The Rich Shall Inherit (56 page)

“You wouldn’t dare,” Stefano scoffed, “and I’ll do as I please.” But the cold, angry glint in Franco’s eyes made him doubt his own brash words.

Franco reunited Emilia with her husband and she accepted him back meekly, even though she was now afraid of him. Franco made a point of going to see them every few days in their new home, a pretty house just along the road from the Malvasi villa and with the same high walls and ever-present guards. Emilia reported that Stefano was behaving reasonably enough, though he often got drunk and disappeared for the night. But she was used to the men in her family disappearing on business, and she thought nothing more if it. Franco knew differently. But Enzo Malvasi was growing worse, and Franco’s mind was on his sick father, and on his responsibilities when the time would come for him to take over the business.

He was at work every day before seven, going over each sector of the business, drafting plans for new ways to expand in some areas and ways to conserve in others, deciding where to cut back and how to maximize profits. He drew up plans to send executives to South America to facilitate new drug connections, and outlined his new ideas for stepping up the pressure on the gambling and protection scenes. He used his business school knowledge to restructure the whole financial base of the Malvasi empire, planning new investments into industry and banking. “The Malvasi Bank” was his dream, a name he wanted to see not just in Naples, not just in Italy, but in the serious, international world of finance. Franco wanted the Malvasi business to have a legitimate facade in order to launder its illegal earnings.

When he had readied all his new proposals for the business, he spoke to the family’s lawyer, Carmine Caetano, telling him of
his plans. Carmine had known both the Malvasi sons since birth and he had made his own assessment of them. The information he gave to Franco, confidentially, was not because he cared more about him than his brother but because he was concerned for his own survival and that was now in serious doubt. When he told Franco that Enzo had appointed
Stefano
as the next godfather of the Malvasi Family, Carmine was protecting his own business interests. He, and the other executives, knew that with Stefano at the helm, they were as good as dead.

“I’m telling you now, Franco,” he said, “the old man is besotted with that boy. Don’t ask me why; it’s obvious to everyone else that the kid is the biggest piece of crap that ever fell to earth. He doesn’t have a brain in his head, he’s degenerate and he’s dangerous. He’ll ruin us all within a year. You must take control, son. It may be hard and there will be decisions that I pray you never have to make again. But I am sure you will uphold the honor of the Family. And in return your Family will be forever grateful. You will have earned
our
loyalty.”

There was no happier woman in Italy than Carmela Malvasi when Emilia told her she was pregnant. It was a chill winter night and Enzo stood in front of the fire, leaning heavily on his stick now, trying vainly to feel some warmth in his pain-racked body. He watched tenderly as his beloved son Stefano kissed his mother, and as the boy walked toward him he threw down his stick, holding out both his arms to embrace him. “My son, my son,” he cried, “you have fulfilled your duty. You have made me very happy.”

Stefano’s eyes met Franco’s and he smiled mockingly. “I shall always do my best to make you proud of me, Father,” he said.

Enzo was dead a few weeks later and the entire Malvasi Family and all the godfathers of the leading Families of Italy traveled to be present at his funeral. As the two sons, Franco and Stefano, cast earth onto their father’s grave, their eyes locked, and there was a triumphant glint in Stefano’s.

As the funeral procession made its way back to the Malvasi villa for the wake, it was ambushed by a group of marksmen. The leading cars were raked with bullets and Stefano Malvasi and his young wife were killed instantly, as were two other leading godfathers. With his arm around his brokenhearted mother’s shoulders, Franco had inspected the bodies. He was sorry about Emilia, but there had been no choice; she was carrying Stefano’s
son, and he had wanted no future rival to his position of godfather. He was now sole head of the Malvasi Family.

Franco declared afterward that the mysterious “assassination” would be avenged, that he would make sure that not only his own Family’s honor was satisfied, but that of the other men who had come to pay their last respects to his father.

A few days later the bodies of half a dozen men were found locked in a garage in a Naples back street. They had been lined up against a wall and shot, as though by a firing squad.

It seemed Franco Malvasi had “avenged his honor,” and he was now godfather of the Malvasi Family. He had earned a reputation as a man to be reckoned with before he’d even begun. And it had taught him a lesson. In his business,
in his world
, only the strong and the ruthless survived. Nothing—not family, friends, or love—could come between him and “the business.”

He had never gone back on that decision.

1904, FRANCE

Netta swept up the steps of numéro seize, rue des Arbres, the bright feathers in her new hat bouncing saucily. She put out her hand to ring the bell, but before she could do so it was flung open and a distinguished-looking man with a funny accent inquired what she wanted.

“I’m here to see Poppy,” she said haughtily, “all the way from Marseilles.”

“Madam is not available at the moment,” Watkins said firmly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she cried, thrusting her foot quickly into the door before he could close it. “Poppy’s never too busy to see
me.
I’ll just come in and wait!” She pushed past him into the hall, her eyes and mouth rounding with amazement as she stared at the luxurious furnishings. “Well, the girl’s really done it this time,” she muttered, “she’s really burned her bridges with Franco Malvasi.”

“Madame,” the butler protested, “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“Leave? Why ever should I leave?” Netta asked, surprised. “I just got here, didn’t I?”

Watkins looked at her nervously; she was loud and she was bringing down the whole tone of the establishment. Luckily there weren’t many guests around at the moment, but he knew Madame Poppy would be most upset to see this … this tart, in the middle of her beautiful hall, but he couldn’t just throw her out forcibly.

“Would you please wait in the small salon?” he said politely. “I’ll see if Madame will be available soon.”

“Hoity-toity,” mocked Netta, sauntering after him down a lengthy corridor, “where did Poppy find you, then? In the actor’s emporium?” And her raucous laugh rattled through the high-ceilinged corridor.

Poppy was at her desk going over the week’s menus and she lifted her head, listening in surprise. Luchay flapped his wings, running excitedly up and down on his stand, cackling in the same mocking tones … just like Netta …

“Netta!” she screamed, leaping joyfully to her feet and flinging open the door. “Netta, oh, Netta,” she sobbed as her friend’s arms closed around her. “I’ve missed you so.”

“’Course you have,” Netta said gruffly, wiping away a tear, “and I missed you. Tell the truth, Poppy, I’ve missed you more than I ever missed the Captain … God bless him.”

“Is everything all right, madame?” Watkins asked without a flicker of expression.

“All right? Oh, Watkins, everything is just wonderful now that Netta’s here,” she said tearfully.

“Some fancy place you’ve got here,” Netta said, linking her arm through Poppy’s as she showed her to her apartment.

Poppy grinned. “But what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Oh, I just felt like a little vacation,” Netta said airily, “thought I’d do a little shopping in Paris.”

“I know just the place to go,” she promised.

Netta eyed her tailored silk dress shrewdly. “I’ll bet you do, but it’ll take me a month to earn enough for that frock.”

“Only a month, Netta?” Poppy teased. “I thought you were going to stay a year.
You
must be doing well!”

“I’m doing well, all right, but it’s not the same without you there.
And
that bloody parrot. Oh, the girls are nice and the customers are faithful, and there’s always plenty of new ones ready and waiting, but without you there,” she said wistfully, “I guess I’m just a bit lonely.”

“Then why not come here and join me? Be my partner again? By rights, half of what I’ve got should be yours anyway, because without you I wouldn’t have anything.”

“’Course you would,” Netta said loyally, “but I can’t do that, Poppy. No … it wouldn’t be right.” She thought of Franco Malvasi and she shuddered. “I really just wanted to check and see if you were all right. Oh, I know your letters said you were fine and all, but I thought I read a little something between the lines.”

Poppy took her into her sitting room and closed the door. “I’m
all right Netta.” she said nervously. “It’s just that I’m worried about Franco Malvasi.”

“I’ll bet you are!” Netta plopped onto the sofa and flung off her hat. She wrinkled her nose. “Mmm, what smells so good in here?” She spied the pots of gardenias scattered around, their fragile petals like fresh cream against their dark, glossy green leaves. “Gardenias! Such extravagance, Poppy. You must have changed your ways since I’ve seen you.”

“Franco sends them to me every week,” Poppy said simply. Netta’s eyebrows rose in astonishment and she added hurriedly, “Netta, is it possible to be in love with a man you don’t even
know?”
Netta’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair and her jaw dropped open as Poppy went on, “I can’t stop thinking about him, Netta, I dream about him, I … I fantasize about him, that he’s here talking to me the way he did that night …”

“What night?” Netta demanded quickly. “You haven’t …?”

“No … oh, no, of course not,” Poppy replied, blushing. “He came here one night to talk about the business, we had dinner, alone. Netta, that’s the only time I’ve seen him since I’ve been in Paris. That’s why it’s so strange … I mean, how can I fall in love with a man I’ve met only a few times in my life?”

“You can fall in love with a man you meet only once,” retorted Netta, “but not when he’s Franco Malvasi! Poppy, you
can’t
fall in love with a man like that!”

“A man like what?” she demanded, bewildered. “Who can tell who is good and who is bad? He’s kind, generous … a gentleman. Why, when I think of Felipe and how dishonest and vile he was … and yet
he
was an aristocrat.”

“And what about when you think of Greg?” Netta asked shrewdly. “How does Franco compare then?”

Poppy closed her eyes, her heart plummeting. She never allowed herself to think of Greg anymore—he symbolized all she had lost: the wonderful handsome young man, the family, the love and the caring, the simple, uncomplicated happiness. Greg didn’t exist in her new world. “Franco is … different,” she said carefully. “But Netta, I’ve never felt like this about a man before. I mean with Felipe, I suppose I was just a stupid romantic little girl swept off her feet by a handsome young man, even though I thought it was love. And with Greg there was always that steady companionship, the sort of friendship and affection you feel for someone you care about deeply, whom you’ve loved all your
life. But this time it’s different, Netta. I’ve never felt like this before. Can this be what’s known as being in love?”

“I hope not.” Netta sighed. “Because if it is, you certainly have a knack for picking the wrong men! Now, come and sit beside me and tell me all.”

They huddled on the sofa together all afternoon while Poppy talked and talked. Then they caught up on each other’s news and Poppy showed her around the house, pointing out its beauty proudly, and introducing her to the girls as “my dearest friend.”

Poppy arranged for Simone to come to lunch to meet Netta. The two women sized each other up quickly, their prying eyes taking in the details of each other’s appearance as the silence between them grew and Poppy hovered anxiously. “You shouldn’t wear that bright green, my dear,” Simone said finally, “it’s never good on blondes.”

“I know that,” retorted Netta, her hands on her hips, legs apart in best belligerent Marseilles streetgirl style.

“A rich ruby color,” Simone said musingly, “and sweep back your hair a little more, you’ve got good bones, you should show them off.” Smiling benignly at Poppy, she took a seat. “You didn’t tell me your friend was this attractive, Poppy,” she said. “If things go on at this rate, the competition in Paris will become impossible.”

“Merde,”
exclaimed Netta, throwing back her head with a laugh. “I’ll confess I wondered what you would be like. I thought you’d be stuck up and full of yourself, but I can now see why Poppy said you were so charming. You know just how to put a person into a good mood—no wonder men love you—and I can tell they do by that jewelry you’re wearing.”

Simone patted her diamond-studded bosom complacently. “You and I understand each other, Netta,” she said, “we are both provincial girls who’ve made good. For us Paris is only a veneer. Poppy is the one who is different: I expect great things from Poppy.”

Poppy didn’t know what she meant, but she laughed, glad that her only two friends were getting along so well. Netta listened fascinated as Simone gossiped her way through lunch, but when she’d gone she confessed to Poppy that it would be a relief to get back to Marseilles. “I’d settle for just one diamond brooch and my little house,” she said feelingly, “rather than have to play her
sort of games.” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then added, “Well, maybe a diamond brooch
and a
pair of earrings.”

Netta’s weeklong visit passed in a whirlwind of activity; Poppy took her, in her brazen green finery, to Lucille’s and chose a half-dozen dresses to be placed on her own private account. She took her to the hat shops and the furriers and they lunched together at Maxim’s. The maître d’ greeted Poppy like an old friend and every head turned as she paused casually here and there greeting people.

“You
know something,” Netta whispered as the waiter served blinis with caviar and champagne, “you are a
star
, Poppy. You don’t need Franco Malvasi anymore …
everybody
knows you.”