Chapter 1

IT LOOKED LIKE THERE was a party in progress, luxury cars lining both sides of the narrow country road. I inspected them as I passed, Lamborghinis, Mercedes, Porsches, and an Aston Martin sprinkled in with blacked-out Range Rovers. The cheapest vehicle that I could see was an Audi R8. No. A fashionable Mini was squeezed in-between a red Ferrari and what looked like an Ascari.

Walking through the estate's wide open black wrought iron gates adorned with gaudy family initials - ML painted in gold - I followed a paved drive through a small copse of closely planted trees. Sixty feet later I emerged into a world of sunlight, well manicured lawns as far as the eye could see, more cars, and a monstrous grey mock-French chateau. It was an insult to the eye to see it here, in Italy of all places. Drawn by boisterous noises, I followed a flagstone footpath around the mock-French monstrosity to discover a crowd of partygoers on the back lawn. The huge groomed lawn sloped away and ended at a calm blue bay. Tied to a stone jetty was a large white cruise yacht. It looked like a Dutch made Icon; four million Euros of luxury; gleaming white fibreglass, smoked glass windows, and chrome bright work.

The crowd was made up of young, desperately hip, insecure adults preening, strutting, and standing just so, rehearsed poses designed to show how impossibly important they were. Cut crystal Champaign flutes sparkled in the afternoon sun. A pianist playing classical music on a glossy white Grand piano was ignored, hired because it was de rigueur. Partygoers mingled ready to impress with artfully crafted and well rehearsed stories. There was a hierarchy to this group. I didn't care. I wasn't impressed. I wasn't intimidated. It was false, a pretence, a carefully constructed tableau of artifice - image was everything with this crowd, substance of no value.

On the sweeping two-level flagstone terrace with large mullioned double doors open to the interior of the chateau, I spotted Mr. Lucchese. Tall and suave with well-groomed dark hair swept back from a tall forehead, he was chatting with a buxom brunette who was trying too hard. Her cuteness and fake eyelashes were not enough to hide the caking of makeup more appropriate for an evening event but needed to hide age wrinkles yet to be treated by Botox. I saw him notice me, his back straightening slightly. He dipped his head, whispering to the brunette. She laughed, a shrill bark she might have thought was charming, and slipped away, teetering slightly on her stilettos from alcohol made more potent by the hot afternoon sun.

I approached the terrace, Mr. Lucchese moving towards me. I didn't feel awkward in my jeans and light leather bomber jacket despite the sideways disapproving glances my presence elicited. The trying-to-be-hip group snickered as one, whispered as one, shocked at my apparent ignorance of appropriate attire for such a desperately social event.

"Mr. Blackmore," Mr. Lucchese greeted with no hint of an Italian accent, extending a slender hand with manicured fingernails, a serious expression on his face, his dark eyes intense. "Thank you for coming. Please, this way. We can talk privately inside."

I shook a cool, dry hand that lacked interest or commitment. Nodding, I followed him into the Chateau. It was big; big in size with oversized rooms, big in chintz with gilt-framed portraits of men I'd be willing to bet were no relatives of Mr. Lucchese. Furniture was over-stuffed, unnecessarily ornate, no doubt uncomfortable. It struck me Mr. Lucchese was buying social importance. Why?

Chapter 2 »