Chapter 3

“Cause no one’s gonna warn you.
And no one’s gonna yell attack.
And you don’t feel the steel
til it’s hanging out your back.”
-AC/DC, “Night Prowler”

“In five ... four...”

The technician finished the countdown with his fingers and pointed at Contessa Helena de San Finzione. She sat in a Louis XV chair, wearing a black Christian Dior pantsuit with a beige blouse beneath; and turned to face a monitor where she could see two fifty-something women sitting on a couch in a morning television studio in Los Angeles sipping wine and pretending to talk to each other excitedly about something that couldn’t be heard until the show’s “back from commercial” jingle stopped playing. They both turned to the camera and put on the kind of giant phony smiles that only a morning talk show host is capable of attaining. Helena picked up the coffee mug from the table in front of her and did one last check that the small emerald pendant dangling an inch above the “acceptable for television” amount of cleavage she displayed was straight before the red light indicated that she was now being received in Los Angeles and the lapel microphone she wore was active.

“And we’re back,” the blonder of Sally and Cara; America’s Favorite Fifty-Something Early-Morning Drinkers, said to the camera. “But we’re not live anymore, Sally, as we’re recording this segment eight hours before broadcast to accommodate our guest joining us via satellite link from her castle on the other side of the world.” She turned to the other host. “There’s something I never thought I’d say.” The other woman gave another too-broad smile before picking up where she’d left off.

“That’s right, Cara. You’ve seen her on the news, or the cover of Populace Magazine’s ‘Most Powerful Thirty Under Thirty’ issue last week, or winking down at you from a billboard, advising you to ‘come to San Finzione.’” She’d said the last with an attempt to sound like Charles Boyer inviting one to come with him to “Ze Casbah,” even though it was the Boyer-inspired Pepé Le Pew who said that line. “Or maybe you’ve stayed at one of her hotels, gambled at one of her casinos, or enjoyed one of her fine wines like we are here in the studio.” Sally held up the bottle of San Finzione Vineyards Rosé for the camera. “Well, today, we’re bringing her to you. Please welcome Contessa Helena de San Finzione.” Helena gave a polite nod to the camera and the host continued.

“Now, Contessa, this might be a little tricky for our viewers at home, because you’re the ruler of San Finzione, but you’re a countess, not a queen?”

Helena smiled at the often-asked softball question.

“That’s correct, Sally. The patriarchs of La Familia de San Finzione held the rank of Count before we attained sovereignty, so, by tradition, the ruler’s title is Count or Contessa.” The other host almost allowed her a half-second after finishing before cutting in.

“So, do we call you Countess, Contessa...” Helena returned the favor and cut her off.

“Helena is fine, thank you, Cara.” The moment it was obvious that she wasn’t going to expand on the answer, Sally jumped in. Helen didn’t find their interview style interrogative so much as terrified of a second’s dead air.

“You don’t sound European, though. I mean, your accent is definitely American.”

“I was born in Anchorage, Alaska, yes. However,” Helena said, taking an overly-long sip of her coffee just to irk them. “I had to renounce my citizenship when I was crowned Contessa.” The interviewer was ready to jump in the moment it was over.

“So, you really do have an actual crown?”

“Sort of,” Helena said a smile and a cock of her head. “A tiara, anyway. There’s a scepter too, but they’re only brought out for official occasions.”

“Wow,” Cara said in a tone that would have sounded phony if Helen hadn’t watched their show before and knew that faux over-enthusiasm was standard. “Alaska to San Finzione, that’s quite a long journey.”

“Yeah,” Sally interjected. “I know I’d need at least two bottles of this lovely red you had sent to the studio for a flight that long.” She held up the bottle again to show the San Finzione Vineyards label to the camera.

Both interviewers laughed at the comment. Helena gave her reply through a laugh every bit as phony as theirs; the laugh of someone who knows that the thing that they’re saying isn’t particularly funny.

“Well, I told them to deliver enough to send everyone on your crew home with a case, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh, that truckload was supposed to be for everybody?” Sally laughed at her own comment self-satisfyingly; the same way she might have if a retail clerk had asked her “anything else I can get for you today” and she’d thought it would be clever to reply “Yeah, a million dollars.” Helena had a suspicion that was the level of “wit” she engaged in off-camera as well.

“Yeah, they’re ALL gonna have to fight THIS lush for it,” Cara said, jerking a thumb at Sally and abruptly steering the conversation back to questions. “Now, Helena, I read the Most Powerful Thirty Under Thirty issue, and it says you’re single?”

“That’s incorrect,” Helena said flatly.

The two interviewers paused for a moment. Cara checked notes.

“I’m sorry, our information on file...” Helena raised a hand to interrupt.

“I am married to Count Vincenzo Ramon de San Finzione. He is the only man I have ever called ‘My Husband’ and I will call him that when we meet again. I know they say ‘til death do us part, ‘ but I’m not dead yet, and he is still the man I married.” Sally picked up the non-existent conversational slack.

“But you’ve dated a few men and a couple of women, I’ve heard, since then.” Helena gave a dry chuckle to that.

“I was 22 years old when Vincenzo passed, Sally, and he was 79. Do you think a married couple with that much of an age difference never had the ‘this is what I want for you after I’m gone’ conversation? My husband told me that he did not want me to spend the rest of my days alone and mourning him. Never marrying another man is my own idea, not being alone after he was gone was his.”

The two interviewers allowed almost ten seconds to pass. Helena smiled. If she thought she could get away with smoking on American Daytime Television, she’d have lit one up right then. She’d taken control of the interview, and the whimsically-tipsy bubbly blondes now got that she wasn’t going to allow it to be a fluff piece.

Her ability to command the minds of others wasn’t something that could be transmitted over video, so she’d seized the power by sheer force of her personality. Helena’s primary religious belief was that if God existed, He had a swift kick in the One True Nuts coming for the life that she’d been born into. She had an image of an afterlife, though, and in moments like this, she could imagine Propappou and Vincenzo looking down at her via the scrying pool of the gods from Clash of the Titans, an arm around each other like the buddies she always imagined they would have been if they’d ever met; both proud of their little Helena. Sally broke the silence.

“Wow, that’s beautiful, Helena, thank you. Now, in addition to ruling your nation, the San Finzione family also owns a powerful international business conglomerate, and you’ve recently branched out into a new area. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

Helena smiled. A real one now.

The interview continued.

Thirty tourists gathered in a reception room on the grounds of Castle Finzione, but hadn’t entered the castle itself as they waited for the guide to arrive and start the tour. The man sat on a bench and waited, for the guide with the others, reading a leaflet about famous historical battles that took place at or near the castle.

He could barely believe that he was here. The call had come early in the morning, and the amount he’d been offered more than made up for their list of conditions, like jumping on a plane immediately and checking into a hotel before going to the curious meeting in the park as soon as he landed. And now he was about to enter Castle Finzione.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Not his own, they’d insisted he trade them his for this newer, fancier model when they gave him the other tools he’d need. He bent his wrist carefully, clutching the sleeve of the windbreaker he wore ad wincing imperceptibly before reaching for it and checking the incoming text. It was a simple question mark, reminding him that he’d forgotten to message if he’d made it past security.

He sent a thumbs-up back and put the phone back in his other pocket. The tiny glass bottle in his pocket had easily been explained away as medication, and it had distracted security enough that he was able to get the item up his sleeve through screening. When he looked up, he noticed others getting up and congregating toward a uniformed man holding a sign.

The tour group began to move. He hung at the back, unable to hear the tour guide talking as he pointed at chandeliers and tapestries.

He took a greater interest in a large portrait of a woman sitting in a chair and smiling; wearing an elegant gown and emerald tiara and holding a scepter of gold.

The tour group was starting to get too far ahead of him. He caught up with them as they were about to leave the entrance hall and took one last look back at the portrait of the woman he’d come to kill.

The portrait of Contessa Helena de San Finzione.

Helena sat at the head of a conference table. Generalissimo Ramirez sat on her left, and the other seven people seated at the table were some of her highest-level advisors.

She lit a cigarette, her first opportunity to have one since before the interview, and listened as they gave their reports.

Because a good portion of San Finzione’s economy relied on La Familia de San Finzione’s holdings, the CFO of La Famila’s business concern spoke first, reporting that everything was a go for the launch of the new venture. She was followed by the Minister of the Treasury, who agreed that it would be a great boon to the economy and he predicted another surplus the following quarter.

Up next was the Minister of Agriculture, who assured her that the wineries were prepared for the bumper crop of grapes predicted for harvest time. The Minister of Tourism said that letters for Cupid were starting to arrive in anticipation of the Festival in three months. She thanked them for their reports, then sent them out of the room, leaving only Ramirez, the Minister of Science, and the Minister of Intelligence. Intelligence spoke first.

“A box was delivered to the embassy in Hong Kong by a known Triad associate approximately 90 minutes ago. We put a tail on him immediately. The box was addressed to...” The man stopped and checked his phone. “The Snake That Hisses at Men’s Tongues?”

Helena nodded with a smirk and lit another cigarette.

“Send that translator back to Berlitz for a refresher. I presume you had the box examined?”

“It was found to be safe. The contents, however, were a man’s severed hand and a red envelope containing one hundred thousand Hong Kong Dollars. There was a note identifying the man as...” Helena cut him off.

“Raymond Chen?”

“Er, yes.”

La Contessa turned to the Generalissimo.

“It appears the Elders have decided to save me an official visit.” Ramirez nodded. She turned back to the Minister. “Approach the man, tell him to convey to the Elders that we accept their sincere apology, however, we could not possibly accept their other generous gift and return the money. When they insist, and send it back, pizza party for the embassy staff and their families and donate the rest to anti-human-trafficking charities.” Helena straightened up. “Now, the other matter. What do you have on Springheel?”