Chapter 33 Fon #2
The men all filed through, Fon bringing up the rear and observing the responses of the councillors ahead of him as their distinguished guest settled in. Much could be gleaned from the roll of an eye, lips read.
The room was decorated with dark red silk on the walls and heavy oak chairs arranged around a long table.
Gina had set out the gold tableware and candelabras, but the young women serving were local whores prepped to double up on their duties if they caught the eye of the cabinet minister.
Dante called it an ‘insurance policy’ – booze and women always loosened the tongue – but from what Fon had seen of the man’s altered state tonight, he wasn’t sure Franchetti would succumb.
He met Dante’s eyes with a brief look, silently communicating his thoughts.
Dante nodded almost imperceptibly. It was the advantage of being brothers: they had always read each other like books.
‘So tell me, do you still live in your beautiful villa in Rome, Senatore?’ Dante asked as they took their seats, bosoms almost poking them in the eyes as napkins were draped over their laps. As host, Dante sat at the head of the table, Filippo to his right and Fon sitting opposite, on his left.
‘No, I … I have no need for so many rooms these days. I’m in the process of moving to a smaller apartment on the Via Veneto at the moment, actually.’
‘Still very gracious, I’m sure.’
‘I like to think so.’
Fon understood understatement and knew that meant there’d be a Botticelli or two on the walls and a Bourbon bed from Francis II, the last king of Naples.
‘It must be difficult, though, scaling down from – as you say – so many rooms to just one or two. What are you doing with all your furniture?’
‘Why? Do you wish to buy it?’
It was a sharp response – too sharp – and as Dante looked back at him, offended, Franchetti gathered himself. ‘Forgive me. That joke was in poor taste. I … I’m tired.’
‘Of course.’
‘In truth, Rossanna’s taken much of it to Florence.’ Franchetti shrugged. ‘I don’t need all those mirrors and chairs.’
‘Mm,’ Dante nodded, agreeing. ‘Although you’re much more of an antiquarian, aren’t you? A noted man of letters. Surely you didn’t give up your books and papers? Dividing up your collection must have been—’
‘No, no, she had no interest in any of that,’ he said dismissively. ‘I kept all that. It was really quite simple in the end.’
Fon watched him closely, seeing how Franchetti smoothed the napkin on his lap as he spoke. It was a self-soothing gesture – the end of his family life hadn’t been as simple as he liked to imply.
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it,’ Dante smiled, an attentive host even as sharks swam below the surface of the water. ‘And Fede? How is he? Did I hear he’s working with the state attorney’s office now?’
Franchetti straightened up proudly. ‘Yes. He’s doing very well there. I believe he’ll go far.’
‘Well, of course – he’s a Franchetti.’
The compliment was double-edged, but Dante delivered it with a smile.
Fon had never told him – or anyone – what he had seen Fede doing outside Villa Maria the night Romola died, even though that sort of information would be invaluable leverage against such an influential family.
Fede’s kindness and the way he had extended the hand of friendship when everyone else had turned their backs meant something.
Even the night of the accident, when Fon had been in despair and lashed out at him, Fede had been restrained and compassionate.
Four years on, Fon could close his eyes and easily conjure the image of the two men behind the bins and how it had taken his breath away.
It was scorched into his mind, a tattoo from a terrible night, and though he squashed it down, the image lurked in his shadow self.
Now Fon sat very still, bracing instead for a mention of the other Franchetti son’s name: How is Cosimo?
Where is he? What is he? … His name never came up in conversation.
It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth rather than simply entered the Church.
Certainly Rafaella never uttered his name, and Fon could never quite decide if that was a good sign or a bad one.
But Cosimo was of no interest to Dante, who pressed on with his agenda.
‘Fede must be busy with these protests in South Tyrol,’ he continued as the food was served. Just days earlier, thirty-seven pylons had been blown up by protesters seeking autonomy for the German-speaking region.
‘Yes, a messy business,’ Franchetti murmured.
Dante’s elbows were splayed across the arms of his chair as they moved, finally, from the personal to the political. He looked relaxed, a man in his element. ‘Think they’ll get what they want?’
‘Of course not. Fanfani knows how to send out a strong message that violence never wins.’
‘I agree,’ Dante nodded, glancing at the serving girl as she set down his plate of orecchiette.
‘It’s preferable to negotiate. In my experience, there’s always a deal to be done.
But of course, you know that better than anyone.
You’re one of the most experienced government ministers in cabinet.
’ He gave a small laugh. ‘You know where all the skeletons are buried!’
A rumble of sycophantic laughter erupted from the other councillors, all flattered to be in the company of a Roman power player.
But Fon simply watched as Franchetti’s eyebrow hitched up – in response to the joke?
Or because he was resistant to Dante conversing with him as an equal?
Resentment glittered in his eyes even as his mouth smiled.
Did he still remember that day on the boat, the Giannelli brothers working for him in the sun, grafting for coin and kudos?
‘It’s true I have been doing this for a long time now. Which is why, I take it, you asked me here tonight. You have something specific you want to put to me?’
It was Collura’s moment, and he leaned forward as Dante sat back to give him the floor. ‘Indeed, Senatore – we wanted to talk to you about the development that was refused outside Scorrano.’
Fon watched their visitor frown, deliberately oblique. ‘I don’t recall that …’
‘Eight thousand new apartments. A high school and civic centre. A multimillion-lira contract.’
Franchetti allowed a long pause, as if sifting through applications in his head. ‘Ah yes, that. The land there was deemed unsuitable.’ The proclamation was pronounced with finality and Collura’s gaze skittered over the table towards Dante.
Dante watched, as still as a rock lizard, as Franchetti began to eat. ‘The land there is the same as everywhere else.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘And with respect, Senatore, concrete doesn’t care. We’re not looking to grow mangoes.’
Franchetti smiled too, amused by the image. ‘Still, we can’t risk another cathedral in the desert.’
Dante’s finger tapped on the table. ‘That money has to be disbursed, however. The whole point of the Southern Development Fund is to regenerate—’
‘The winds of change are blowing, Giannelli,’ Franchetti said, cutting him off with a condescending tone as he put down his cutlery and reached for his wine.
‘Franceschini wants to put together a commission advising against these poorly planned developments where no consideration is given to the aesthetics or the quality. Half of them are unfinished! Pressure is growing to block new building.’
‘All the more reason to get those permits awarded now, then,’ Collura said.
Franchetti shook his head. ‘He’s advising we build less but better. He wants his recommendations to be put into policy, and I for one am behind him. Most of what’s going up is a blight on the landscape.’
Fon watched him pontificate, the nobleman falling back into seasoned superiority, as if his delicate aristocratic sensibilities were now offended by the inelegance of the developments from which he had personally profited.
Fon leaned forward slightly in his chair, knowing it was time for him to put a finger on the scale and recalibrate the weighting of power.
‘That never seemed to concern you when you were minister of infrastructure, Senatore. How many permits did you issue when you were in charge there?’
Franchetti looked at him in surprise. Fon could see that the duke still regarded him as the teenager who had passed round cold drinks on the boat and set the bindings on the water-skis – while the duke flagrantly seduced his son’s girlfriend in front of them. ‘I never counted—’
‘Twelve thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three.’
‘You couldn’t possibly know that.’
Fon shrugged. ‘We know many people who know many things.’
There was a small silence as the duke carefully set his glass back down and resumed eating.
He was deliberately slow, dictating the pace of the conversation if not the topic.
‘Well, clearly some mistakes were made along the way, I don’t deny that,’ he said eventually.
‘In our haste to regenerate after the war, we took some decisions that wouldn’t be taken now.
But there’s a new recognition that heritage and culture are important to the economy and must be protected, especially if we want to grow the tourism sector. ’
‘Tourism is nothing to the economy versus development,’ Dante said.
‘Maybe not yet, but it’s growing – and fast. Look at Pompeii. Look at the impact of Hollywood coming to Rome. Italy is becoming a world-class destination.’
‘But to prioritize history and tourism over the lives of real working people? Our men need jobs. We have an army of them, just waiting for the order to break ground on this project.’
‘As I recall, your own mayor advised against it.’
‘Yes, but he’s reconsidered,’ Dante said with a lazy smile.
‘Reconsidered?’
‘You know how local politicians are – only ever concerned with keeping their jobs. He didn’t want to ruffle any feathers before the elections last month.
’ Dante pinned the duke with a stare in which messages – threats – were communicated without words.
‘But now he’s had time to think on it, he sees the benefits, and he agrees the refusal needs to be reversed. ’
Franchetti shrugged, blowing off the insinuation. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘This is an important contract for the area,’ Dante said, still pushing. He never stopped. Not until he got what he wanted. ‘It will bring us regeneration, like the rest of the country … My men—’
‘Your men? Are you an elected politician too, then, Mr Giannelli?’ Franchetti said sharply.
Dante blinked. ‘I’m a man of the people.’
Franchetti met Dante’s eyes, a small laugh falling from his lips.
He knew exactly what that meant, but Fon could see he intended to put them in their place.
Even now, in the midst of all this splendour and power, he was still out of their reach.
‘This is all beyond my jurisdiction. I’m merely the minister of public education now,’ he said disingenuously.
‘Furthermore, my ministry covers the Department of Fine Arts and Antiquity, meaning I’m heavily involved with the International Council of Museums. Whatever I may have approved in the past, my remit now is to protect heritage.
I can’t be seen to be involved with this. ’
‘No one’s asking you to be seen,’ Dante smiled, still throwing out lifelines. ‘On the contrary—’
‘I’m sorry. You’re overestimating my powers,’ Franchetti said bluntly. ‘I wish I could help.’
He made to stand up but Fon leaned forward again, recognizing his moment.
‘You could. You are very much more influential than you want us to believe. You could make Franceschini reconsider with just one phone call, but you won’t because you don’t want to do business with us.
To you, we are merely fishermen’s sons.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘It is ridiculous,’ Fon nodded. ‘Because we are very much more than that now. We are well connected, Senatore, and we know that in your capacity as minister of infrastructure, you took bribes.’
Franchetti rolled his eyes. ‘How many times have the press run with that innuendo? And yet nothing’s ever come of it.’
‘It will this time. If our source talks.’
There was a pause, and Fon could see the other man trying to read whether he was bluffing.
‘You don’t have that kind of power,’ Franchetti sneered dismissively.
‘No? They held off on publishing the affair because we told them to.’ Fon shrugged, his tone steady as he revealed the Giannellis’ hand in events.
‘You?’ Franchetti whispered, incredulous at what he was learning.
‘The court of public sympathy was on your side. Everyone pitied you. It wasn’t the right time to show the world what you’d done to your son, your wife.’
‘Until suddenly it was!’ Franchetti snapped. His world had crumbled for a second time when his scandals had hit the front pages. ‘You want me to believe you held them off, then gave them the go-ahead?’ he scoffed.
‘Nothing lasts for ever,’ Fon replied coolly, seeing the rage in the other man’s eyes.
He knew Franchetti blamed him for Romola’s death, and rightly so.
Even though Fon had been cleared of any criminal culpability, he’d put his hands up to toppling the urn that killed her.
And now Fon was saying they had extended mercy to Franchetti, then let it lapse …
? He was demonstrating the range of the Giannellis’ reach.
He’d hate them too if he was sitting in the other man’s chair.
‘… I urge you to reconsider and make that call. After all, what do you have left now besides your career?’
There was a long silence. Fon saw the duke’s jaw clench with contained anger. It wasn’t the fact that he’d been cornered that was so enraging to him; it was that he’d been cornered by them.
And he wouldn’t stand for it.
‘You’ve played this all wrong, Giannelli,’ he hissed.
‘Blackmail won’t work on me. I’m not issuing that permit.
’ He looked between the two brothers, unwilling to cede an inch, even if it was self-destructive.
‘You think I care about my position?’ He made a sharp, derisive sound.
‘Just try me and see! There’s no opponent more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.
’ He got up from the table, setting down his napkin and buttoning up his suit jacket as he cast his eyes over them all with contempt. ‘… Gentlemen.’
The councillors looked away, but Dante watched as he left the room before swinging his gaze back to Fon with a smile.
They both knew perfectly well it was another bluff.
There was always more to lose.