Dolce Bianchi glided across the room and placed her hand in Stone’s. She was half a head taller than Mary Ann and clad in a perfectly cut black dress that accentuated her full breasts and her narrow hips. “Hello, Stone,” she said in a husky voice.
Stone was nearly unable to speak. “Hello,” he finally managed to mumble. The woman looked like a Sicilian princess, he thought. Her hair fell in black waves to her shoulders, and she wore a single piece of jewelry, a diamond necklace that looked like something out of Harry Winston’s window.
Before anyone could say anything else, Eduardo Bianchi entered the room. He came in so silently, almost stealthily, that Stone did not at first notice him. When he did, he was being greeted by a tall,
handsome man, apparently around fifty years of age, with iron gray hair, white at the temples, and wearing a double-breasted, chalk-striped suit that had never known a wrinkle.
“How do you do, Mr. Barrington? I am Eduardo Bianchi.” The voice was well modulated, cultured, accentless.
“How do you do, Mr. Bianchi?” Stone thought that the man could host
Masterpiece Theater
.
“Dino,” Bianchi said, “you may wish to say good night to Ben; he’s in his room.”
Dino left the room.
Bianchi signaled for them all to sit. He took his own seat and accepted a Strega from a silver tray held by Pietro.
Stone was glad of his own choice of the drink, and even more glad that Dino had kept him from taking his host’s usual chair. Bianchi exuded a royal presence, and Stone felt very much on his best behavior.
“I hope you had a pleasant drive here,” Bianchi said.
“Yes, indeed,” Stone said. “I was not aware of this part of Brooklyn.”
“My family has slowly developed this part of Brooklyn over many years,” he replied. “My father wished to have a pleasant neighborhood in which to build a house. Unfortunately, he died before he was able to do so. It was left to me to build this place on land he had reserved.”
“The house is very beautiful,” Stone said. “You are to be complimented.”
“Thank you,” Bianchi replied with a small nod. “It is good to have a guest who appreciates it.”
Stone felt confused. Could this man be the ogre of a father-in-law that Dino had for years disparaged at every opportunity?
Dino returned silently to the room and sat down.
“My daughter’s husband has never been susceptible to its charms,” Bianchi said, with regret in his voice. “Dino prefers…
Manhattan.
” He spoke the word as if the island were a prison colony off the coast of Long Island.
Dino, uncharacteristically, said nothing.
Stone and Bianchi chatted amiably for half an hour, while the others merely listened. Finally, Pietro appeared at the door and gave a little bow.
“Ah, yes,” Bianchi said, rising. “Dinner is served. I believe we are in the small dining room, Pietro?”
“Yes, sir,” Pietro replied.
Bianchi led the way to a lovely little room and placed his guests at an antique round table set with Italian silver, English china, and French crystal.
Stone found himself seated next to the lovely Dolce, who had not said a word since her father had appeared.
Now she spoke. “I believe that you are in the practice of law, Mr. Barrington.”
“I am,” Stone replied.
“Do you specialize?”
“I specialize in what my clients require,” Stone said.
“Oh, good,” she breathed. “Lawyers too often forget that they are servants of their clients and not the other way around.”
“I admit I have known such lawyers,” Stone said.
“So have I,” Dolce replied.
Stone, who had been only vaguely aware that Mary Ann had a sister, would have agreed with anything this creature had said.
Bianchi spoke up. “My younger daughter would not be so familiar with lawyers if she had more often heeded her father’s advice.”
“Yes, Papa,” Dolce said meekly.
Stone felt that she was rarely meek. A risotto of porcini mushrooms was set before him. Careful to choose the correct fork, he tasted it and was transported to a country he had never visited.
“Have you visited Italy, Mr. Barrington?” Bianchi asked, as if he were reading Stone’s mind.
“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t,” Stone replied. “I have a friend who has just returned from several years in Tuscany and speaks highly of it.”
“That would be Miss Buckminster, the painter, would it not?”
“Yes,” Stone replied, surprised.
“I knew her work when she lived in New York,” Bianchi said. “I thought she had great promise, though I felt she needed maturing as an artist. I understand that her recent work is much elevated in its perceptions.”
“She is an excellent painter,” Stone said.
“And you would know, would you not? Coming from a mother who was such an illustrious artist.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “Perhaps I inherited an appreciation of good painting from my mother, but none of her talent, I fear.”
“I have tried on a couple of occasions to buy a Matilda Stone, but I have always been outbid.”
Stone was astonished that Bianchi had ever been outbid for anything. “You must keep trying,” he said.
“Oh, I will,” Bianchi replied. “I will not long be denied.”
Stone’s empty plate was removed and replaced with a main course of osso bucco.
“We are dining in the fashion of Milano this evening,” Bianchi said. “Milanese dishes are among my favorites.”
“Everything is delicious,” Stone said.
“I will tell my sister you said so. She does all the cooking for the house.”
“Please give her my compliments.”
“You will have an opportunity to do so yourself,” Bianchi said.
Suddenly, Stone felt an unaccustomed sensation. Something was climbing up his right calf. He froze, his wineglass in midair.
Bianchi stared at him. “Is the wine not to your satisfaction?”
Stone took a sip and swallowed hard. “It’s superb,” he said. He now realized that what was climbing his calf was a foot belonging to Dolce Bianchi.
“It is grown in my own vineyard in Veneto,” Eduardo Bianchi said.
“Absolutely superb,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Dolce’s stockinged toes had reached the top of his sock and were drawing it down
around his ankle. He felt as though he was being undressed by an expert.
“It is an Amerone,” Bianchi was saying. “The grapes are dried in the sun before they are pressed. It concentrates the flavor.”
“Just wonderful,” Stone said, trying not to giggle. She was tickling his leg now. Carefully, he drew his foot away from hers. From a corner of his eyes, he saw her make a moue.
“Dolce,” Bianchi said to his daughter, “you are unusually quiet; you must entertain our guest.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, sliding a glance in Stone’s direction.
When they had finished dining, Bianchi stood. “All of you, please return to the little sitting room, where Pietro will serve coffee.” They all rose and filed out. Bianchi turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, perhaps you will join me for a glass of something?”
Before Stone could reply, Bianchi had turned and departed through another door. Stone hurried to catch up.
E
DUARDO BIANCHI LED THE WAY INTO A
richly paneled study, all walnut and leather. The shelves were filled with gorgeously bound books, and the paintings on the walls were newer than those in the rest of the house, but very good.
“Will you join me in a glass of port?” Bianchi asked.
“Thank you, yes,” Stone replied.
Bianchi went to a butler’s tray across the room and read the label on a bottle from which the cork had been drawn.
Stone took the opportunity to pull up his sock.
“Pietro has decanted a Quinto do Noval Nacionale ‘63 for us,” he said, setting down the empty bottle, picking up a beautifully blown Georgian decanter, and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Stone, indicated that he should sit in one of a pair of wing chairs, side by side, then sat down beside him.
He raised his glass. “To the future,” he said. “May it be less uncertain.”
Stone wondered what his host meant by that. He sipped the wine, which filled his mouth with the most wonderful flavors. “It’s superb,” he said.
Bianchi nodded. “The Nacionale vineyard at Quinto do Noval is very small, containing the last of their oldest vines that have not yet been attacked by the phylloxera pest that wiped out most European vineyards in the last century. We will not always have this wine to drink.”
Stone sipped it gratefully.
“I have heard a great deal about you over the years,” Bianchi said. “From Dino and Anna Maria—she prefers a more American version of her name. And, of course, I have heard of you from others.”
“Others?” Stone could not prevent himself from asking.
“We have acquaintances in common.”
“We do?” Stone bit his tongue. He must stop responding like a trained bird.
“I am occasionally represented in some matters by Woodman and Weld, with whom, I believe, you are associated.”
Stone nearly choked on his port. Woodman & Weld was representing a Mafioso?
“Perhaps this surprises you?”
“Well, no,” Stone lied.
“I understand that most, perhaps all of what you know of me is from Dino.”
“Well…”
“My daughter’s husband and I subscribe to, shall
we say, different philosophies of life. And Dino is not so tolerant as I when judging others; therefore, something of a gulf exists between us, one that I fear may never be bridged.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I have the greatest respect for the intelligence and integrity that my son-in-law brings to his work. His manners are another matter.”
“Dino is, sometimes, a bit too frank.”
Bianchi laughed for the first time, revealing magnificent dental work. “One could say that. He is not, you understand, disrespectful—not to my face, at least. But as a modern Italian-American, he does not fully grasp the meaning of my family’s history. Dino is from a northern Italian family, whereas we are Sicilian. Our customs are very old, and they still shape our daily lives in ways that Dino cannot fully appreciate.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps you do; perhaps not. It is paradoxical that honor is so important to both Dino and me, and yet, we take very different paths to the upholding of honor. Dino does not yet understand that I approved of his marriage to Anna Maria.”
Stone could not resist. “Approved? It was my understanding that you
insisted
on it.”
Bianchi laughed again. “Well, yes, I suppose I did. A wedding in the presence of a shotgun is not unknown in my family. In fact, there was one present at my own marriage. And my wife and I had a richly rewarding marriage for forty-one years, before her death last year.”
“I believe Dino and Mary Ann have such a marriage,” Stone said.
“I hope you are right,” Bianchi said. “What I know of the marriage tends to come from Anna Maria, and sometimes I am not sure whether she is more motivated by loyalty than by love.”
“I assure you, she is not.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrington; you have made an old man feel better.” Then his face clouded. “A man’s daughters are important to him,” he said, hesitantly. “And when I heard that an attempt had been made on Anna Maria’s life, I was very angry.”
“I can understand that.”
“Since I have no sons, my grandson is extremely important to me, and now he cannot even attend his school.”
“I know.”
“But I have held my temper. I understand that it is Dino’s place—both by dint of his place in her life and by his work—to correct this situation. It is only right that he should have that opportunity. However, to date, his best efforts have been insufficient.”
“It is a difficult case,” Stone said. “In a situation like this, Dino is at a very great disadvantage.”
“Revenge is always difficult, even tedious, when it must be accomplished within the framework of the laws of this country,” Bianchi said.
“You do understand, though, that the only way Dino can deal with this is within the law?”
“I do understand, and that is why I have been so patient. However, my patience is not inexhaustible, and I am not required to operate under the same constraints
as Dino.” He gazed at Stone. “Neither, for that matter, are you.”
Stone did not reply to that.
“I understand that you, too, were once a policeman, and that now you are a lawyer, and that your background and inclinations may cause you also to feel constrained.”
“Yes,” Stone said.
“But, perhaps, not so much as Dino.”
Stone was wary, now, and said nothing.
Bianchi crossed his legs and sipped his port. “I am aware that you spent some days in California last year.”
“Yes, I did.” What was the man getting at?
“And word has reached me that, when you felt wronged by another man, you took the extraordinary step of sinking his very large and very expensive yacht.”
Stone was astonished. “Did you hear this from Dino?”
Bianchi shook his head slowly. “I was, shall we say, indirectly acquainted with the yacht’s owner.”
“I see.”
Bianchi raised a hand. “Only in the most legitimate sense, you understand. I have interests on the West Coast, and they sometimes coincided with the interests of the gentleman in question. He did, after all, run a large banking business—in addition to his
other
interests, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What impressed me about this incident was the very carefully crafted nature of your vengeance.”
Stone wondered for a moment if this conversation was being overheard by some federal representative, but then he remembered that the feds were very aware of the incident. “I wasn’t thinking very carefully at the time,” he said.
“Then your instincts speak well of you. Somehow, you looked at this man and knew that little else could hurt him as much as the loss of his beloved status symbol.”
“I suppose there’s some truth to that.”
“I’m glad you and I understand each other, Mr. Barrington.”
We do?
Stone thought.