CHAPTER TWELVE
Miramar, Mallorca
December 3
Built in the mid-sixteenth century for a valued advisor of King Philip II, the March family estate, Villa Marzo, sat on just over ten thousand hectares on a high plateau between Port des Canonge and Valdemossa overlooking the Balearic Sea. Over the centuries, various occupants had added and changed the original home—wings and cloistered walkways grew from the central structure like limbs. As a result, the pale stone estate sprawled amid olive and fruit orchards and grazing fields like a giant reclining in a meadow. The current occupants, the new head of the March Mining Conglomerate, Atlas March, and his cousin, Gemini, a famed fashion model, rarely spared the palatial interior a glance, so accustomed to opulence that it seemed almost mundane.
Joseph Nabeel sat at the dining table that seated thirty and watched his new boss over the edge of The Financial Times. Atlas March was picking through a fruit platter with a fork, inching undesirable slices of papaya and pineapple to the edge of the plate. Joseph returned to his newspaper.
With the senior March's untimely death, the bylaws of the privately held company clearly stated the blood relative with the largest percentage of holdings would take over as Chief Executive. That person was Atlas March. Within a week of Ulysses's funeral, Atlas had moved into the villa, redecorated the master bedroom, and taken over March Mining's Mallorca operation. After three decades, Joseph Nabeel had a new employer. That was a year ago.
In the intervening months, Atlas had been applauded by the international community for converting the mining operation from the environmental blight, brown coal, to copper. Environmentalists may have hailed the young CEO as a visionary, but Joseph was well aware the refitting of the mine served more than one purpose for the cagey young man.
Joseph had been the loyal adjutant to the company's founder, Ulysses March, for nearly thirty years. While Ulysses was no angel, he at least conducted himself with a refinement that suited his position. Atlas, on the other hand, was a spoiled upstart with little concern for the consequences of his actions.
The silence in the room was rent with an ear-splitting shout.
“You idiot!” Gemini March charged into the room, picked up the fruit platter, and dumped it into her cousin's lap.
Atlas shot to his feet. “God damnit, Gemini!” The resemblance between the cousins was obvious; they both shared the same narrow upturned nose, cerulean eyes, and blond hair. The effect, however, was quite different. The refined features gave Atlas the look of an aristocratic prig, while Gemini had a face that felled men the world over. She could have any man she wanted, but she only wanted one.
“I asked you to go pick up Miguel Ramirez. Not drug him and abduct him!” she shouted.
“You asked me to get him. I got him. What's the problem?” Atlas ran a napkin over his ruined suit.
“Well, for one thing, you’ve managed to squeeze every drop of romance from the situation. The man can barely lift his head!” She looked around for something else to throw at him.
“Relax, darling. It was just ketamine. Give him a couple of hours, and he’ll be lifting his head just fine.”
Joseph continued to observe. For the most part, Gemini hid her loathing well. She had adored her father, and he equally prized her. She didn’t give a fig about the company, but Joseph knew Gemini suspected Atlas March had had a hand in her father's death.
“All you had to do was tell him Gemini March wanted to see him.” She balled her fists at her side. At the far end of the table, Joseph braced himself. Gemini had a temper and a half, and he had a feeling she was just getting started. “A year, Atlas. I’ve been looking for him for a year! I finally track him down, and he's so out of it he can barely speak.”
Atlas wiped away the last of the fruit and retook his seat. He spoke with deceptive calm. “Let me make something clear to you, cousin. March Mining is mine. This house, which is owned by March Mining, is mine. The jets, the cars, the yachts are mine.” He refolded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “A week ago, you asked me to do you a favor. A week ago, you told me that a man you thought could be “the one” needed to be flown from the States to my home.
“But guess what, princess? Unlike most men who blindly obey your orders, I had some questions. So I looked into this Miguel Ramirez.” Atlas brought the Brunello Cucinelli leather portfolio at his feet to the table, snapped open the latch, and withdrew a file.
“Do you know who this man is? Do you know what he does?” he pressed.
“He's a businessman.” Gemini busied herself, pouring a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the sideboard.
“He's not a fucking businessman, Gemini. Miguel Ramirez is a lieutenant for an arms dealer. Well, he was anyway. His former employer, Dario Sava, was killed last year. This is no Armani-wearing, snort-a-line-at-a-party asshole. You have brought a very dangerous man into my home.”
“Well, technically, you brought a very dangerous man into our home.” She gave him a mock toast with her drink.
“This is not a joke, Gemini. This man is a brute.” Atlas banged a fist on the file.
Her voice turned sultry. “I’m well aware.”
“Oh, for God's sake. He lit your fuse for one hot night, then vanished. I hate to burst your bubble, but that happens all the time.”
Gemini snapped, “Not to me, it doesn’t.”
Joseph continued to observe the pair, saw the moment Atlas realized he needed another way to push her buttons. Probably wise. Atlas wouldn’t get anywhere insulting her allure; Gemini knew better.
Atlas didn’t look up from the paperwork that had stolen his attention. “Maybe he should come work for me. I could use someone with his… qualifications.”
“No.” Gemini turned to face her cousin.