Capo di Foia Ch. 04

She returned to her bench and resumed practice. The piece sounded notably more resolute this time.

* * *

Samantha dabbed her face with a cold washcloth; fresh from a hot shower, she couldn't stop sweating. She'd worked out for two-and-a-half hours this morning - her limbs felt rubbery and she knew she'd pay dearly for it tomorrow.

She opened the door to her wardrobe, surveying its contents more carefully than she'd had cause to before. The pieces all fit well and were made of soft, luxurious fabrics. Most were separates - slacks, jeans and blouses. She shimmied into a knee-length, emerald dress but decided it looked more fitting for a cocktail party than dinner.

Samantha frowned. How the hell should she know what to wear? She realized how stupid she'd feel if he were planning something more casual - calling in pizza, perhaps... But she knew him better than that. She decided to play it safe, opting for a scoop-neck cobalt blouse and gray pants.

No sooner had she stepped into the room to check the clock than she saw a large, sleek bag with tissue paper. She groaned. What the hell is wrong with him? she thought, but couldn't resist inspecting its contents. Samantha reached in, feeling folds of lace. Carefully she hoisted a long, black-lace gown with a plunging neckline and trumpet skirt. The delicate beading and details were expertly sewn. She shuddered to think of the cost. Okay, so not pizza.

She hated the extravagance, the sheer lunacy of it. Why the fuck would she wear a ball gown to dinner, anyway... But curiosity was killing her; naturally she had to at least try it on.

It took a concerted effort of sucking in and persistent tugging on the zipper before she got the garment to close. She dared to look in the mirror for the end-result. Her reflection was staggering.

The dress was shockingly beautiful; it hugged every curve, elongating her body and propping her cleavage to full effect. And yet the delicate black lace rendered the look undeniably elegant. Samantha hardly recognized herself - she pictured herself a dark queen and felt suddenly powerful. She would meet Franco, but dinner would be on her terms.

It was five minutes before 8 that Samantha finished getting ready. She had spent the last hour preening, curling and perfecting her makeup - she was relieved to find her bathroom cabinets stocked with cosmetics (she recognized none of the brands and knew they must be expensive).

The dress was no easier getting on a second time, but her confidence was buoyed by a final check in the mirror. She looked stunning.

Deciding to kill time and pacify her nerves, she sat at the piano, carefully smoothing out the train of her dress - self-consciously, she realized she looked a bit like a pageant queen. She began to play, but only her best pieces. She didn't want Franco walking in on her stumbling through any songs she hadn't polished.

She felt her heart skip when she heard a knock on the door, but continued playing.

"Ms. Brier, you are a vision." Samantha's heart now fell at the sound of Jack's voice. She stopped playing.

"Thank you, Jack," she answered shyly, feeling foolish for the effort she'd made. "Are we going somewhere?"

"I'm here to escort you to the dining room," he said, canting his head in a polite bow and offering his arm.

So I'm not leaving the house. Samantha sighed in consternation as she stood up from the bench. As she turned to accept the arm of her escort, she felt her heel catch in the folds of tulle and - in a half-skip tugged by the snare - felt herself plummet toward the floor.

Reaching out to brace her fall, Samantha felt the hard clutch of Jack's embrace. He'd caught her - only inches from the ground. The man was good.

"Oh-my-god," Samantha winced, looking up at him.

"You alright?" he grunted, looking concerned.


"I'm fine," she answered. "Just can't believe I biffed it." She suddenly felt eternally grateful it was Jack and not Franco who'd come for her.

Awkwardly, Jack helped Sam to her feet, offering his arm for balance while she tried to dig the heel of her stiletto out from the thick mass of tulle. She swept a loose strand of hair away from her eyes.

"You ready, Grace?" Jack asked.

Samantha's face flushed red. "Yeah... let's go."

Jack led her out of the room, and she took note of the guard outside. As they made their way down the hallway, Samantha carefully placed each step. She looked forward to sitting - these stilettos were a liability.


"Please don't tell Franco," she muttered. "I'll kill you if you do."

"I won't breathe a word of it, Ms. Brier," he answered, and Samantha realized Jack would be nothing without his discretion. God only knew what secrets he kept. Did he know everything that transpired between her and Franco?

"Speaking of killing," he spoke again. "I'll be keeping a close eye on dinner tonight. So for both our sakes, I hope you're not feeling too stabby." Samantha tried to suppress a smile.

She realized she had a new opportunity to memorize the route through Franco's mansion, and tried her best to concentrate while maintaining a conversation with Jack. Another right and through the double doors..

"You play beautifully. How old were you when you started taking piano?"

"Ten." Past the still-life with the gold frame.. "I did lessons for about four years. I never took it as seriously as I should have; I wish my mother had never let me quit."

"My father played trumpet," Jack said. "In fact, I still have the very instrument he played in high school-..." Samantha feigned a smile as she half-listened.

A mural... She'd never seen this before. And now they were at a grand staircase - the route was new to her. Jesus, how many staircases did Franco have? She tightened her grip on Jack's arm as she negotiated the stairs. She saw two looming, ornate wooden doors down below and wondered how far she was from freedom. Surely this was the main foyer.

Jack was still talking. "... and every time I hear that song, I think of him." Jack said.

"I'll bet your father was a great man," Samantha said, sounding more sincere than she intended.

"Fathers tend to be that way," Jack smiled, lost briefly in the memory.

He spoke again. "Dinner will be this way, Ms. Brier."

Samantha was led through a set of doors, only to find a pair of bodyguards posted at a second set.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...

The doors creaked open to reveal a chandelier, and a round formal dining room bathed in candlelight - Franco stood waiting at the end of the table. The sight was unearthly, gothic. Summoning her courage, Samantha approached.

It seemed much longer than a week since she'd seen him. He stood tall and imposingly handsome in a tailored black suit and tie; he'd cut his hair. His dark eyes, expressionless, appraised the length of her.

She noticed the way his chin tilted ever so slightly when she walked in the room. Samantha knew that if ever she was capable of enslaving a man, it was tonight. But somewhere in Franco's cold stare she recognized a predator locking on its prey. 


She heard the doors close behind her.

It was a soft pattering - the sound of rain - which filled the room and called her attention to a panel of windows to her right. Transfixed, Samantha stepped toward them. The candlelight on the glass reflected a celestial display of glowing orbs.

She could see nothing outside in the darkness, only rain trickling down in streams. But the sight was unmistakable proof of life beyond these walls, and the reminder stirred her spirit. He did not speak, though Samantha felt Franco's searing stare.

"I haven't seen the sky in 28 days," she said. The utterance exposed an unnerving degree of desperation.

"I had intended for us to dine outside tonight; weather did not permit."


"No. That's not what I meant," she said, turning.

"You've kept me prisoner," she continued. "I spend every day in isolation - in the same goddamn room, on the brink 0f insanity without even so much as a glimpse of the outside world." Franco was unmoved.

She continued, "... No hope of living my life or ever seeing the people I love. There are mornings I wake up wishing I'd die than spend another day in that room."

"You would have relegated me to the same fate," he spoke coldly.

Her flush of shame was quickly replaced by aggravation. Franco deserved a life behind bars - not the candlelit, blood-wealth luxury that imprisoned her now.

"Sit," he ordered. She hesitated briefly in rebellion, but the way he spoke the command Samantha dared not defy it. Thunder rumbled outside as if in warning.

Carefully she sat, and felt hands on her chair. Samantha looked back to find a grey-haired "maître-de" of sorts pushing her toward the table.

Franco looked angry. Dinner was off to a rough start; she reached for her napkin and draped it over her lap. She'd have to redirect her approach if she wanted this night to be even moderately useful.

"Any preference of wine this evening, sir?" the man asked.

Franco took a moment to contemplate the question. The candles around the room lent an unnerving glow to his dark visage.

"We'll take a bottle of Clos des Papes" Franco said. His French was passable. Or his accent anyway.

"Of course, sir." The man left the room, leaving only the sound of drumming rain.

Franco spoke. "How is your piano progressing?"

The question surprised her. "Good. Very well, actually," she replied. Samantha hesitated. "I had wanted to thank you for that."

"It's nothing," Franco answered dismissively.

A thought occurred. "How did you know I played?"

He glowered at her, easing back into his element. "I know all sorts of things about you, Samantha."

"Okay." She looked at him squarely. "Where did you learn I played piano when I was young?"

He glanced down. "We'll call it a lucky guess."

"Or you just tell me."

"You enjoy Rachmnaninov. That would speak to your classical training."

"You found my iPod," Samanth replied. "What else have you been rummaging through?"


"Chateauneuf-du-Pape, sir" the the maître-de reappeared. Franco straightened in his seat as the man poured a sampling of the vintage. As if he were in a five-star restaurant and not the fucking dining room... Samantha scanned the silver-rimmed china in front of her and made a conscientious effort not to linger too long on the knife. Or the forks... Franco sipped his requested vintage and gave a subtle nod of approval. The maître-de-dining-room poured the wine into crystal stemware before proceeding to Samantha.

He poured a fraction of the amount Franco had received; this irked her until she realized he was waiting for her own endorsement. She reached for the glass and took a hurried sip; a velvet assault of bold tang hit her tongue. She tried to stifle her reaction; Franco was watching her. Samantha wasn't keen on wines but voiced her approval with a quick "Mmm" and a nod as he waited.

Carefully she placed the glass back on the table. Her lipstick left a blotted kiss on the rim. The old man filled it with an overzealous serving and left the room. "You were saying?" she asked.

Franco regarded her patiently. "About searching my home?" she prodded.

"You've served enough warrants," he said, reaching for his glass of wine, "to know how that works."

The thought of Franco's thugs rifling through her apartment - ransacking drawers, searching through her closet, examining keepsakes and letters, and leaving without a trace - incensed her.

"When did you do this?" she demanded.

Franco took in her resolve with casual indifference. "Early." he answered, taking a sip of wine.

"You did it because I was investigating you?"

"Partially," he answered.

She took in a deep breath. Her focus tonight was information, not retaliation.

"Fair enough," she said, reaching for her own glass. Bringing the rim to her mouth, she paused and set the glass back down.

"Look. I'm here. Clearly - to whatever extent - you've won." She felt a pit in her stomach as she acknowledged the truth of the admission. "And since I'm not going anywhere, it would help me to know why this is happening."

Franco sat leaning in his chair, gently swirling his glass of wine. Pompous asshole.

The maître-de returned, two plates in hand. A rotund chestnut-haired woman followed and delivered her offerings to Samantha's place setting. Samantha's eyebrows rose as she took in the ornately crafted dish before her - a deconstructed salad of sorts.

On the other plate, three prosciutto-wrapped morsels were artfully arranged and speared with tiny silver swords. Dinner at the Franco residence had panned out to be quite the swanky affair.

She waited for Franco to retrieve his fork. Judiciously, she selected one of the wrapped bites, pulling it off the pick with her teeth.

Oh dear god. It was heaven.

"The objectives of your organization stand in direct opposition to the success of my own. In that respect, Samantha, you've been very much on my radar." Franco spoke. Samantha stopped chewing then hurried to swallow her bite.

"When did you learn about the investigation?" she said.

Franco paused, and then set down his fork.

"Samantha, you know I didn't ask you here to discuss business." The sweep of his glance across her décolletage was as unnerving as it was gratifying.

"Then you're fooling yourself," she replied, her confidence growing. "The only reason I'm in this house with you is because of what you call 'business'."

She waited to gauge his reaction before reaching for her glass to take a sip. The wine was no more palatable a second time.

Franco seemed wholly engrossed in the plate of food before him. "What would you like to know?"

"How and when did you learn we were building a case on you?" she asked.

"You mean you were building a case on me." Franco made no attempt to hide the tedium in his reply. "On August 7th you were at the crime scene for Joe Santoro. You and your partner started making rounds; that's when I first knew of you."

August. That was nine months ago. Samantha glanced away, recalling the gruesome corpse in her mind.

"And what did Santoro do to deserve four shots to the face?" she asked. Evidence had implicated a Gambino affiliate but - no surprise - he disappeared that same week.

"You're suggesting I had some sort of involvement. I can assure you I did not." Franco told her.

"So who was it?"

"Not one of mine," he said simply. "It wasn't until subpoenas were served at two of my financial institutions that you had my attention," he continued. "My associates did the courtesy of tipping us off."

Samantha scowled. Fantastic.

"Your associates broke the law. The judge issued an ex parte order; nobody was supposed to disclose anything —" she stopped mid-sentence, wilting under Franco's patronizing expression.

"You've built quite an empire for yourself," she said finally, taking another sip of the bitter wine.

"It was then I tasked someone to look into you. I didn't expect you'd be making headlines one week later."

Samantha breathed an audible sigh of indignation. She hated the press. The onslaught of headlines and the bureau's unrelenting examination and re-hashing in the weeks that followed. The cruel twist of fate she was even there that day. And fucking Paul - daring to suggest it was all too much for her to handle.

Franco seemed receptive to her discomfort. "I don't envy you that experience. Your agency made a fucking circus out of that shooting. They should have offered you better protection."

Samantha traced an infinity sign through the sauce on her plate. "Yeah, well. It's over now."

"What inspired you to become a fed?" he asked.

She looked up. Franco was taking a knife to his steak.

"I always wanted to be a lawyer, and after my undergrad I got accepted to Cornell" she said. She saw no reaction to her narrative. "When I was a 3L I did my clerkship with the U.S. Attorney's office in Hartford, and I wasn't impressed."

"Why not?"

Samantha looked away, remembering. "It just wasn't what I thought it would be. I worked so hard to get there, and I hated it. Just the culture, and the people - the AUSAs will work a 16-hour day, go home for 5 hours and come back and do it all again. My friends at the firms had it even worse. And living it, I decided it wasn't where I wanted to spend my life."

She took another sip of wine. "I knew a few agents who came by our office... So I applied."

Franco seemed wholly unsatisfied. He sat still, waiting for more.

"They had a cool job," she shrugged. "They were smarter than you'd expect." Her stomach growled at the steak in front of her; she decided to dig in. "I never dreamt I'd actually make it through the hiring process. None of my friends did, either."

"What kind of wine do you drink?" he asked, abruptly.

"I haven't finished mine."

"Clearly my selection left something to be desired. What do you drink, Samantha?" he asked.

She hesitated. "To be honest, I don't know wine very well. I do like Malbecs." A roommate had made the introduction back in college.

Franco gestured to the doorway. He must keep staff waiting just outside the room. Were they hearing all of this?

"And how was training?" he asked without a beat.

"Challenging. Engaging," she said, cutting into her steak. Red juice seeped out onto the plate; the meat looked nearly raw in the center.

"Howso?"

"There's a lot to learn. In every way - physically, mentally, emotionally, they try to push you." She'd been conditioned to hate training. But in many ways, it was the best year of her life.

"I'm assuming most of your colleagues were male?"

"Yep," she said, taking a bite.

"And what was that like for you, Samantha?" his eyes scrutinized her.

"Just fine," she lied, chewing.

Two glasses of Malbec later, conversation flowed more freely. As it did, Samantha read him with as much scrutiny as she gave any of her subjects. There was little variance from his baseline - it was difficult to elicit an emotional response - but this seemed more an exercise in control than overt sociopathy.

She saw muted sadness in his eyes and noted the measured way he spoke when he talked about his older brother - half-brother - who'd died in a car crash when he was six. Cautiously, she inquired about the brother's father; Franco related an encounter with the man but left out the name or any descriptors.

To build on the rapport, Samantha told him about her semester abroad in Paris and the fiasco of having three host-families; he'd even laughed - a shy burst of reluctant amusement. He went on to share his studies abroad in Italy and London at length.

Samantha had asked about his benefactor but Franco would say only that he was on scholarship, and a family friend had paid the rest of the way. If the sponsor was mafia (he'd have to be), Samantha mulled a possible link with the Genoveses; top-tier connections coupled with the Malangone hold on Brooklyn in the 90s - it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

Franco shared reverential musings of his professors. When Samantha asked what it was like to live in Italy, he said that, like Paris, it was better experienced than described.

Any attempts to discuss his criminal background were reliably unsuccessful, and usually met with questions about her crim unit or their methodology which routinely put the topic of business at an impasse.

Samantha was on her fourth glass of wine. Her dress, already tight, felt unbearably constricting after so much food.

"How many subjects have you arrested?" he asked. Samantha sighed; he'd manipulated the conversation so many times. From all that she'd shared, she'd been able to glean so little. Of anything valuable, anyway...