In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [89]
“I’ve tried him there. Been trying him for two days now.”
“Oh. Can I give him a message? Get him to call you?” Lila was uncertain now. There was something intimidating about the way the caller spoke. He wasn’t shouting, but there was something in his tone that frightened her.
“You tell him to call Mario. Right away, Mrs. Aramanov.”
Mario ended the call and went back to the window. He saw the view this time, but his take on it was different. He did not see the hot red and bright purple bougainvillea climbing the pink stucco wall; instead he saw the electric fence and the wiring that ran along the top of it. He didn’t see the sun sparkling like molten gold on the blue-green ocean; instead he saw the massive iron gates and the guard house and the two armed men with Uzi submachine guns at the ready. He didn’t see the cool, dark blue infinity pool and the immaculate red clay tennis courts; he saw infrared video cameras and motion detectors in the bushes, and attack-trained Dobermans patrolling his property. Mario de Soto saw a jail.
Sure, the Miami mansion was different from the jails he’d done time in; at least here he had his own chef. But lately he had lost his appetite and mostly he ate just grilled vegetables, with the occasional piece of fish. He didn’t drink anymore, either, since the heart attack that had almost finished him off three years ago—except for milk, always accompanied by a pack of Oreos. He never could resist them, and it wasn’t just a hangover from his childhood. He had never gotten to eat Oreos then.
He had a chauffeur and a black Mercedes SL900, as well as a red Ferrari and a deep blue Bentley Brooklands Trophy Edition. But he rarely went out anymore.
He had a girlfriend, blonde, attractive, bejeweled, and scented. She wore Versace and sexy lingerie. But he wasn’t able to get it up anymore.
Mario had lost his appetite not only for food but for life. Until Alberto Ricci had paid him a visit a few weeks ago.
Alberto was in the property business, via a Cayman Islands company known as Monster Development. He was in a high-stakes bidding war for airspace on Fifth Avenue, and had come up against tough competition. Ed Vincent.
Mario had made his own first fortune in property. He had also served his first jail term for defrauding investors in that same property deal, but had still come out a winner after just a couple of years—and with a well-hidden offshore bank account. He’d done time for other things, too, that he didn’t care to have talked about. And there were plenty of people who would like to see him dead.
But Alberto Ricci was squeaky clean and he intended to keep it that way: no fraud; no SEC scams; no murders . . . at least none that could be traced back to him. Ricci was a society gentleman and his new young wife enjoyed that. He used other people to do his dirty work and take the rap for him. This time was no different.
De Soto had struck a deal with Ricci. He would get to be a twenty-percent partner in the Fifth Avenue property at a reduced financial stake. In return for getting rid of the competition.
It was the thought of the “competition” that had brought him most pleasure, though. He had laughed himself sick over it. His nemesis had fallen into his hands quite by chance. Ed Vincent was the one man on this planet who had the knowledge to put him away forever—if only he had known him. But Vincent certainly did not know Mario de Soto.
He strode restlessly out of the big house and stood for a minute, hands behind his back, dark sunglasses hiding his narrow eyes, looking around at the property his fertile criminal mind had bought him. The men patrolling the grounds with the leashed Dobermans saluted him, and in an instant his assistant was at his side.
Mario ignored them all, striding down the steps and across the lawn to the back of the house and the helipad.
The assistant was alarmed. Mario had not been anywhere in weeks, he wasn’t well. He hurried after him. “Mr. de Soto, where are you going, sir?”
Still ignoring him, Mario climbed