Saviour

Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a swirl of confusion. Each act, whether it be working or sleeping or sightseeing, was tormented by the pained expression of the stranger. Was he okay? Did those men capture him or save him? Was he dead?

Wherever he was, with those wounds, he must be suffering. 

A strange sort of guilt had hung over my mind since that day; I should have stayed with him was all I could think. What if those men were the ones who hurt him in the first place? I shuddered at the thought. 

I guess I couldn't help but pity the stranger- I'd never seen someone so beautiful look so utterly destroyed. I don't know, maybe I had a saviour complex, some sort of I can fix him bullshit. Either way, I tried to block the feelings out. It was nothing to do with me after all, there was no reason to put myself in danger. 

Instead, I threw myself into my work. The conference was to be held at the Marchetti Hotel on Tuesday so in the meanwhile, I had to get prepared. 

The Marchetti corporation was the leading company of Italy. With hotel chains, bars and nightclubs throughout the country, it dominated the country's nightlife, becoming the most successful corporation there. Nothing happened without the Marchetti's knowing. 

However the same didn't go for us. For normal people, there were only rumours of what really happened inside the corporation- snippets of information on disappearances, deaths and ties to the mafia. But nothing that could be proved. 

It had been a sore point for Europe for many years; how could they get away with so much barely leaving a trace? As a result, the Marchetti corporation was the subject of much interest, to our journalists as well, meaning every announcement was met with masses of publicity.

It was expected that the CEO and founder of the Marchetti corporation, Donato Marchetti, would soon declare his retirement and name his successor after 50 years of business. This topic was greatly anticipated, and the reason for my hasty removal to Italy. 

The family had five potential successors; the grandchildren of Donato Marchetti, each as cunning and ruthless as their grandfather. Bets had already been placed on who would inherit this empire of blood but, with the old man's penchant for unpredictability, anything was possible.

The day of the conference swiftly neared as I prepared my research, trying to ignore the whispers of assassination and corruption that followed any web search on the Marchetti family. What good would it do me to research what no one could prove?

The morning of, I was awake bright and early, showered and dressed by 7:00 with the contents of my suitcase spilled chaotically on the floor as I stood before the mirror. I studied my reflection. I was average height, with pale skin and dark hazel eyes paired with a mess of wavy brown hair spilling over my shoulders just down to my breasts. I couldn't really be described as skinny, but I'd grown to love my full hips and curves that my dress seemed to hug in all the right places, giving me an hourglass silhouette I couldn't pretend not to be proud of. 

A life without junk food always felt way too joyless, so with lots of effort and new-found enjoyment in the gym I'd found a way to avoid the black-hole that are diets, earning me a body I loved. It was hard to look in the mirror and not see the little girl who used to cry silently in changing rooms, but today I was someone entirely different. And I revelled in it.

I was wearing my most formal work outfit, a dark black blazer dress with tights and black heels to match. Marchetti conferences on special occasions like these were unlike any other. Held in the ballroom of their hotels, journalists, shareholders and friends of the family all gathered together to listen in awe, champagne glasses in hand, beneath the chandeliers. 

Get them drunk and dazzle them and you'll get a good article was probably the idea, although no one seemed to admit it. Instead the media relished the experience, enjoying the tiny morsel of importance they felt they were awarded as they drunk the conference away, falling deeper and deeper into the Marchetti's trap.

At 12:00, after getting a draft of an article ready to input the information, I prepared to leave. With my notebook and pen in hand, I opened the door and began my walk to the ballroom.

The room was gorgeous. With sparkling chandeliers and accents of gold lighting up the room, it was like nothing I'd seen before. People had already started to arrive, filing in impatiently as their eyes went wide at the bubbling champagne, trays of food and ornate decorations that made it feel more like a party than a conference.

You could tell the journalists were all in their most formal outfits (whether it be out of respect or fear) but their nervous twitching and shaking notebooks quickly gave many away- this was not a place for us normal people.

Positioning myself out of the way to the side, I ensured that I had a good view of the room, being able to see the gaggles of journalists and sneering rich guests, along with the stage and microphone where Donato Marchetti would be in just a few short minutes.

The whole sight was ridiculous. All this for a conference? Those shining lights weren't for decoration; they were to blind us. Oh look how charitable the Marchetti's are, allowing us lowly common folk to peek into their sparkling lives, they're definitely not trying to get on our good side so we don't ask questions about all the people they've probably murdered. Dicks.

As we were lulled into submission by the calming classical music played by a pianist in the corner, the central figures of the night started to arrive. And so did the tension.

First were the Giordanos. The ruthless crime family who dominated Italy's nightlife industry, they had long been rivals of the Marchetti's, second to them in both power and respect. Who could resist turning up to this announcement though? It was time to scope out the new competition.

Parading in the glistening light, Dario Barone soon followed. He was one of the richest men in Italy. Well-spoken and handsome, he was adored in society, the gorgeous heir to his mother's luxury hotel chain. Upon his entrance, the surge of gossip and writing grew louder, each face turning to gauge the reactions of the many rivals in the room.

But the Marchetti's weren't without friends. Dressed head to toe in black, with rough and intimidating faces to complement the fear acutely felt by those near, around a dozen men strode into the ballroom. The Romano Mafia.

The whispers of the Romano Mafia and the Marchetti's connections were infamous, with countless hypotheses but an unfortunate lack of evidence. Said to be the brawn to the brains, the Romanos were responsible for countless crimes across the Italian underworld, often being attributed as the reason for the Marchettis' success. After all, what's more convincing in a boardroom than a gun to the head?

But who could prove it? The absence of their leader was undoubtedly a deliberate move (given the room of ogling journalists), leaving guesswork as the only solid connection between the Romanos and the Marchetti's.

After 15 minutes, the room had become a swarm of intrigue. Secret rivals sneaking glances, taunting snobs laughing together, journalists quivering in suspense for the announcement. Me? I was just trying not to laugh.

If anything, it felt like one of those house parties thrown by the group of people every high school has, where they all secretly hate each other but everyone refuses to admit it. Still, I had a job to do so I made sure to write some notes on the attendants, and tried my hardest not to lapse into writing about the food instead. 

Another few minutes passed until a ripple of agitation suddenly coursed through the crowd as I heard footsteps behind me. I was just close enough to Barone to be able to hear him mutter "He's got to be crazy". 

Intrigued, I listened to the whispers; "Mafia" "Betrayer" "Devil". Snippets reached my ears in a jigsaw puzzle of confusion until I finally heard his name. "Marcus Castello".

My head spun around, the leader of the Diavolo Mafia was here? Was he crazy? Craning my neck towards the door I searched for his face until our eyes suddenly met.

My heart skipped a beat.

A glimmer of recognition registered on both our faces as I stopped dead in my tracks.

Fuck.