“I’m going to build them.”
“I’m sorry. We wouldn’t be interested in investing in…”
Demiris interrupted. “It won’t cost you a penny. All I’m asking from you is a long-term contract to carry your oil at half the price you’re paying now. I’ll get my financing from the banks.”
There was a long, pregnant silence. Owen Curtiss cleared his throat. “I think I had better take you upstairs to meet our president.”
That was the beginning. The other oil companies were just as eager to make deals for Constantin Demiris’s new tankers. By the time Spyros Lambrou learned what was happening, it was too late. He flew to the United States and was able to make a few deals for large tankers with some independent companies, but Demiris had skimmed off the cream of the market.
“He’s your husband,” Lambrou stormed, “but I swear to you, Melina, someday I’m going to make him pay for what he’s done.”
Melina felt miserable about what had happened. She felt she had betrayed her brother.
But when she confronted her husband, he shrugged. “I didn’t go to them, Melina. They came to me. How could I refuse them?”
And that was the end of the discussion.
But business considerations were unimportant compared to Lambrou’s feelings about how Demiris treated Melina.
He could have shrugged off the fact that Constantin Demiris was a notorious philanderer—after all, a man had to have his pleasure. But Demiris’s being so blatant about it was an insult not only to Melina but to the whole Lambrou family. Demiris’s affair with the actress Noelle Page had been the most egregious example. It had made headlines all over the world. One day, Spyros Lambrou thought. One day…
Nikos Veritos, Lambrou’s assistant, walked into the office. Veritos had been with Spyros Lambrou for fifteen years. He was competent but unimaginative, a man with no future, gray and faceless. The rivalry between the two brothers-in-law presented Veritos with what he considered a golden opportunity. He was betting on Constantin Demiris to win, and from time to time he passed on confidential information to him, hoping for a suitable reward.
Veritos approached Lambrou. “Excuse me. There’s a Mr. Anthony Rizzoli here to see you.”
Lambrou sighed. “Let’s get it over with,” Lambrou said. “Send him in.”
Anthony Rizzoli was in his mid-forties. He had black hair, a thin aquiline nose, and deep-set brown eyes. He moved with the grace of a trained boxer. He wore an expensive beige tailored suit, a yellow silk shirt, and soft leather shoes. He was soft-spoken and polite, and yet there was something oddly menacing about him.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lambrou.”
“Sit down, Mr. Rizzoli.”
Rizzoli took a seat.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, as I explained to Mr. Veritos here, I’d like to charter one of your cargo ships. You see, I have a factory in Marseilles and I want to ship some heavy machinery to the United States. If you and me can work out a deal, I can throw a lot of business your way in the future.”
Spyros Lambrou leaned back in his chair and studied the man seated in front of him. Unsavory. “Is that all you’re planning to ship, Mr. Rizzoli?” he asked.
Tony Rizzoli frowned. “What? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do,” Lambrou said. “My ships are not available to you.”
“Why not? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Drugs, Mr. Rizzoli. You’re a drug dealer.”
Rizzoli’s eyes narrowed. “You’re crazy! You’ve been listenin’ to a lot of rumors.”
But they were more than rumors. Spyros Lambrou had carefully checked out the man. Tony Rizzoli was one of the top drug smugglers in Europe. He was Mafia, part of the Organization, and the word was out that Rizzoli’s transportation sources had dried up. That was why he was so anxious to make a deal.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go elsewhere.”
Tony Rizzoli sat there staring at him, his eyes cold. Finally he nodded. “Okay.” He took a business card from his pocket and threw it on the desk. “If you change your mind, here’s where you can reach me.” He rose to his feet and a moment later he was gone.