Free Frame-Up by Gian Bordin Page A

call me. It isn’t so much that I want to get into
a new relationship, not so quickly, not on the rebound. It’s just that last
night felt so good.
    After a breakfast of coffee and a croissant, I wander over to the
Bayswater underground station to buy The Times Saturday edition.
Picking through that should keep me occupied for a while. I also want to
scan the notices for painting exhibitions and any interesting movies.
    Back in my apartment, I call Lucy and ask if I may visit and spend the
afternoon with my two sisters. I hear her question Susan and Clara. Noise
of running feet and shouts of "yes, yes" by Susan, echoed by Clara, are
the answer. She invites me over for lunch to the Boltons, where my father
lives in a quaint Queen Anne style house in South Kensington.
     
     
    Saturday, 5:50 p.m.
     
    After a fun afternoon of games with the girls — I even enticed dad to
participate in one of them — I again don’t feel like cooking and decide
to have a dish at the cheep Bangladeshi restaurant near the Bayswater
underground station. While I’m waiting for my dishes, a swarthy man
enters and pauses at the door, scanning the patrons. I guess he is in his
early thirties. He wears a fashionably cut sports jacket over an indigo
open-neck silk shirt. His clothes emphasize his well-looked-after body.
His face doesn’t strike me as handsome but it shows character. It reveals
recognition when he spots me. Nobody I know, but I respond to his look
with a faint smile. There is something determined, bordering on
menacing, as he approaches my table. Without asking for permission, he
sits on the chair opposite me. I’m somewhat taken aback by this
forwardness, but at the same time he has me intrigued.
    "Do I know you?" I ask.
    He answers in Italian with a strong southern accent, keeping to the
formal polite ‘Lei’.
    "No, signorina, you don’t. I won’t detain you long. I only have to give
you a message from Signor Carvaggio."
    My view of him changes one hundred and eighty degrees. Instantly
I’m apprehensive and alert. This is not a would-be admirer, but somebody
come to threaten me, somebody who must have been waiting for me near
my apartment.
    "Signor Carvaggio of Ventura?" I question, trying to gain time.
    "Good. I see you know what this is all about."
    "Yes, you have come to threaten me, but before you deliver your
message, I have a message for Signor Carvaggio —"
    "He is not interested in your message," he interrupts. "You have two
million pounds of his. He wants that money, and he wants it promptly. He
gives you till Friday of next week to transfer the funds to his bank
account, and if you do not remember it anymore, here are the details." He
slides a business card of Ventura across the table. "He is a kind and
forgiving man. Since you have done well by him in the past, he will not
punish you for your misdeed, unless you fail to heed his command." He
locks eyes with me for a few seconds. They are dark and threatening.
"Signorina, do you fully understand the import of this message? Nobody
ignores our orders. Our reach is long."
    It feels like an icy hand is gripping my heart. There is no doubt in my
mind that he is a mafioso , by his accent most likely from the notorious
Camorra clans of Naples. As Roberto Saviano in his book Gomorra describes so graphically, they do not shy away from killing relatives of
their victims. The thought that my two young stepsisters are in danger
paralyzes me for a moment. I swallow hard. I was going to tell him that
I too am the victim of a scam, but suddenly think better of it. If I tell him
I don’t have the funds, he might simply interpret this as unwillingness to
pay and give me a demonstration of their cruelty immediately. It might
be better to let them believe that I have the money. I might gain time and
string them along until I can find out who is behind the fraud and then
send them after the real quarry.
    He rises smoothly, casting me a quick threatening glance, and leaves
the