Chapter 21
Hey everyone, sorry for the long wait. The last two weeks had been hell. Along with a death in the family, two others had to go to the ER. They are fine, but it had me running around like mad. Anyway, here is the next chapter. It's about 4000 words in total, so I hope that helps with the wait lol. Also, never forget to put your comments or ideas. While a lot has been planned out. A lot is also open to change depending on the idea.
Reviews.
Somnifer, you are welcome.
Darth_Vesha, you are welcome.
Taoist_yuri, thanks for the advice and your support anyway.
Roronoa, you're welcome.
Dao_8teh, all of that is in the plans and ways. Thank you. You have been a big help.
VeggieBlue, as always, thanks for the comments. I always enjoy reading them.
A few last things before I let you go. I feel like this chapter came a bit off like your classic girl boss. Thought? Because I am unsure. Oh, and I have been looking back at Just Another Hollywood Story, which I know a lot of you read, and feel like it's not as good as it should be. So I am thinking of a total rewrite. Maybe push back into the 70s, I am unsure. What do you all think?
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"Tell us about Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual," Mike Wallace says to his guest, former FBI Director Louis Freeh.
Louis takes a deep breath. He knows why he is here. "Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual may be the largest case of insider trading and financial fraud in history. From its founding in 1940 until 1984, it ran the world's biggest fraud and money-laundering operation."
"How much money are we talking about?" Mike asks.
"Over its forty-four years of operation, an estimated $100 billion to $250 billion passed through Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual," Louis says.
"And was it suspected of being Mob-run?" Mike asks.
"Suspected, but never proven, unfortunately," Louis says.
"Why not?" Mike asks.
Louis exhales in frustration. He had agreed to the interview, but this was the question he had hoped to avoid. "Because, frankly, we don't know where the money went."
Stunned, Mike says, "You don't know? How is that possible? Shouldn't there be some kind of trail?"
"You would think so," Louis replies, "but the truth is, once the money reached Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual's accounts, it vanished."
"How could that happen?" Mike asks.
"Dummy accounts, offshore accounts, and shell companies that either never existed or operated only briefly. There is plenty of paperwork, but every trail eventually goes cold—and the money disappears with it," Louis says.
"And where does Ruth Luciano fit into all this?" Mike asks.
"She doesn't," Louis says.
"But wasn't she tried in 1994 for her alleged involvement with Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual?" Mike asks.
Louis takes another deep breath, steadying himself before answering. "She was wrongfully arrested by overzealous agents and an overeager district attorney who ignored key evidence. That evidence showed Ruth's trust fund had invested in Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual, but neither she nor the people managing it took part in any illegal activity or knew anything illegal was happening with Fozzy & Bom Capital Mutual."
"And you believe that?" Mike asks.
"I believe that," Louis says flatly, though he does not believe a word of it.
In truth, Louis believed Ruth had been involved and had likely orchestrated the entire scheme. That was why he had approved the pursuit of her in the first place—a decision that cost him the FBI directorship and brought him to this interview. That was the price of going after Ruth and failing.
-60 Minutes, 1996 interview with former FBI Director Mike Wallace-
-1940-
-Ruth's POV-
I looked over the men I had asked to stay after dinner for a private meeting—my father's most trusted allies—and smiled. Not because I liked them, and certainly not because I trusted them. Trust was a strange word to use around mobsters. They were criminals, every one of them, and only a fool would pretend otherwise. Still, as a character from one of my favorite movies once said, "You can always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest. It was the honest ones you had to worry about." So, in a way, I trusted them.
La Cosa Nostra, however, was a joke. This generation might still believe in it because they remembered the worst years of the late 1800s and early 1900s. They grew up when discrimination against Italians and Irish immigrants was at its height, and poverty was so harsh that anything beyond stale bread felt like a luxury. The next generation, however, was living a very different life, and the one after that would barely believe in it at all. This thing of ours would become this thing of mine, then collapse like the house of cards it always was.
Still, they were useful to me—for now. Especially for what I had planned during the war. These men understood certain things even the government had not yet mastered. Most of the tricks and scams the government would later adopt had first been perfected by the Mob. I knew that because my past self had watched enough documentaries about organized crime and the U.S. government to recognize the pattern: the government would eventually use the same tactics, only under the cover of legality.
As each man took his seat, I took stock of the room. There was my godfather, Meyer—one of the few men in this life I knew I could trust. My Uncle Bugsy was there too, though no one else knew he was in town. Then there was Albert Anastasia, a man I trusted less than my uncle or godfather, but more than most. His respect for my father ran deeper than people realized; in Albert's own words, my father was a stand-up guy who had always given him the respect he deserved. For that reason—and because of what happened with Sonny a few years back—I trusted Albert to a point. I even considered him a friend, though one I kept at arm's length.
Sonny was here too. He was still acting as head of security for my studio, but that would not last much longer, as he was growing more restless by the day. He simply was not suited to the legal path, at least not yet; he wasn't. Still, he was smart, and while he lacked the power of the other men in the room, he was worth investing in. A loyal man with underworld connections was always a useful pet to have around. That is so long as it didn't snap back at you.
Next was Frank Costello, an old ally from my father's rise to power. Frank reminded me of a hunter: patient, quiet, and waiting in the underbrush for the right moment to strike. He was not an easy man to trust, and perhaps it was better never to do so, but he was no turncoat either. When my father went to prison, Frank did not try to seize control as some others did. Instead, he held the line and helped keep things running alongside that weasel, Vito Genovese.
Last, though not least, was Joe Profaci, whom I did not trust at all. Godfather Meyer, however, had insisted he be invited. Private or not, the other bosses of the Five Families would eventually hear about this meeting, and when they did, they would feel slighted. That was fine. This had nothing to do with business and everything to do with a more personal goal—one they likely would have rejected on principle anyway.
Once everyone was seated, I said, "Good evening, everyone, and thank you again for staying after the others left. I know it has been a long night, and I am sure you would most likely like to retire for the night."
Frank waved me off. "Think nothing of it, Ruth. We have already discussed the other matter and understand its value. The least we can do is stay a little longer and hear you out about this personal problem of yours."
I nodded. "Thank you, Frank. That is kind of you to say, but before I begin, I want to be clear: this is not exactly a personal problem. It is more of a desire—a selfish one, perhaps, but one with the potential for a considerable payoff. And this time, it is almost entirely legal."
"How legal?" Joe asked.
"As long as the Allies win, very legal," I answered. "Questions may be raised later, but nothing that should put anyone in this room behind bars if it comes to light."
Joe nodded, leaned back, and said, "Very well. Continue."
"First, let me show you something," I said, rising and walking toward the sheet-covered painting that dominated the middle of the room.
I pulled off the sheet, revealing a painting I had no right to possess: Lady with an Ermine by Leonardo da Vinci. It was more than rare; it was the kind of masterpiece I should never have been able to touch. After the war, I intended to return it. Probably. Maybe. Honestly, I had no idea. It was a Leonardo da Vinci, for crying out loud. Even now, my past self was screaming at me to keep it, and when a voice in your head keeps chanting, "keep it," it becomes hard not to listen.
Anyway, the point was that, unrefined as these men were, even they knew who Leonardo da Vinci was. What good Italian calling themselves so would not recognize one of their greatest artists—perhaps the greatest artist who had ever lived? The answer was not a single one. So the moment they saw the painting, they understood what it was and who had painted it
"Ruth… how? When?" My uncle asked, awestruck.
"A few months ago, I used some of my father's political contacts to let Switzerland know that a wealthy American was interested in buying select pieces of European art," I said to the men in the room
Joe gave me a look, then understood exactly what I meant.
"Ah. Nazis," Joe said.
"That's right. Those bastards are looting Europe like barbarians, taking anything they can get their hands on. Now they are selling it off to fund their war," I said, unable to hide my disgust at them.
"But why?" Sonny asked.
"Because war is expensive, as everyone in this room knows. Remember what the last war cost before you all made peace with one another?" I ask, and they all nod their heads. "Well, multiply that several times over, and you begin to understand what the Nazis are spending. They do not understand modern economics. The days when plundering conquered nations could pay for a war are over. That is how I acquired this little masterpiece, along with a few other choice pieces, at a steep discount," I said to them with a sly smile.
"How steep a discount?" Albert asked.
"Ten thousand," I answered.
Everyone stared at me, stunned.
"Only ten thousand? God, Ruth, you're right—those Nazi bastards are fucking stupid. This has to be worth at least a million, maybe more," Frank said, his voice sharp with disbelief and anger at seeing a piece of Italian culture sold so cheaply.
"Exactly, Frank. As I said, they do not understand basic economics. They know what they have, but with most of the world against them, they have few buyers left. If they are not broke now, they soon will be, and desperate people sell for whatever they can get," I said.
"So you bought a priceless work of art for pennies on the dollar," Frank said, already considering the possibilities.
"So, just to be clear, you want us to buy stolen art from the Nazis at a discount?" Sonny asked.
"That's right," I said, offering him my sweetest smile.
"The same Nazis you once said you would like to take wooden stakes and impale their collective asses like Vlad Tepes-style, if you could?" Sonny asked.
"If we do not buy it, someone else will. So why not us?" I said coldly—and, strangely enough, I meant it.
A large part of me felt filthy doing business with the Germans, but the logic was hard to escape: if we refused, someone else would profit instead. I blamed my father, my uncle, and my godfather for teaching me that business did not discriminate. Historically, the Nazis stole as many as 650,000 works of art across Europe. Much of it remained lost, and even more was never returned to the families it had been taken from—either because those families had been murdered or because no one bothered to find their surviving heirs.
Anyway, the war had created a rare opportunity: buy artwork cheaply now that would be worth billions down the road. Yes, my ownership might be challenged later on, but if I played things right, I would have enough political influence after the war to refuse any attempt to force me to return it. Not that I was opposed to giving some of it back—provided I received something worthwhile in exchange.
"Is it legal to buy art from those Hun bastards?" Joe asked.
I glanced at my godfather before answering. "Let's call it a legal gray area."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Joe asked.
"Until the U.S. enters the war, our actions may be questionable, but they are not strictly illegal," my godfather answered. "Once it does, we pull back. Until then, we are operating in the gray."
"It is after the war that worries me," I added. "Once Nazi Germany loses, and if it is declared an illegal government, certain countries will no doubt demand their art back."
"You sound awfully sure we will join the war, Ruth. Do you know something we don't?" Sonny said, more as a statement than a question.
I rolled my eyes playfully. "Call it a woman's intuition." The room laughed, and then I added, "That, and the fact that I know weasels like Hitler will not tolerate the U.S. funding the Allies for long. He will declare war sooner or later, and when he does, he will lose. No country can match America's manufacturing power or manpower."
That made a few of the men smile. They were not good men, but many were fiercely loyal to their adopted country.
"So we use the window we have, then pull out once war is declared. Sounds reasonable. I have to admit, though, I'm surprised you're comfortable with this, Meyer," Bugsy said to his old friend. Ruth did not need to convince Bugsy to support her; he would back her regardless. What surprised him was seeing Meyer do the same. After all, Meyer was Jewish, and he hated the Nazis.
"Money is money, and art is worth whatever we say it is. Buy a painting for ten thousand, then say it's worth a hundred thousand, and suddenly it becomes worth that amount. Perfect for cleaning money," Meyer said. He did not like the idea of funding the Nazi regime, even if they were getting the better end of the deal. But before anything else, he was a businessman, and this was business. Besides, this was not his goddaughter's only plan.
"Why do I get the feeling there is more to this?" Frank asked, looking at me.
I smiled. "You know me too well, Frank. You're right—there is more. I want to start supplying the partisans in Europe."
That earned me a roomful of Are you crazy? looks.
"Don't look at me like that," I said. "It's not as crazy as it sounds."
"Really? Because it sounds crazy," Joe said.
"Only from one angle. Look at it another way, and it makes perfect sense: we supply the partisans, and they pay us in art. That is as close to a win-win as we are likely to get," I said.
"Except for the part where that is highly illegal—and the part where we have no way into Europe," Albert said. Then he caught the look on my face. "Unless you already have a way in."
I smiled wider at Albert for realizing it first. "A door opens both ways, Albert. Right now, several neutral countries are trading with both the Nazis and us. How hard would it be to use those same doors for our own purposes?"
Laughter came from my side. I looked over at Joe, who said, "Not hard at all."
"Exactly. Where there is a way, there is a weapon," I said, drawing laughter from the men around me.
"All right, but what happens when this comes out? We cannot hide it forever, Ruth," Frank said. They were discussing a major international conspiracy, not a union racket or numbers game. Supplying insurgents in a foreign, non-hostile country was far beyond their usual reach, and Frank knew it.
"We don't hide it," I said, then explained. "The current administration is no friend to Nazi Germany. I am fairly certain Roosevelt hates them. My guess is that, if we act quietly, we will be allowed to proceed."
"That is a serious risk, Ruth," Sonny said.
"It is a risk I am willing to take, even if I have to take it alone," I answered.
That unsettled every man in the room. If a woman was willing to take the risk, what did it say about them if they refused? The thought clearly sat poorly with them.
"Fuck it, I'm in. Never liked the Germans anyway," Sonny said.
Of everyone there, Sonny had the least to offer, but he knew Ruth. If money could be made legally—or mostly legally—she would find the way.
Joe was next to step forward. "Ruth, if we do this and things go south, you know your father cannot protect you."
"I know," I said, ready to take that chance anyway.
"Then we need to discuss how we do this—and how we keep the art after the war," Joe said. After that, the others began joining in. It was a tremendous risk, but these men were used to high stakes. Besides, if Ruth's other plan paid off as well as they now believed it would, they already owed her a significant favor—and favors were repaid in blood or cash.
As the men returned to their seats, Richie entered the room and came to my side. He leaned close and whispered in my ear.
At his words, my blood went cold, and a silent rage filled me. I barely managed to keep my anger in check.
"Thank you, Richie," I said.
"Ruth, what is wrong?" my godfather asked. Clearly, I had not hidden my reaction well enough.
I answered coldly, "My set photographer, Vivian Campbell, was just found murdered."
The room fell silent. Not a single man spoke—not from fear, but because of the emotionless way I had answered. For a moment, the mask I wore slipped, revealing the truth beneath it, and, behind me, the shadow of my father could be seen.
- Richie's POV-
I was never fooled by the mask Ruth wore to hide what she truly was. From the day I met her as a little girl to the young woman she had become, I came to understand how cruel and cunning she could be. Most of the time, she was a sweet and caring young woman. Ready to greet even someone like me with a smile on her lips and a kiss to my cheek. She was never afraid of my missing eye or the scars covering one side of my face. From day one, she treated me with the love and respect you could only find in family, and for the first time since the war, she made me feel like a person again—not a freak who only knew how to kill.
I loved her for that, and for everything else she had done for me—especially giving me the courage to ask my wife to marry me, even when I feared she would reject me because of how I looked. That was why I could ignore the part of Ruth that was her father's child: the cold, calculating, detached monster who could smile at you while planning your death. Had she been born a man, she would have been the perfect heir to Charles's criminal empire. But she was a woman, and with one door closed to her, she found another path—one that would no doubt make her even more powerful than her father had ever been.
Some might think it impossible for a woman to reach such heights, but I knew Ruth would. One of the reasons I knew this was because she did not hesitate to order me to deal with Miss Campbell's father, just as she had not hesitated with Mr. Carlin's. The difference was that this time, Ruth made it clear—without saying it outright—that Michael Campbell was not meant to die quickly. Not after what he did to Miss Campbell, who had suffered before she died.
The poor woman had not died quickly or easily. When they had found her, she was still breathing, caught in that dark place between life and death—a place I knew all too well from the day an artillery shell landed near me during the war. I could still remember lying there struggling to breathe, waiting for death to come for me, only to find that it wasn't coming quickly enough. The difference between us, of course, was that I had somehow survived by crawling back to our lines, where the medic had saved me. Miss Campbell had also crawled, struggled to hold on, but unlike me, she didn't make it far before her body gave out, and she lay there waiting to die.
It was a testament to her will to live that she survived for so long. Both of her arms were broken, her fingers twisted out of place. One leg smashed to pieces and ribs broken along with half her face caved in, but still she held on. Only dying when they actually got her to the hospital.
It was a cruel, twisted death—one no woman deserved, especially someone so young and full of life. That was why I had no trouble carrying out Ruth's orders to make Mr. Campbell suffer for what he did. I thought as I looked at the man who was still breathing and tied to a chair, his fingers, toes, feet, and legs broken, his skin burned by a hot iron. Blood was pouring from his mouth, and the shallow cuts that covered his body. I might have pitied him if not for what he had done to his own daughter.
I took a picture from my breast pocket and looked at it. Miss Campbell had taken it on the set of 'Shane' while I was cleaning the film's guns with the mountains behind me. I had not even noticed she was taking a picture of me, but I was thankful she did. Because in the photograph, I saw myself as I had not seen myself in years. I was at peace. A peace I had not known since before the war.
I crossed the room, grabbed Michael by the hair, and yanked his head back so he could see me. He was barely alive, but I would not let him die before I was finished. Holding the photograph in front of him, I asked, "Do you see this?"
I waited, but between the pain and the teeth I had already pulled out, speech was almost impossible for the man
Knowing he could hear me even if he could not answer, I said, "Your daughter took this. She was talented, gentle, and full of life—a life you stole from her. A father is meant to protect and provide for his children. From the moment a father's children are born till the moment he takes his last breath, that is his duty. You failed that duty, Mr. Campbell."
I let go of his hair, and he whispered, barely audible, "P-please… kill me…"
I knelt in front of him and looked into his half-dead eyes. "Kill you?" I shook my head. "Not yet. You still have not suffered enough for what you have done."
I picked up the knife. "I don't believe in hell. Death is simply the end—no pain, no punishment, nothing at all is waiting for us on the other side. Life is the only hell we will ever know, though even in this hell we call life, we can find small pieces of heaven. You took one of those pieces, Mr. Campbell, and made her suffer. Since I do not believe anything awaits you after death, it is only fitting that I make sure you suffer for as long as I can in this life."
Then I went back to work, ensuring the man before me felt every moment of pain before he died an even slower and more painful death than his daughter.
-Ruth POV-
It was a somber day. Clouds crowded the sky, threatening rain, with no sunlight to soften the gloom. It was rare for a day to match the mood of a funeral so perfectly. Despite what films suggest, the world does not usually pause to mourn one person. Yet today, it almost seemed to recognize the tragedy of Vivian Campbell's death. She had been so young, so talented—too young and talented to die. But that, I had long since learned, was life.
Knowing that did not make it any easier to accept, however. I thought as I sat in St. Paul's Chapel, listening as the preacher delivered the eulogy. Vivian and I had not been close. I liked her and enjoyed her company, but I was usually too busy to spend much time with her. So I could not truly call her a friend, though I had always assumed there would be time to know her better—to become friends with the wonderful young woman she was. Instead, that chance slipped away without me even notching it. Like sand in an hourglass.
All I could do now was help give Vivian a proper send-off at the church where she had been baptized—the same church where her parents had married when they were young and still in love, before her father revealed the evil in him. Was it any wonder her mother had run off and never returned? No. I could not blame her for leaving him. Any woman would have. The only thing I could blame her for was leaving her children behind. How she was able to go both to college and take care of her younger siblings, I will never know, but she did it. Then took off to LA, where I hired her, but even well away from her father, she was still taking care of siblings. Using most of the money I paid her to them so they could feed themselves and put James, her younger brother, through college.
Needless to say, there was little money for a proper funeral. James had just begun the first year of a five-year law program and had no time for a job—not that Vivian would have allowed one. When we met, he told me she had refused to let him fall behind the way she had when work disrupted her own studies. She never imagined she would die so young. Or perhaps she did and simply refused to dwell on it.
As the funeral ended, we stood and filed out of the church. James stopped me almost immediately. He looked as if he had aged several years, and who could blame him? He was only eighteen, just starting college, and only days ago the world had seemed open and full of possibility. Now his sister was dead, murdered by their own father, and four younger siblings were depending on him.
"Miss Luciano, I… I just want to thank you again for everything you are doing for my family and me," James said, trying to sound braver and more composed than he felt.
I shook my head gently. "Think nothing of it, James. Your sister was a close friend. It is the least I can do for her. Please do not worry about your family or your college fund. I will take care of everything."
James looked up at me in surprise. "Miss Luciano, you don't…"
I cut him off before he could finish. "Please say no more. Your sister used to brag that her little brother would become the finest lawyer in New York. The least I can do for my friend is help make that happen."
A small crack appeared in his tough exterior. He nodded and said, "Thank you."
James walked away, and I watched him go, feeling a faint sting of guilt for lying to him. Vivian and I had rarely discussed anything beyond work. I was building something, and she was helping me, as so many others were. We never had time to speak about family, and I knew nothing of hers until after she died. Now that I knew them, I saw her brother less as someone in need and more as an investment. I could always use a good lawyer—or several—especially for what was coming.
Was that wrong? Maybe. But in the end, I was still helping, even if I expected something in return someday. Most people would not have done even that much. And if James chose his own path, I would not force him to repay me. After all, I still owed Vivian a debt—not only for her hard work, but for leading me to a jewel I had completely forgotten.
I glanced left and noticed a boy no older than twelve trying to hide his grief and confusion. It was Stanley Kubrick—the Stanley Kubrick—the future filmmaker who would help define New Hollywood and reshape what it meant to be a director, years before Steven Spielberg would set the standard for the modern filmmaker.
I almost wanted to slap myself for forgetting that Stanley Kubrick had been born in the late 1920s. Still, I could hardly blame myself. In my past life, Kubrick had been a famously private person and rarely gave interviews. I knew his films, of course—no true movie lover didn't know them—but I knew little about the man himself. Having seen only one documentary about him and never reading any of the books about his life. There was a gap in my knowledge.
It was an oversight by both my counterpart and me, but fate had placed him in my path. I had no intention of wasting the opportunity. A mind like his could be shaped—and used to my advantage. That, however, could wait. For now, I would let the boy mourn. He would still be here tomorrow, and even I was not cruel enough to manipulate him at a funeral. Later, once he had time to grieve, I would, but not now.
I made my way to the car, where Sonny, acting as my guard for the day, opened the door for me. I climbed inside and found Richie already waiting. Once I was seated, the car pulled away from the church, and I let out a long breath. It had been a draining day, heavy with grief. The sooner it was over, the better—but first, I needed an answer.
"Has everything been arranged?" I asked Richie.
"Yes, Miss Luciano. The package should be discovered within the next forty-eight hours," Richie said, his voice cold and even.
I nodded. "Good. The sooner the message gets out, the better. Did you take every precaution?"
"Yes, ma'am. Nothing will be traced back to you." Richie says.
"I was more worried about you, Richie," I said, letting out another tired sigh. "I'm sorry you had to do that. I know it isn't what you signed up for when you followed me to LA."
Richie shook his head. "Please don't feel bad, Ruth. Vivian… Vivian was a good girl."
A single tear slipped from my eye before I forced the sadness back down and said, "Yes… yes, she was."