Stuart Woods - Worst Fears Realized

Dino, uncharacteristically, said nothing.

Stone and Bianchi chatted amiably for half an hour, while the others merely listened. Finally, Pietro appeared at the door and gave a little bow.

“Ah, yes,” Bianchi said, rising. “Dinner is served. I believe we are in the small dining room, Pietro?”

“Yes, sir,” Pietro replied.

Bianchi led the way to a lovely little room and placed his guests at an antique round table set with Italian silver, English china, and French crystal.

Stone found himself seated next to the lovely Dolce, who had not said a word since her father had appeared.

Now she spoke. “I believe that you are in the practice of law, Mr. Barrington.”

“I am,” Stone replied.

“Do you specialize?”

“I specialize in what my clients require,” Stone said.

“Oh, good,” she breathed. “Lawyers too often forget that they are servants of their clients and not the other way around.”

“I admit I have known such lawyers,” Stone said.

“So have I,” Dolce replied.

Stone, who had been only vaguely aware that Mary Ann had a sister, would have agreed with anything this creature had said.

Bianchi spoke up. “My younger daughter would not be so familiar with lawyers if she had more often heeded her father’s advice.”

“Yes, Papa,” Dolce said meekly.

Stone felt that she was rarely meek. A risotto of porcini mushrooms was set before him. Careful to choose the correct fork, he tasted it and was transported to a country he had never visited.

“Have you visited Italy, Mr. Barrington?” Bianchi asked, as if he were reading Stone’s mind.

“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t,” Stone replied. “I have a friend who has just returned from several years in Tuscany and speaks highly of it.”

“That would be Miss Buckminster, the painter, would it not?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, surprised.

“I knew her work when she lived in New York,” Bianchi said. “I thought she had great promise, though I felt she needed maturing as an artist. I understand that her recent work is much elevated in its perceptions.”

“She is an excellent painter,” Stone said.

“And you would know, would you not? Coming from a mother who was such an illustrious artist.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Perhaps I inherited an appreciation of good painting from my mother, but none of her talent, I fear.”

“I have tried on a couple of occasions to buy a Matilda Stone, but I have always been outbid.”

Stone was astonished that Bianchi had ever been outbid for anything. “You must keep trying,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” Bianchi replied. “I will not long be denied.”

Stone’s empty plate was removed and replaced with a main course of osso bucco.

“We are dining in the fashion of Milano this evening,” Bianchi said. “Milanese dishes are among my favorites.”

“Everything is delicious,” Stone said.

“I will tell my sister you said so. She does all the cooking for the house.”

“Please give her my compliments.”

“You will have an opportunity to do so yourself,” Bianchi said.

Suddenly, Stone felt an unaccustomed sensation. Something was climbing up his right calf. He froze, his wineglass in midair.

Bianchi stared at him. “Is the wine not to your satisfaction?”

Stone took a sip and swallowed hard. “It’s superb,” he said. He now realized that what was climbing his calf was a foot belonging to Dolce Bianchi.

“It is grown in my own vineyard in Veneto,” Eduardo Bianchi said.

“Absolutely superb,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Dolce’s stockinged toes had reached the top of his sock and were drawing it down around his ankle. He felt as though he was being undressed by an expert.

“It is an Amerone,” Bianchi was saying. “The grapes are dried in the sun before they are pressed. It concentrates the flavor.”

“Just wonderful,” Stone said, trying not to giggle. She was tickling his leg now. Carefully, he drew his foot away from hers. From a corner of his eyes, he saw her make a moue.

“Dolce,” Bianchi said to his daughter, “you are unusually quiet; you must entertain our guest.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, sliding a glance in Stone’s direction.

When they had finished dining, Bianchi stood. “All of you, please return to the little sitting room, where Pietro will serve coffee.” They all rose and filed out. Bianchi turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, perhaps you will join me for a glass of something?”

Before Stone could reply, Bianchi had turned and departed through another door. Stone hurried to catch up.

EDUARDO BIANCHI LED THE WAY INTO A richly paneled study, all walnut and leather. The shelves were filled with gorgeously bound books, and the paintings on the walls were newer than those in the rest of the house, but very good.

“Will you join me in a glass of port?” Bianchi asked.

“Thank you, yes,” Stone replied.

Bianchi went to a butler’s tray across the room and read the label on a bottle from which the cork had been drawn.

Stone took the opportunity to pull up his sock.

“Pietro has decanted a Quinto do Noval Nacionale ‘63 for us,” he said, setting down the empty bottle, picking up a beautifully blown Georgian decanter, and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Stone, indicated that he should sit in one of a pair of wing chairs, side by side, then sat down beside him. He raised his glass. “To the future,” he said. “May it be less uncertain.”

Stone wondered what his host meant by that. He sipped the wine, which filled his mouth with the most wonderful flavors. “It’s superb,” he said.

Bianchi nodded. “The Nacionale vineyard at Quinto do Noval is very small, containing the last of their oldest vines that have not yet been attacked by the phylloxera pest that wiped out most European vineyards in the last century. We will not always have this wine to drink.”

Stone sipped it gratefully.

“I have heard a great deal about you over the years,” Bianchi said. “From Dino and Anna Maria – she prefers a more American version of her name. And, of course, I have heard of you from others.”

“Others?” Stone could not prevent himself from asking.

“We have acquaintances in common.”

“We do?” Stone bit his tongue. He must stop responding like a trained bird.

“I am occasionally represented in some matters by Woodman and Weld, with whom, I believe, you are associated.”

Stone nearly choked on his port. Woodman & Weld was representing a Mafioso?

“Perhaps this surprises you?”

“Well, no,” Stone lied.

“I understand that most, perhaps all of what you know of me is from Dino.”

“Well…”

“My daughter’s husband and I subscribe to, shall we say, different philosophies of life. And Dino is not so tolerant as I when judging others; therefore, something of a gulf exists between us, one that I fear may never be bridged.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I have the greatest respect for the intelligence and integrity that my son-in-law brings to his work. His manners are another matter.”

“Dino is, sometimes, a bit too frank.”

Bianchi laughed for the first time, revealing magnificent dental work. “One could say that. He is not, you understand, disrespectful – not to my face, at least. But as a modern Italian-American, he does not fully grasp the meaning of my family’s history. Dino is from a northern Italian family, whereas we are Sicilian. Our customs are very old, and they still shape our daily lives in ways that Dino cannot fully appreciate.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you do; perhaps not. It is paradoxical that honor is so important to both Dino and me, and yet, we take very different paths to the upholding of honor. Dino does not yet understand that I approved of his marriage to Anna Maria.”