Worst Fears Realized

28

STONE HAD BEEN EXPECTING SOMETHING like Don Corleone’s house in The Godfather – discreet, anonymous, hidden, even. What lay before him now was a perfect Palladian mansion behind five acres of closely mown lawn. “I don’t think we’re in Brooklyn anymore,” he said to Dino.

“Just barely,” Dino replied. “There’s all kinds of Brooklyn.”

Stone drove up the winding driveway and stopped at the front door in a circle of crunchy gravel. As they got out of the car the splashing of water from a stone fountain in the middle of the circle reached Stone’s ears. Before they could ring the bell, the front door was opened by a small, gray man in a black suit.

“Good evening, Mr. Bacchetti,” the man said, in Italian-accented English.

“Howyadoin’, Pete?”

He shot a rebuking glance at Dino. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “I am Pietro. Please come this way.”

Stone and Dino followed Pietro through a marble-floored entrance hall and through a large, elegantly furnished drawing room into a small sitting room, paneled in antique pine. A cheerful fire burned in a corner fireplace. The pictures on the wall were of imaginary, ruined palazzos in the Italian countryside.

“May I get you something to drink, gentlemen?” Pietro asked.

“Scotch,” Dino said. “The good stuff, Pete.”

“You know very well we have no other kind, Mr. Bacchetti. Mr. Barrington?”

“A Strega, on ice, please,” Stone replied.

Pietro beamed his approval and left the room.

Stone started to take a seat next to the fire.

“Not there,” Dino said. “That’s the old man’s perch. He’d have Pete cut your throat on the way out.”

Stone chose another chair. “The man obviously doesn’t like to be called Pete, Dino; why do you do that?”

Dino sat down. “Twenty years ago, he was Little Pete Drago, a button man for the boys on Mulberry Street. He’s probably got twenty notches on his piece, and I don’t want him to forget it.”

“Twenty years? You certainly know how to hold a grudge, Dino.”

“I’m Italian; it’s what we do.”

Pietro returned with the drinks. “Mrs. Bacchetti is dressing; Mr. Bianchi is in the garden with Ben and will join you shortly,” he said.

“Thanks, Pete,” Dino replied, sipping his scotch.

Pietro left the room and closed the door behind him.

“Be sure you don’t make any sudden moves in Eduardo’s direction,” Dino said to Stone, “or Pete’ll slip a dagger between your ribs before you know what’s happening.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The door opened, and two women entered the room. First, came Mary Ann, and she was followed by a woman so beautiful that Stone was transfixed. It took him a moment to get to his feet.

Mary Ann came over and planted a kiss on Stone’s cheek. “Hey, baby,” she whispered, then she turned and indicated her companion. “Stone, this is my sister Rosaria; in the family we call her Dolce. Sweetie, this is our friend Stone Barrington.”

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.