The Italian Tycoon's Mistress

Chapter One

"what's this?

It wasn't so much of a question as a demand for an immediate explanation. The past two days had been regularly punctuated by such demands, thinly veiled as polite enquiries. Enrique casiraghi had descended into the cosy feather bed of casiraghi construction like a Panther leaping into a gathering of easy prey, intent on a kill.

Zachary Kimball glanced worriedly to where one long brown finger was pointing at a small entry on the printout and sighed. That's one of the subsids, he explained leaning forward to peer at the entry and then subsiding back into his into his chair with a feeling of doom.

 
One of the subsids. Where's the paperwork relating to this particular subsid? Enrique pushed his chair back and coolly contemplated the fair_haired man who seemed to be caught in a state of nervous agitation.  Este Filigo de putanna (This son of a bitch), where is the damn paper, give me the paper now.

This exercise was proving to be a nightmare from hell and, as far as Enrique was concerned, the level of the executives only helped to aid and abet the impression. It was marvel that his father's company managed to make the profits it did considering that a great majority the chief executives were of the old_fashioned , jocular,verging_on_retirement  type.                   

Zachary Kimball, the accounts manager now perspiring in front of him, was one of the younger members of management and Enrique would hardly have called him cutting edge.

In fact, the man wouldn't have lasted more than five seconds in his own corporate giant where dead wood was shed and under_performers were left in no doubt of their eventual fate, should change not be forthcoming.

But then the Cut and thrust of life in new York's fast lane was considerably more savage than here, in Shakespeare's County.

Enrique placed his hands flatly on the surface of his father's desk and enunciated his next few words with grim, measured brutality.

Listen to me very carefully, Mr Kimball. I don't want to be here. I have been compelled to leave my offices in New York because of events which have left me no choice.
    
However I am here now and I don't intend to give you all a perfunctory pat on the back and leave you to muddle along the way you appear to have always muddle along.

I don't intend to give you all a perfunctory pat on the back and leave you to muddle along the way you appear to have always muddled along.
I do not expect to have to ask any questions because I expect all the information I require on my father's company to be right here.
Sitting on this desk. Waiting for me to look at.
Do I make myself absolutely clear?

Enrique casiraghi watched the man sitting opposite him nod weakly and felt not a scrap of compassion towards him.
He wasn't here to get a popularity award or to make friends.

He was here to temporarily take charge of his father's company so that public confidence in it could be maintained until such time as he could depart these shores back to the city that had been his home for more than ten years.

Nor was he prepared to do a surface job. That wasn't his style. He had come, albeit against his will, and he intended to turn over whatever stones were necessary to make sure that casiraghi construction was performing to its highest possible level.

The file had been fetched and placed in front of him without bothering to look at him, Enrique informed Zachary Kimball that he was to remain precisely where he was until he had answered all questions to his personal satisfaction.

He took his time with the file, barely aware of the man waiting patiently for him to finish, then he sat back and looked at Zachary Kimball in silence for a few seconds. "Explain to me where this particular subsidiary fits in with the general profit_making scheme of the company".
He linked his fingers casually together and waited. He had always felt that people, generally, underestimated the great virtue of silence.
In his experience, there was nothing more persuasive when it came to getting a truthful answer more than silence.
It could be unnerving and deadly quite.

Oh. Yes, well.... Your father makes a very good profit with his company. It's one of the most respected building firms in the area, you know. And with the boom in housing over the years, with no end in sight, well, as you can see from the general spreadsheets, things are doing quite nicely. More than quite nicely.

Enrique watched this inexpert evasion of his question with hooded eyes. Nor did he encourage the meandering by saying a word.

Instead, he glance at his watch, then returned his attention to Zachary Kimball's flushed face.
As for where it fits in with the profit_making... Well... It doesn't. Not really. You probably don't understand how things work out here, Mr Casiraghi. I mean, you're accustomed to a more aggressive type of environment, I guess...

I'm looking for an answer in one sentence, Mr Kimball. You are the chief accountant. Surely it cannot be difficult.

This particular subsidiary is the goodwill arm of the firm, So to speak. Marianna mortez looks after it. You could say that she handles the equivalent of legal pro Bono work. Your father was, is, very keen an the idea of giving back. Of course, Marianna does handle profit making work as well......

Enrique frowned. I thought I had met all the relevant personnel. The name rings no bells. 
That's because she doesn't exactly work in this building. She has an office closer to Birmingham because she's on the move a lot of the time, overseeing things in the city centre.

What is her position in the company?
She's..... Well, one of the executives...
I believe I asked to interview all executives.
Ah yes. you did. But she couldn't make it in yesterday.... Because?

Enrique's voice was ominous in its smoothness. Severe ill health, perhaps? Or was she out of the country?
For a few seconds, Zachary Kimball