From Newton, I drove to St Donats. For a good fifteen minutes, I sat in my Mini: how could I inform Vanzetti; how could I break the news about the rape? Understandably, he’d be upset, angry. I feared that he might take his anger out on me, the messenger, then concluded that there was no easy way to tell him; I’d have to walk in there and report the facts.
At Vanzetti’s portcullis of a gate, I spoke into the intercom and he granted me access. I walked up the drive, past a bottle-green Bentley, to Vanzetti’s ornate front door.
I found Vanzetti in the gold living room, alongside Catrin, V.J. Parks and Sherri. All looked on with earnest expressions, all sensed that I brought devastating news.
“First,” I said, “Vittoria is safe and coming to terms with her situation. Alan has talked with her and they will talk again this afternoon. He will also arrange long-term support.”
“Situation?” Vanzetti growled. “Support?” He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I took a deep breath and said, “Grant Osborne raped Vittoria.”
My eyes wandered around the room as I gauged their reactions. V.J. Parks curled his left hand into a fist, released a primeval groan then thumped the sofa, hard. Sherri looked stunned. She sniffed then started to cry. Catrin, a woman who wouldn’t cry easily, also shed tears. Meanwhile, Vincent Vanzetti turned purple as he boiled with rage.
“Osborne’s dead,” Vanzetti said.
“You intend to kill him?” I asked.
“Personally.”
I nodded, then said, “We’ve discussed this with Vittoria; I don’t think Osborne’s murder would make her feel any better.”
“It would make me feel better,” Vanzetti said. He walked over to the cocktail cabinet. There, he splashed four fingers of whisky into a glass. His hand shook as he poured the whisky; tears welled in his eyes as he gulped the drink.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “And I understand your anger. But maybe Vittoria’s feelings should come first?”
“Then what do you suggest?” Vanzetti yelled. “The police?”
I shook my head then shrugged. “Vittoria doesn’t want that either.”
“Then it’s up to me,” Vanzetti insisted. With a steadier hand, he refilled his glass. “I’m the head of this family. It’s up to me to sort this out.”
Catrin stood. She walked over to Vanzetti. At the cocktail cabinet, she offered the whisky a longing gaze, shook her head, then placed a hand on her ex-husband’s arm. “You can’t, Vince; it wouldn’t solve anything.”
“How can you say that?” Vanzetti asked, brushing Catrin aside. “The bastard raped our daughter.”
“And I feel as though he’s raped me,” Catrin cried. With a swift, irritated gesture, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “But we must discuss this as a family, like we’ve discussed crises in the past.”
Catrin took hold of Vanzetti’s left hand. She led him to a sofa, where they sat, side by side. While Catrin’s fingers traced small circles on the back of Vanzetti’s hand, Sherri looked on, her eyes wide, bright, her cheeks streaked with tears. Meanwhile, V.J. stared into the middle distance, his expression grim, his fists clenched, a look of determination and revenge glinting in his eyes.
While Vanzetti and Catrin comforted each other, I turned to the boxer and asked, “Are you okay, V.J.?”
“I’m gonna kill him,” V.J. said. He released his emotion by thumping the sofa; the sofa’s frame cracked upon receiving the punch.
“Join the queue,” I said. “But we must find another solution.”
“There is no other solution,” Vanzetti insisted. “Can you think of one?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t. Therefore, with reluctance, I shook my head. “No,” I said.
“So,” Vanzetti glowered, “the man’s dead.”
“The police would know where to point the finger,” I said.
“How?” Vanzetti asked. “They don’t know about the rape.”
That was true. However, I said, “You can’t murder him.”
Vanzetti stood. He walked over and glared at me. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m on Vittoria’s side. I want justice for Vittoria.”
“Well, believe me,” he said, “justice in this case comes from the barrel of a gun.”
Vanzetti was entitled to his rage, his anger. Indeed, I wanted to confront Osborne with my gun. However, I couldn’t condone murder. Despite the atmosphere in the room, the raw emotion, I couldn’t allow Vanzetti to shoot Osborne in the name of revenge; yet, I knew that none of us would rest until justice was done.
“You talk,” I said, “express your feelings, your rage, your anger, your upset. Support each other, but no violence yet; wait until I’ve talked with Osborne.”
“And what good will that do?” Vanzetti scowled.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But someone must confront him; he must understand that we know the truth.”
“And then?”
“We’ll do what needs to be done.”