The Venetian Series 04: Where the Bodies are Buried in Venice

Dear reader: this is an installment of a novella. To best enjoy it, I would like to recommend that you first read When the Masks Come Off in Venice, When the Snow Comes Down in Venice, and Where the Chips May Fall in Venice. You may find the first part of this installment a bit disturbing, as we peer into the mind of our story's villain.

It was midnight in Till Acquati's home office, and 8 AM in Tokyo. Till sat in his silk robe in the near-darkness, the room faintly illuminated by the glow of three computer screens, all of which were festooned with brightly colored graphs and charts with winking boxes that contained electronic bulletins.

Till found the constantly changing screens relaxing. He was engaged in arbitrage trading, the art of extracting money from the financial system by exploiting very small fluctuations in the prices of financial instruments, using astronomical amounts of capital. He hadn't done it in a while. Back in the 90s it had enabled him to become very rich, instead of simply rich. Tonight he was doing it just to keep his hand in. After 45 minutes had passed, he had siphoned $75,000 out of the Tokyo markets, and he closed down the computers and retired to his room.

He poured himself a single malt scotch and sat in a plush armchair, allowing his robe to fall open. Much of the money that he had just made for himself had come at the expense of the Banco della Laguna, which was ironic, considering the pleasurable evening he had recently spent with Luca, the head of that bank, and Luca's wife, and Michela. As he recalled that evening, Till's cock grew hard. He wrapped his fingers around it and stroked it idly, then let it go. Sexual pleasure for its own sake was unimportant to Till. What he liked about sex was the way that it sharply defined the relations among people.

Till knew all too well the dangerous effect that sex can have on a person's emotions. His thoughts went back, as they often did, to his younger brother, Richard. When Richard was 18, he had fallen in love with a lovely girl that was a few years older, the same age as Till. Her name was Simona; Till could not recall her surname. Sometimes Till had gone swimming in the lagoon with Richard and Simona. Simona had full, rich, dark brown hair almost to her waist, and lovely pert breasts that looked very nice in her bikini top. Her hair had trailed behind her as she swam through the green water, reminding Till of a mermaid.

Richard was devoted to her, his first love. He used to describe their lovemaking to Till. Simona had taken Richard's virginity, and it was a very happy occasion for Richard. But the emotions involved had overcome Richard's judgment, made him careless. A man should never allow emotion to take control in that way.

Their father was a strong man, an unbending man, a man accustomed to determining every detail of the lives of the people around him. His name was Mattia, Mattia Acquati. He had become respectably rich as an entrepreneur in the footwear industry in the Riviera del Brenta, and he intended for his sons to use his money as a springboard to much more substantial wealth, the kind of wealth that would one day enable them to enter the upper echelons of Venetian society. That objective was the polar star to Mattia Acquati.

Mattia had no illusions about the sort of hard work and discipline that would be required to attain that goal. He had set about to teach his two sons how to structure their lives accordingly. He had raised them on his own; his Austrian wife, Mathilde, had died a decade earlier, of cancer. It had seemed to Mattia that she lacked the will to fight the disease. Thanks to advances in medicine, many people survived it. Mathilde was a gentle soul, too gentle, and she had simply surrendered to it, or so it seemed to Mattia. This is what he had communicated to Till, along with the admonition that he should not allow that kind of softness to creep into his soul.

Till had done his best to embrace his father's philosophy, but Richard was different. He had fallen too much under the spell of the girl. Despite the strict curfew that their father had decreed, Richard would slip out the window to spend every night in Simona's arms, and would return before dawn, smiling but exhausted. Till was very close to his brother, and he was his brother's reluctant confidante. But he knew that their father was no fool, and that the day would inevitably come when Richard's infractions would be exposed.

It was going to be a warm midsummer's day, the day that Mattia woke up early and decided to take his sons to the Riviera del Brenta. He entered Richard's room about a minute before Richard came in through the window; and had just enough time for his rage to fully kindle. But Mattia did not abandon his self-control. As Richard clambered over the sill and met his eyes, Mattia did not raise his hand against him. He took him to the study, where there was no window, and locked him in, instructing him to contemplate the error of his ways. Burly servants, who had been carefully briefed, brought him food during the day, and escorted him to the bathroom when needed. Then, in the early evening, they brought him to the boat landing where Mattia and Till were waiting.

The three boarded the family powerboat, and Mattia began to navigate slowly through the canals, slowly because he didn't want the motor to drown out his words, the important ideas that he wanted to impart to both of his sons. The world belongs to the strong, he said. Only the strong, only the disciplined had the right to seize the reins of power, and Mattia had spent a lifetime preparing the way for his sons to do just that.

Mattia spoke of his own upbringing, recounting stories which were familiar, but took on an added significance because of the solemnity of the moment. Mattia had been the son of a humble artisan, but had found within himself the resourcefulness to detect and exploit opportunities, where others lacked the necessary audacity. This was what he wished to bequeath to his sons, and it was a greater gift than the money which they would also inherit. It was a gift that must not be squandered in the pursuit of ephemeral pleasures.

Mattia spoke at considerable length, and as he did so, he expertly navigated the powerboat out of the system of Venetian canals, and into the Adriatic, just as the sun was going down over the land behind them. The summer air was warm over the sea, and the gentle waves were dappled with ochre from the dwindling rays.

After some time, he slowed the boat to a stop, and let the engine idle. The boat rose and fell with the soothing pulse of the sea. Mattia turned significantly to Richard, and pointed west toward the small twinkling lights of Venice.

"There is home," he said. "Start swimming."

Richard looked doubtfully at his father and his brother. In his father's eyes, he saw an iron resolve. In his brother's eyes, he saw nothing. He removed his shirt and sandals, slipped over the side of the craft, and began to swim.

Mattia drove the boat in a wide arc around the swimming Richard, and aimed it back to the city. Till was struck by how beautiful his brother looked, swimming with powerful and graceful strokes in the twilight. He'll make it, Till thought to himself. He's a very strong swimmer.

Mattia drove the boat in silence for fifteen minutes, then turned to Till. "I am doing this mainly for your benefit," he said. "You are the eldest. I'm counting on you." Then no more words were exchanged until they arrived at the landing near their home.

Mattia tied up the boat, and went inside. Till remained at the landing, waiting for Richard. He waited until sunrise, then he, too, went inside to his room. With dry eyes he undressed and fell into a fitful slumber.

Two days later, Till was walking down a secluded alleyway toward his house when he saw Simona coming towards him. Anxiety clouded her face.

"Till - where is Richard?" she asked.

Till was calm. "Simona, there was an accident. Richard drowned."

Simona's face contorted with shock and grief, and Till fell a sudden eruption of emotions in his breast: anguish over the loss of his brother, revulsion at his own sentimentality, and contempt for Simona. Simona began to cry. Seized by a sudden impulse, Till drew back his arm and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Her eyes grew wide with surprise, and she stopped crying.

Then, driven by another impulse which he could not have explained, Till stepped forward, took Simona in his arms, and kissed her, hard. She stiffened and made a token struggle, then relaxed and pressed herself to his body, parting her lips to admit his tongue.

Till felt as if he were watching this scene from a distance. His first thought was, this is certainly inappropriate. But then he realized that he found the girl's surrender to him, and the very wrongness of it, to be appealing. Very appealing, in fact, and a feeling that he would want to revisit in the future. Satisfied for now, he wordlessly broke off the kiss and walked away toward his home.

Till had fallen asleep during his reverie about the events of his boyhood. Now it was morning. He arose from the chair, slightly stiff from having slept in it. He shook the cramps out of his arms and legs, then showered, dressed, and proceeded downstairs.

Zanobi, his bodyguard, was seated at the kitchen table, just finishing his breakfast and coffee. Till nodded genially in his direction and received no response. Zanobi didn't say much, or do much. His job was to stay alert, and to be ready in case someone tried to hurt Till. That had happened on only one occasion. With remarkable efficiency, Zanobi had broken the man's nose and arm in rapid succession, in front of Till's eyes. Till found it beautiful, possibly the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He felt strongly attracted to Zanobi, 6'3" of toned muscle, with a nice head of closely cropped blond hair and luscious lips that seemed to teeter perpetually on the brink of a sneer. But Till knew better than to mix business with pleasure. He needed Zanobi to have a clear head, should another such occasion arise.

Till made himself a spartan breakfast of oatmeal and black coffee. He could have summoned the cook or someone from his household staff, but for some reason, he often preferred to do these things for himself. Exercising authority over menial help cheapened the experience for him. He preferred to savor the sensation of dominating CEOs, politicians and aristocrats.

His mind turned to Michela, She was a willing and enthusiastic playmate, but she harbored the delusion that the aristocracy was still the principal factor in the political life of Venice. Originally the financiers were the servants of the titled nobility, but the world had changed, and in Till's considered opinion, the roles had been reversed. Now the aristocrats were important only insofar as their wealth was a source of capital that the financiers could tap. Of course, he had to concede, they had a social function. The common people still revered them, followed their exploits in the gossip columns, and so on. Fine, thought Till. Let them focus their attention on a sideshow if it keeps them from meddling in the main event.

The watch on his wrist said 7:55 AM. He reached for his cell phone to summon his boat and driver, and by 9:00 he was entering the lobby of Assicurazioni Generali. He nodded benignly to the security guard and took the elevator up to the 6th floor. Emerging from it, he passed down the hall into his office, where he glanced expectantly at the auburn-haired Valentina, his receptionist. She dutifully reeled off a litany of messages and appointments. The first appointment was for 9:15, with the chief financial officer of a major city in Italy's industrial north.

The man, whose name was Notarangelo, arrived 5 minutes early. He was a tall, handsome man with curly dark hair, worn short, who bore himself with an exaggerated dignity. The receptionist had him wait in the outer office until the time of his appointment, although Till had nothing in particular with which to occupy himself. At 9:15 Notarangelo strode into Till's office, looking haughty and officious. After the obligatory exchange of greetings, he attempted to come to the point.

"Signor Acquati, as you know, my city has done a great deal of business with your firm. Our pension funds have placed upwards of 40 million Euros with you."

"Thank you, Signor Notarangelo, I do recall that you have made some investments."

"Have you read the accounts in the press over the past week about scandals having to do with financial derivatives?"

"I make it my business to read those stories."

"And is it not the case that much of the money that we invested with your firm went into financial derivatives?"

"Signor Notarangelo, all of your investments went into financial derivatives. I am in the derivatives business."

Notarangelo drew himself up in his chair, to emphasize his imposing height. "It appears that our pension funds have lost substantial amounts of money."

Till's shoulders evinced the slightest of shrugs, and he waited to see what more Notarangelo had to say.

Notarangelo was working himself up into a tone of official outrage. "Do you realize that the hard-working employees of my city government are now faced with the loss of the security they expected for their retirement?"

Till replied patiently and serenely, "Signor Notarangelo: you made investments on behalf of those employees. The contracts you signed specified different outcomes based on the rise and fall of interest rates, currency values, and other indices. It is what we call a zero sum game. If your investors are unhappy, there are other investors who are correspondingly happy. It balances out."

Notarangelo glared at him. "Of course, your firm takes commissions on all of these transactions."

Till nodded in agreement, "Of course."

"Don't you feel some obligation toward the people who relied on your counsel?"

Till arched one eyebrow. "I feel an obligation to provide the correct counsel. The contracts you signed included a very comprehensive description of the risks involved."

Almost inaudibly, Notarangelo snorted. "I almost felt that I needed an interpreter to read those contracts."

Till replied, "These are legal matters. This is why people hire attorneys."

Imperiously, Notarangelo said, "I am trained as an attorney."

At this point Till smiled, to the surprise of his interlocutor. "Excellent! Then you must understand contract law. So may I now ask how I may be of service to you today?"

Notarangelo seemed suddenly deflated. "Don't you understand the suffering that this will cause the people who are entitled to those pensions?"

Till explained firmly, "Signor Notarangelo, my responsibilities are clear. I am obliged to honor what is in those contracts - to the letter."

Notarangelo attempted to summon up his official dignity once more. "When I signed those contracts on behalf of the pensioners, I did so with the expectation that these were secure investments."

"You did not get that expectation from talking to me. During our discussions, you seemed most interested in the expectation of a high return. I told you that was possible, but I offered you no guarantee."

Slowly, Notarangelo rose to his feet. "It seems that I may not expect your cooperation in this matter."

Till nodded soberly in response. "On the contrary, you will have my full cooperation, but it must be with the understanding that we must not deviate from what the law stipulates."

Notarangelo's bearing was now decidedly woebegone. "I had hoped for a better outcome. Good day to you." He left the office and closed the door behind him.

Underneath Till's desk, his cock was fully erect. He unzipped his slacks and took it out, contemplating it and stroking it once or twice, before returning it to his trousers. He had 45 minutes before his next scheduled meeting, and he allowed his mind to wander once again to his early manhood.

He had learned much from Simona about the relationship between sex and power. He began to experiment with her sexually on a regular basis. She seemed very uncomfortable with it, even ashamed, and Till quickly realized that it was precisely this which made her interesting to him. Before, when she was his friend and the lover of his brother, he had felt no attraction to her. Later, when she came to him after Richard's death, she looked grim and reluctant, but she never missed a date. This fascinated him.

Till had known a great many women who were willing to enter into sexual relations with him, on his terms. He was very wealthy, and he was attractive. He knew those qualities could draw women to him. But the ones whom he actively sought were looking for something else. They were looking for the same thing that he himself wanted.

His mind roamed through his memories of the women, and the men, with whom he had enjoyed different sorts of liaisons. With one exception, Till did not frequent the BDSM clubs. They grated on him, with their fawning need for public approval, their attempt to create a warm and fuzzy image using "safe words" and other gimmicks. They robbed the experience of its excitement and vitality which, for Till, was located in the very danger that the clubs tried to legislate against.

The one person who stood out in Till's memory was Heather O'Shaughnessy. She had delighted him with her willingness to test the limits. It was not that she was fearless; she was very afraid. But she was aroused by fear, and her arousal was more compelling for her than her fear.

It was Heather who had proposed to Till that they engage in breath play. Till found this very exciting, but he approached it with the clinical precision of an experimental researcher. Each time he put his hands on her neck as she brought herself to orgasm, he went just slightly farther, watching the alarm in her eyes blossom into ecstasy. The final time was the best; he would never forget the expression of her face for that one magnificent instant, before the glow in her eyes faded away.

Till's reverie was interrupted by Valentina on the intercom, announcing the next visitor. He composed himself and sat erect in his chair, the very model of a modern financial adviser.

In another part of the city, Helmut sat in his hotel room, with his computers and encryption devices. He was taking yet another run at Acquati's finances. He had discovered the violations of Icelandic law some weeks earlier, which had led to the arrest of Acquati, but he had underestimated the skill and clout of Acquati's legal team. Acquati had been quickly freed on bail, and the case had quietly gone away, with no greater penalty than a fine of some millions of US dollars.

Helmut decided that he needed a comprehensive index of all of Acquati's derivatives trades. He sighed. This could take weeks to assemble. He painstakingly organized what he already had assembled into a directory on his laptop, and he was about ready to take a break when his cell phone rang. It was Rodica.

"Hello - Helmut?"

"Yes, hello, Rodica."

"I walk back from the museum, I am near your hotel. May I visit?"

"Yes, of course."

"OK."

"Great! See you soon."

Helmut put the hunt for Acquati out of his mind, and allowed his mind to dwell on Rodica instead. He admired her for having done what he was unwilling to do: risk the insecurity of life as an artist. As a young man, Helmut had been told that he had talent. But he reasoned that one never really knows until one attempts to make a career of it - and what would be the consequences of having made the wrong decision? Rodica had been willing to make that leap of faith, and she had landed on her feet. Her paintings were successful. Helmut had seen too many paintings by aspiring artists that had a flatness, a "nice try" quality that inspired a sort of pity in him. But with Rodica, her paintings seemed alive. And sometimes they seemed to approach that quality that Helmut had seen in paintings by the great masters - that they seem more alive than life itself.