s going to happen without my producing a wedding ring.

  Is she worth that price tag?

  God, yes.

  Shit, I can’t believe I’d willingly offer myself up to the altar again. It’s just another sign of the way Juliet makes me feel. I don’t care that I’m currently divorcing one woman and that ten years down the line, Juliet and I might be another statistic on the divorce rate. For the minute I want her more than I’ve wanted another woman and as short as life is, that’s all that counts.

  “Yes,” Gianni admits, this time his honesty literally radiates out of his pores. “I want your client to realize the pervasive effect the mafia has. Yes, it might be true that a small number of that eighty per cent are truly involved with illegal activities, the rest are being forced into aiding and abetting this gang. How can they not? As you say, they are working for the mafia, because they have no choice. Because they’re living in fear. And why should they? They’re members of this free society, of this democracy, as are you and I.

  “But here, in this place, in your client’s factory, the democracy might as well not exist. There might as well be black shirts wandering around the halls, because the threat of life being extinguished simply for failing to cooperate is real.”

  Phrasing it that way, I look like a petty arsehole.

  Maybe I am.

  Maybe I’m selfish. Okay, I know I am. But he’s right.

  “Nobody should have to live that way and I want this group eradicated from the factory floor as much as you do. But I fail to see how your undercover police officers are in any way working towards that goal.”

  “And you would know this how? Were you aware that we’ve been collating evidence? Determining how pervasive the mafia’s chokehold is? Who the lieutenants are?”

  “No,” I admit. I hadn’t. As far as I’ve been able to tell, the undercover police are always just sitting around. Smoking, drinking espresso. They look fishy to me and probably to everyone else as well . Assuming that the mafia’s lieutenants aren’t stupid, considering that they reached such a ‘lofty’ position in the hierar
chy, it’s a wonder that the police haven’t been found out.

  That they might have done and that all of the facts being spouted by Ali are all just fabricated lies fed to them is a distinct possibility.

  The thought puts me on edge.

  “Well then, you’re underestimating my men.” Ali pulls out a file from the folders stacked in front of him. He sorts through the papers and retrieves a glossy photograph. It’s predominantly black and white with bright glares from where lights had intruded into the shadows of night.

  Before we left, Bernard provided us with a basic plan of action. It wasn’t in-depth, just suggestions that he thought would be advantageous for the factory’s future from the reports he’d received about the current infrastructure.

  While the government had lied to the company, stating that it was mafia-free when it certainly isn’t, they’d been pretty accurate with their inventory. So far, I’ve been implementing all of Bernard’s suggestions. One of those, the introduction of new machinery and latest technology sewing machines.

  This place was originally for the production of myriad clothing items. A predominant chunk of that was lingerie and underwear; at the low end of the market.

  Bernard and I developed a new idea; one of high end lingerie. For that, we need machinery capable of handling delicate silks and laces. Out with the old equipment and in with the new.

  The van pictured in the photograph belongs to the company, which has been delivering the new machines and taking the old gear away.

  Gianni sets out a series of ten photos; all time-stamped and all within two minutes of each other.

  The first shot shows the van with the door open and one of the old machines ready to be forklifted into the back. The next a picture of men, three or four, packing suspiciously white bags into the nooks and crannies of the machine. Another showed them taping the bags to the equipment. And so it continued.

  “Yes, they’re bags of cocaine.” Ali cocks a brow. “That occurred on the factory floor; I’m sure that’s the image you would love to portray to the world. As an aider and abetter to the mafia! Purveyors of drugs alongside panties!”

  “You stopped them, right?” I ask, ignoring his mockery and feeling a little sick at the sight of so much coke. “How much is there? ”

  “No. We didn’t stop them. Colleagues did. We followed them to Milan and stopped them there. Far away enough from us that we wouldn’t bring suspicion on ourselves. That shipment there had a street value of just under a million Euros. Maybe now you realize how heavily the factory features in the mafia’s plans.”

  Faced with such an image, what can I do but nod my head?

  Feeling frustrated, I say little as the remainder of the interview passes quickly. Within five minutes, I’m outside after saying goodbye to Vito, one of the desk sergeants and wishing that I smoked.

  I’ve never really smoked; went through a phase as a social smoker but I stopped as I dislike the idea of anything being a crutch. At this moment, I feel in need of just that.

  With the prospect of a long stay over here, as I try to implement Bernard’s preferences and get the factory functioning fully as a high end lingerie manufacturing concern, it could take far longer than the three to four months Bernard’s directors originally planned.

  Changing the layout of the factory floor, while maintaining the on-going orders has been difficult. Monica has been working on releasing us from those contracts and by the end of the month, in little over a fortnight; we’ll be able to dedicate a few days to introducing the new equipment and renovating the different sections and dedicating each department to a certain level of manufacturing skill.

  However, if the police plan to stick around for much longer, I might be here next year. In the six weeks they’ve been stalking the factory, they’ve managed to impound a pretty hefty haul of narcotics. But what about the lieutenants?

  Ali didn’t say so, but I reckon they’ve known all along who the major players in the factory are. They didn’t need to be on a 24/7 stake out to ascertain that information. As far as I can tell, their presence on the floor has been of no use whatsoever and as pleasant as I find the Italian sun, that isn’t enough to induce me to staying here for however long it takes the police to bust the mafia.

  Because Bernard will want me here until the situation is resolved.

  There’s no way he’ll leave the factory in anyone else’s hands.

  Not only is this our first international, commercial property investment. It’s also the largest factory in our ownership. With nearly fifteen hundred members of staff, this is a big operation and it has to pay. Otherwise it doesn’t look good for the quarterly profits and it sure doesn’t look good for me.

  These kinds of operations can take years; especially the sort that Ali is undertaking. Neither the company nor I can afford to waste any time or funds on such a large scale flop.

  I’ll need to take control of this situation, somehow. And Ali doesn’t have the feather in the cap that I do. Monica.

  Monica, who is both a pleasure and a pain to work with, who is one of the major reasons I don’t want to be in Italy for God knows how long!

  Outside the police station, there’s a small fountain and a bench. I sink down wearily on to the wooden planks, grimacing at the dampness from last night’s slight rainfall, but otherwise, I ignore the damage to a pair of five hundred pound trousers

  The water tinkles merrily; birds coo as they dive-bomb each other around the fountain and people pass on by, looking at me; the expensively dressed vagrant. I wouldn’t know 'til later that only the town’s beggar population sits upon this particular bench.

  Cue the sending of my expensive pants to the dry cleaners. Post haste.

  Leaning forward, resting elbows on knees as I tunnel my hands through my hair, I attempt to discover a solution. Monica eventually retreats from the station, looking flushed. She’s either been kissing Ali or shouting with him.

  Her lips don’t look sore enough for the former, so I’d say that she and Ali have been involved in a rather large bust up. She looks pissed off and dammit, doesn’t she look all the sexier for that?

  She’s as Italian as they come. All sultry, doe eyes with an exotic almond-shape to them that make her look as though she were made for sex. Lips as red as a berry, skin as olive as they come. She looks as though she has a perpetual tan. Her figure would make a burlesque dancer weep and I’ve seen her breasts with the pale coffee puckered tips.

  I’m only a man.

  Not particularly renowned for my control outside of the office.

  It’s both a pleasure and a pain to look at her and she’s seated directly opposite me, on the rim of the fountain.

  “Is he always an arse?” I ask, running my hands through my hair again. The slight massaging action soothes the ache that’s gathering behind my temples. A migraine is the last thing I need, but it looks as though I’m in for one regardless of personal preference.

  “For the most part, yes. He is a good policeman; I can assure you that, Joe. But for our situation, he is slow. Methodical. He will not act in a way that will danger his men and while that is commendable, it merely prolongs the investigation. His superiors do not mind so long as he brings them results along the way. That drug haul was a coup for him.”

  “Is it just me? But I think he’d drag his heels anyway, because he doesn’t like me?”

  “You might be correct. He does not appreciate the proximity stemming from our work together. Although in fairness, Gianni is as against the mafia as could be. He lost an uncle in a similar situation as the one that is cursing the factory. That is why he feels for the innocents who are forced to work for the group out of a desire to simply survive. ”

  Nodding at her answer, I study the small ripples as the water tinkles down disturbing the smooth patina of water that gleams like glass in the early morning sunlight.

  “You’ve met Brigida, haven’t you?” The words pop out of my mouth formed by a half-developed thought. Before I as
k the question, I didn’t even realize that my mind had centred on the peculiar woman who tends to the house for us.

  Her behaviour of late has been impeccable, for an anal retentive housekeeper.

  But I doubt I’m being paranoid by stating that she’s under strain. I’m not the most attentive of people; especially to those who rarely take centre stage in my life. I don’t mean that in a snobby way. Not an inch of me is a snob. I mean it in the sense that I’m too busy to notice people who go out of their way to hide from me.

  That being said, I’ve noticed she’s paler. Thinner. Frailer. On the knife edge, maybe?

  And why would that be?

  She’s obviously the boss in her marriage; if that slap to Marco’s face was anything to go by and Cass and I are no bother. We’re hardly ever there. As ineffectual as Cass is at the moment; she’s trying. She puts in the same hours as I do, but her iron and ice-cold efficiency isn’t as efficacious as before. As such, neither of us causes Brigida much work.

  So why is she under such strain?

  “Yes. I met her that one time you invited me back to dinner. Why?”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t?” Monica asks, obviously unsure as to where I’m heading with this particular line of thought.

  “No.” My eyes seek hers, amused at her confusion. “Sorry. I don’t mean that I distrust her as a petty thief, someone pinching the petty cash. I mean that I don’t trust her. When I mentioned this to Cass, she shrugged it off. Stood up for her, but I still think it was weird.”

  “You’re not making much sense, Joe. Explain what you mean. When was she acting oddly? Or in a way that caused you to distrust her?”

  “When that hand arrived, she didn’t react. Cass said that was a reaction in itself. But I don’t think so. Who wouldn’t be repulsed or horrified at the sight of a butchered hand on the dining table? But she didn’t react at all. Not one bit! What that about? Unless she was desensitized, that is.”

  “Desensitized?”

  “Yeah. Unless she’d seen something similar to that before. And let’s face it, Monica; she was with the old head of the firm. How many dinner parties will he have held over the years? How many times will she have served them? Seen stuff, heard even more. Who knows what she knows. She’s the key.”