Tuesday, August 9^th

The day started with a scream from Trent’s side of the bed.

Darcey was shocked awake. It wasn’t a good sign.

Trent was sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands were over his ears. He was moaning. Another symptom the doctors had predicted.

Moving as quietly as possible, she withdrew the behind-the-head ear muffs from the drawer in her bedside stand. They had purchased them for just such an occasion.

Gently she placed them over Trent’s ears. They would block all loud, sudden sounds. They could also be adjusted to the level of voice allowed. She let Trent make the adjustment. She noted that he turned the allowable decibel level down to almost zero. He would be able to hear and respond to voices but louder sounds would not penetrate the protective muffs.

“Better?” she asked, speaking as softly as she could.

He nodded.

She realized their bedroom door was open. Miles was standing in the doorway, looking frightened.

She got out of bed and led him into the living room, closing the door behind them.

She whispered to Miles to make as little noise as possible. This was another symptom about which they had been warned. She said Trent would be wearing sound-suppressing earmuffs but they still must endeavor to make as little noise as possible. All phones were to be put on vibrate only.

Miles returned to his en suite bathroom to wash his face, clearing it of the creams and lotions he put on before going to bed each night, and to get dressed.

Darcey went back to the bedroom she shared with Trent. She held his hand. She kissed him.

“Is it painful, sweetheart?” she asked, softly.

“Not really painful,” he replied in the same way. “The sound suppression on these muffs is very effective. It makes me feel a little nauseous though.”

“I think this might be a good day for you to stay in bed.”

Trent didn’t argue.

Darcey felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She went back to the living room before answering.

It was her office calling. The clean-up crew had completed its work. Her staff wanted to know if they should have the furniture delivered. Darcey told them to get the trucks rolling. She and Miles would meet them at the condo.

She crossed the hall and rang Preston Johnson’s doorbell. The old man opened the door, dressed casually but elegantly, as always.

She quickly explained the symptom Trent was suffering today. She said he would be staying in bed but she needed to accompany Miles to his condo. She asked if Preston could possibly stay with Trent. He wouldn’t have to do anything but stay in the living room. She just didn’t want to leave him completely alone.

“Of course, my dear. I would be happy to help.”

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman returned to the Rossi compound in mid-morning accompanied by their teams of attorneys. The lawyers, unshaven and looking haggard, carried briefcases full of documents they had worked all day Monday and through the night to prepare. They feared disappointing their clients.

They were welcomed by Pietro, who opened the gate for them and then led them into Rossi’s office.

Rossi looked even worse than the overworked and frightened accountants. He was half drunk from the martinis of the previous evening. He was having difficulty accepting the loss of his empire, much of which he had inherited from his father and grandfather and great grandfather. All his scheming, in the end, had resulted in a grand failure.

The attorneys began stacking piles of documents on his desk, all marked with small pieces of red tape indicating where he should sign. He looked at the documents, then at Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman.

“This isn’t right,” he said in one final attempt to save himself. “I didn’t take your money. We have always had trust among us.”

“Yes, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk Jetjerawat agreed, “‘had’ would be the proper word.”

“What about the Dutchman?” Rossi asked. “I don’t see mention of him here.”

“That’s something else we suspect you know more about than we do,” Abdul answered.

Rossi didn’t pursue the issue. He had a sickening feeling that the Dutchman’s fate preceded his own. He didn’t know who was responsible for that either.

He spent the next two hours signing whatever document was placed before him. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even bother to read what he was signing. He had lived in this world long enough to know it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Abdul asked if he and Kiettisuk Jetjirawat should be signing as well. Kiettisuk said they could add their signatures later. At the moment, it was important for Rossi to sign.

“In such situations,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said, “one never knows what the future will bring.”

In Miles’ Marina district condo, the cleanup crew had done a good job. All the damaged furniture had been removed. Paintings rehung. Files and papers straightened and returned to the desk, which Miles had decided to keep.

He had asked them to remove Scott’s clothing from his closet and take them to the Salvation Army. He even wanted all the bedclothes removed. While he didn’t want to erase Scott from the home they had shared, he didn’t think he could bear looking at his clothing every day. He didn’t think he could sleep on the sheets they once slept on together.

The first trucks arrived soon after Darcey and Miles got there. They spent the next several hours directing the placement of furniture. They unpacked the new bedclothes and decorative items they had picked out on their shopping trip.

By late afternoon, the home looked livable again. There were pictures of Scott and Miles. Other mementos from their life together.

“I love the new things we’ve picked out, Darcey,” he said, “but I also love the memories of Scott. The pictures of us together are especially comforting to me. Is that weird?”

“Certainly not, Miles. It’s normal. It’s healthy. It’s all part of the grieving process.”

“It’s like he’s still here with me somehow.”

“He is, Miles. He will always be with you. I still feel my dad’s presence and he’s been gone for almost five years. Be open to Scott, Miles, and you’ll feel him with you.”

There were fewer tears today.

At last Rossi signed the final document. The attorneys picked up the piles of papers and filed out.

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman stared at Rossi. Neither showed sympathy or encouragement.

“This is all regrettable, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said, “and so unnecessary.”

He and Abdul left Rossi alone with Pietro.

It was quiet in the room after Rossi’s former partners left.

“Why?” Rossi asked. “Why did you turn against me?”

“Your arrogance became unbearable,” Pietro replied. “But more than that, it became apparent to me you weren’t a good business partner. I saw things. I saw you double-crossing your partners. If I could see it, eventually they would, too. I had to protect myself.”

“The Dutchman,” Rossi said. “What happened to the Dutchman?”

“Apparently you ordered a hit on him.”

Once again, Rossi was caught by surprise.

“I ordered no hit on the Dutchman,” he protested. “You would have known if I had. I didn’t order any funds transferred to my bank. Someone set me up. I don’t know who or how. But someone set me up.”

“As Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said, that’s regrettable. Sogni d’oto,” Pietro added. “Sweet dreams, Don Rossi.”

He raised the Heckler & Kock, with the sound suppressor still attached. He pulled the trigger and traced a line of bullet holes beginning with Rossi’s left hip, continuing upward diagonally across his body to his right shoulder. Rossi’s body jumped like a puppet on a string as each piece of lead struck home.

He slid down in his chair. Half sitting; half lying. His eyes were open but beginning to glaze over. He was struggling to take shallow breaths. Pietro let him struggle.

Then he fired a single shot into Rossi’s head.

After a century of ruling a criminal empire, the Rossi Family ceased to exist.

In the Nob Hill condo, Trent got out of bed and joined Preston Johnson in the living room. Preston was careful to speak very softly when he asked if there was anything he could get for Trent, or do for him. Trent shook his head no.

Suddenly, Trent turned to the entry door. Preston heard nothing. With his finger to his lips, he motioned to Preston to be silent. He stepped to the door, jerking it quickly open.

Jean Philby was walking by carrying a small bag. She ignored him. He assumed the slight noise he had heard even with the sound suppressing muffs was the elderly woman shuffling down the hallway. He stepped back inside and closed the door.

The face in the small glass pane of the emergency stairs alongside the elevator watched. Fortunately, Burgess had heard the elevator stopping at the 15^th floor in time to get out of sight.

He had managed to get on the elevator to the secure floor without being seen when the concierge took a bathroom break. It wouldn’t do for anyone to remember seeing him in the building, especially on this floor, when he carried out his plan to take his own revenge on Trent Marshall.

Trent returned to bed.

Preston Johnson sat quietly, holding the ever present cane. He was thinking about how he had spent his life. For the first time in his memory he was beginning to have regrets.

After a while, he quietly opened the door to Trent and Darcey’s bedroom to check on his charge. He found Trent sleeping soundly.

As he watched his ailing friend sleep, his concern deepened.

There was no cocktail hour.

Darcey scrambled some eggs and crisped up some bacon when she and Miles returned. Trent ate some of the eggs but declined the bacon. He went back to bed after the meager dinner.

Miles told Darcey he thought he would move back to his condo the next day.

“Are you sure you’re ready, Miles?” Darcey questioned. “You know you can stay here as long as you need to.”

“I’m ready,” he said. “I need to be alone there with the memory of Scott. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I won’t drink. I won’t do anything stupid.”

Darcey nodded. She understood.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to take some more time off work. I need to get through this process before I can focus on the job.”

“Take as much time as you need, Miles,” Darcey said.