Intended Consquences

By John Morelli

Intended Consequences.  John Morelli's "Intended Consequences" is an electric journey into the dark underbelly of corporate greed and the unforeseen repercussions that can ripple through a person's life when ethical boundaries are crossed. The novel deftly explores the complexities of human ambition, the blurred lines between right and wrong, and the haunting realization that one's decisions can dramatically alter the course of countless lives.

At the heart of the story is Bill Arena, a man whose success is marred by the shadow of his unethical choices in obtaining shares from the tech giant, Campbell Computers. Morelli does a commendable job painting Arena not as a mere villain, but as a multifaceted character. While his transgressions are undeniable, his desperation and determination to save his family show a man fraught with guilt and an insatiable desire for redemption.

The abduction of Tom, Bill's oldest son, serves as the grim realization of the title's promise - every action, however well-intentioned or self-serving, has consequences. This harrowing event sets the tone for the novel, thrusting readers into a whirlwind of suspense, danger, and high-stakes decision-making.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wrongway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223890447

Book preview

Chapter One

Thursday

Vince Reismuller didn’t plan to be in a dive bar surrounded by an angry crowd. Yet here he was in a cramped bar surrounded by a mob and facing people who wanted to do him serious harm.

Most people don’t go looking for a fight. But they still happen, and when they do, there is inevitably someone to catch the action on their cell phone and post it online. Those posts are irresistible, like slowing down and watching an accident scene on the highway. Most people reach for their cell phones rather than intervene. We watch those posts and wait for the bad outcome when someone wildly flailing their arms gets knocked on their ass by someone who is a little less afraid of getting hit back.

When a fight breaks out, it’s because tempers flared, and things get out of hand. Usually between strangers, more than acquaintances or even friends, when a spark caused by a flash of anger sets off the rage to hit someone. That’s why the scenes play out in a bar or on a highway because of road rage. Vincent Reismuller knew that fighting out of anger led to poor decision-making and that lack of a candid appraisal of the situation often led to bad consequences.

Even people paid to put themselves in situations where physical confrontations were part of the job, like cops, usually don’t go looking for a fight. Well, some of them do, but they were the bad ones, the kind of mentality that looks for a reason to use their authority, and that usually leads to an abuse of that authority. Most cops go about their business, hoping that they do not have to use force and are happy to end their shifts and go home safely to their families.

If you were going to get involved in a fight, Vince knew, it was best without the emotion, which led to losing control and blindly striking out. It was also better if you could take a measure of your opponent and realistically assess your chances. Sure, most people did that unconsciously, avoiding someone who was clearly bigger and stronger. Vince knew that the guys who were bigger than most didn’t necessarily have the skills or experience to make a rational decision on whether to fight. The bigger the man, the more people avoided physical contact with that person. In time, those guys relied on their size alone to serve as a deterrent and were generally unskilled fighters because they never had to really fight.

Vince did a mental checkdown of his options. This fight could not be avoided. Alcohol fueled by an audience and at least one ally to rely upon if things went sideways meant that this blond frat boy was going all in. Telling him that you did not want any trouble and why don’t we just walk away was only going to give Blondie more confidence.

He was tall enough, maybe a hair over six foot two, obviously in good shape, but he was all gym muscle. Looking fit and muscled was what had kept him out of most fights, and Vince would bet that he had been able to avoid most confrontations in the past. When Blondie puffed his chest out and said, You want to go? most people went away. Cooler heads would prevail and keep the combatants apart, or his target would fold at the thought of actual combat.

Without looking, Vince could sense people in the crowed bar pulling out their cell phones to get all the action on video. These same people were sliding away from the potential combat so that they did not become collateral damage. All that remained was Blondie and his two frat brothers, both of whom could have passed for Blondie’s actual brothers, Vince thought.

The problem was Morgan Arena. She had not moved from her spot at the bar, an arm’s length from Blondie. He could have guided her behind him and made a safe retreat if she had just come towards Vince. Vince didn’t care if he disappointed the crowd. His job was to get Morgan out of there, and she was not cooperating. He had to stand his ground, and now Blondie was strutting like a rooster and moving toward him.

Frat Boy Number One, as Vince thought of him, kept even with Blondie, and moved forward with him. Frat Boy Number Two was less sure of himself and only took a half step forward. Vince decided Number Two was not an immediate threat. By bunching together, they were telegraphing their ignorance of tactics. When you have a three-to-one advantage, spread out and come at the target from different angles so that the target must face multiple dangers at once. If you are going to outnumber someone in a fight, you lose the tactical advantage by bunching together and crowding each other.

Morgan, step over here by me, Vince said, hoping that she would do so, and the night could have a quick and painless end.

She’s not going anywhere, Blondie said, blocking Morgan’s progress with his arm when she tried to move past him. Blondie shoved her backward roughly, marking his territory.

Vince Reismuller was six foot five inches and weighed 230 pounds of solid muscle. He was unafraid of mixing it up with this group, despite being outnumbered. He had done this dance before, and he knew that getting off the first punch was not the way to go. Not only would the cell phone cameras capture him as the aggressor, but the bar inevitably had its own security cameras recording the event as well.

It wouldn’t do him any good if the police were called and the witnesses had a video to show he was the instigator. The image of Blondie shoving Morgan out of the way was now part of the narrative, as was Vince’s outstretched hand, trying to coax her forward. Vince gestured with his hand once again to Morgan to make sure the silent viewers saw his second attempt to avoid the confrontation.

This is where Vince expected Blondie to come forward and assert his male dominance. It had probably worked for him many times in the past, but Vince was not going to leave without Morgan. Instead of backing away, Vince took a step forward with his left hand extended towards Morgan, his right hand at his side. Their roles in the event were now memorialized for the camera. Blondie threw a right hand at Vince’s head to try to tag him with a one-and-done punch.

Vince saw it coming a mile away, anticipated, and moved his head back easily, coming forward with his left hand as he did so, over Blondie’s extended right arm, and catching him squarely on the chin, following through for maximum impact.

Blondie went down hard, and Vince continued forward to grab Morgan’s hand and pull her forward. Frat Brother Number One saw the move and hesitated for a second. Vince followed his left arm pulling Morgan forward by releasing her and guiding her behind him, pivoting to square off with Number One.

Having seen Vince deck his friend with one punch, Number One dropped his hands to his side as if to say this is not my fight and shook his head. Frat Brother Number Two was still a half step behind and was not inclined to come any further. Here is where the fine line between self-defense and assault lay. If Vince hits either Number One or Number Two, he becomes the assailant. His force so far was enough to parry the danger that Blondie presented.

Vince stole a quick look at Blondie, and he showed no inclination to get off the seat of his pants and continue hostilities, especially if Frat Boys One and Two were not going to help. Vince turned and put Morgan in front of him, moving toward the front door, while he looked over his shoulder in case someone’s courage returned, or other friends of Blondie wanted to hurl an object at him.

Fight over with a minimum of contact and damage.

Once out the door, Vince said to Morgan, Are you okay?

Now I am, she replied. He was a major douche bag. You were so cool back there.

Vince did not bother to reply, hustling Morgan to his car in case someone had called the police. He put her into the passenger seat and walked to the driver’s side, being careful not to run. On the external security cameras, an image of him running could be construed as guilty conduct.

We’ll pick up your car later, he said.

Wait! We have to get Chrissy, Morgan said.

Vince turned around and saw a young blonde woman hurrying out of the bar's front door and past the outdoor deck area. He audibly sighed with relief that he would not have to go back in and get her, which probably would have involved more physicality if the college boys had regained their courage.

He backed the SUV out as the woman ran to his car, opened the door locks for her to get in the rear seat, and relocked the car once she was in. He drove carefully out of the parking lot, making a right turn instead of a left across the four-lane road.

After driving about a quarter mile, Vince pulled the car into the closed parking lot of a small strip mall and exited the vehicle. He quickly went to the rear of the vehicle, removed the cardboard cover he had fashioned over the rear license plate to avoid being identified on camera, and drove away.

When he got back into the driver’s seat, Morgan said, I’m really sorry that I had to drag you out here tonight.

Are you kidding me? They had her surrounded and trapped against the bar. They weren’t letting her get by them, Chrissy said.

Is that true, Morgan? asked Vince.

Morgan nodded her head. I swear I saw one of them put something in her drink, Chrissy said. I mean, hitting on a girl is one thing, but surrounding her and not letting her leave is another.

Morgan was, in fact, spectacularly beautiful. She resembled her mother, who still was attractive into her 50s, with striking eyes and a slightly upturned nose. She always referred to it as the Petras nose because it was a predominate feature of her mother’s side of the family--the Petras side. It meant that all the women bordered on cute, but Morgan’s face went beyond that. Morgan had auburn hair which she pulled into a ponytail because she had the face to pull it off. She was five foot six inches tall and had curves to her that caught men’s attention. She dressed reasonably conservatively but could not hide her well-proportioned figure.

Morgan was in her senior year at Loyal Marymount University in Los Angeles. She was undecided about her future and whether she should go to graduate school or go out into the working world. She had the financial security that her father, Bill Arena, had provided, which allowed her to delay that decision for however long she wanted.

Chrissy pointed to her own drink and let me know that I shouldn’t drink mine, Morgan said.

If that’s the case, I let those guys off too easy, Vince said. Do either of you know any of them?

I think they are all on the lacrosse team at Loyola, Chrissy said.

Names? Vince asked.

I don’t know, but I’ve seen them around. They think they’re God’s gift to women, she replied.

I tried to text Tommy before texting you, but he didn’t answer, Morgan said. I know Bobby’s in Vancouver on a shoot, so I couldn’t call him.

Anytime, and I mean anytime, you text me the 911 code, I’ll be there as quickly as I can, Vince said.

I really thought they weren’t going to let me go until I finished the drink. If I took a sip, I would have ended up unconscious and raped, Morgan said.

I want you to work on getting names. Go to the school’s web site. They usually have their athlete’s profiles and names online, Vince said. Chrissy, can you give Morgan a hand with that?

It had been a run-down, seedy bar close enough to walk to from the dorms, which drew the college crowd from Loyola Marymount University and didn’t check too closely for IDs. It became one of the favorite hangouts of the students, and it was always crowded and noisy on a Saturday night, with a spillover crowd on the outdoor deck. Tonight was Thursday, and the temperature had fallen to the 50s, so there were few people on the deck to impede them from getting out of the parking lot.

Vince passed the turnoff to return Morgan to her apartment and kept driving. Chrissy, I am taking Morgan to her parent’s house for tonight. Do you want to stay with her, or do you want me to take you home?

You are welcome to stay with us tonight, Chrissy. In fact, I would appreciate it. I’m still a little shaken up, Morgan said.

Not a problem. I love your house anyway, said Chrissy.

The Malibu house was located on prime beachfront property and had a three-foot brick knee wall surrounding it. A seven-foot wrought iron fence sat atop the brick wall, and the front gate had massive wrought-iron doors with an electronic video entry box, which, once opened, led to a long circular driveway and a four-car garage off the right side of the house. Its two stories contained 10,000 square feet of living space. There were two guest cottages on the property. Each had a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

The house was located on the northern portion of Malibu Beach, high on a bluff, with a beach area below. There was a brick walkway and a staircase leading to the beach below, which had no direct public access. The brick wall had seats built in as well. Built-in track lighting accentuated the outdoor pathway, which also wound to the top of the bluffs across the entire property.

Inside, there was a foyer with a twenty-foot-high ceiling. The center of the house was open to each of the two wings, which led to a courtyard at the rear of the property. The courtyard had a stone fireplace at each end, along with a service bar. There were couches set up in a U-shaped pattern around each fireplace and in the center of the courtyard as well. At the beach end was the pool, which overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The impression one got was that of an upscale resort.

We can stay in the guest house tonight. I really don’t want to have to discuss what happened with my parents tonight, Morgan said.

I’ll take care of it, Vince said.

Vince used to be Bill Arena’s driver, navigator, and jack of all trades. He was attending law school part-time, in the evenings. He rarely drove now because of his duties with the Arena Family Philanthropic Trust, his role with the security company the Arenas owned known as Ultra Security Services, and his class schedule.

Vince lost his mother to cancer when she was just 39, and he was ten-years old. His father worked at a dairy, processing milk for deliveries, like his father’s father before him. Vince’s grandfather belonged to another era, when he worked as a home delivery driver, bringing milk in glass bottles to his delivery route’s metal boxes. His father worked his way up to an outside salesman’s position. His father took his mother’s death hard, and one day when he went on a call to one of the dairy’s industrial customers, he never came back. He was found in his car in the parking lot of the customer, dead from a heart attack at age 43.

Vince had a close relationship with his father, even though he drank too much after his mother died. He introduced him to hockey as a youngster and would drive him to all his practices and games.

Twenty years ago, Vince was on his way to a party in Yardley, Pennsylvania, when his father pulled over their white Ford Bronco. He would soon drop Vince off at the house of a hockey teammate, but first, Mark Reismuller had some advice for his pre-teenage son. The suburban homes were much bigger than their Oak Lane apartment, which backed up to railroad tracks leading to Fern Rock Station right outside Philadelphia. And there would probably be a movie theater in the basement, a swimming pool in the yard, and every video game system you could imagine. His dad told him that pretty much everything they didn't have at their apartment would be inside this Bucks County mansion.

You' re going to feel insecure, and you're going to feel like you don't belong there, and you're going to feel less than, and I'm telling you right now not to feel that way, Vince's father told him before restarting the old truck with the bucket seats. Just because he has those things doesn't mean he's any better than you. You guys are the same, and I need you to know that.

Vince carried that advice with him into the party – I had him in my head the whole time, he remembered- and he used it to fuel himself on the ice as a kid from North Philly playing on teams of suburban skaters. He was good enough to play at an elite New Jersey prep school, proving that he was the same as the kids with swimming pools in their backyards instead of train tracks.

If you don't start playing AAA hockey at 12 years old, the odds of you playing Division I hockey in college are almost nill, Vince knew. Vince left the Oak Lane neighborhood every weekend to play in a hockey tournament somewhere in the suburbs, the troubles of his neighborhood seeming to fade away as he drove down North Broad Street. Hockey, Vince knew, was his escape. He knew he didn't have as much as his buddy in Yardley, but he didn't feel that on the ice.

Just stepping inside the glass, it was like everything disappeared, Vince said. I got to pretend when I was at the hockey rink for just a couple hours every day that I was just like everyone else financially.

Vince made the AAA hockey team for the Mercer Chiefs over in New Jersey, but that path was closed to him after his father’s death. The prep school still gave him the scholarship because he had proven himself as an athlete, but his aunt, who took him in after his father’s death, wasn’t interested in seeing him pursue his hockey dreams or arrange for transportation to the prep school. The scholarship covered tuition but not room and board.

His father’s unmarried sister Mary was not keen on him living with her. She didn’t particularly like him either, Vince thought. As soon as he was able to leave, he enlisted in the Marines at age 17, when she gladly gave her permission as his guardian.

In the Marines, he learned combat and physical skills that he would carry with him for the rest of his life. He tried out and made the most elite unit in the Marines, the Marine Raider Regiment, the equivalent of the Navy Seals Program. Making the elite program led to some risky assignments during his military career, as well as receiving decorations for his bravery.

---

By far, the most dangerous deployment for Vince was when he was sent in support of U.S. counterterrorism objectives against al-Qaida, and the Levant. That was the one he almost did not return from. That was where he cemented his friendship with Jerrell Troy.

Vince took to martial arts and trained heavily when he was not deployed. He had dark hair, dark eyes and a rugged handsomeness about him that was accented by his nose, which had a large bump from obviously having been broken before.

After his initial four years, Vince re-enlisted, and the Corp let him go to college on their dime. Vince was a supremely well-tuned fighting machine when his second enlistment was over. Rather than re-up for another tour, he decided to rejoin the world, but he felt disconnected from the stability that the Corp had provided him. That’s when he dabbled in mixed marital arts fighting while he was finishing his college classes and working part-time for a high-level security firm. That’s where he was when Bill Arena, a wealthy newcomer to California, asked him to work for him full-time as his driver and assistant.

Vince thought that the gig was going to be a relatively calm and peaceful one, but it had turned out to be anything but. He still was the main go-to guy for Bill Arena. But a good deal of his time was spent helping Mr. Arena acquire the Ultra firm and staff it appropriately.

Bill Arena became fabulously wealthy 90 days after his 55 th birthday, inheriting a large block of Campbell Computer Company stock, which had been purchased directly from its founder, Michael Campbell, who had just started the company in his parents’ garage. The investment was the seed money used to manufacture the first personal computers and bring them to market. The company remained the leader in computers but had also revolutionized the cell phone field by coming out with the first cell phone which could be used for other purposes, like taking photographs or accessing the internet.

Campbell Computers had grown to be one of the highest-capitalized companies in the world, and Bill Arena had become a billionaire many times over when the stock went public. The stock had been placed into a trust for Bill’s benefit, which terminated and distributed its corpus to Bill if he survived his 55 th birthday by 90 days. The circumstances as to how Bill’s Uncle John Arena created the trust for Bill were an Arena family secret; a secret discovered by Vince when Michael Campbell, the company’s founder, challenged how Bill Arena came to own the stock.

Bill’s wife, Patty Arena, had taken an interest in Ultra, the private security firm that provided a variety of services to a very select clientele. She took over the running of the business portion of Ultra with Bill Arena’s blessing. Patty had branched into exclusive services for a select group of clients. She also ensured all her employees had access to the latest technology. It wasn’t long before Ultra and Patty Arena gained the reputation as the best place to go for high-end security services in southern California, including celebrity and high wealth clients.

When Vince promised Morgan that evening that he would take care of keeping her parents, Bill and Patty Arena, informed, he meant it. He would not, however, lie or sugar coat the facts for them. Vince would let Patty Arena know just how dangerous a situation Morgan had been in as soon as he got up.

For now, he settled into the second guest cottage for the night. He would deal with it in the morning.

Chapter Two

Friday

Vince leaned on the counter in the kitchen after pouring himself a cup of coffee. Patty Arena summoned him as soon as she awakened and saw his SUV in the driveway. While Vince was always welcome to stay over any time he wanted, it was a rare occurrence.

Let me thank you again for going out to get Morgan last night, Patty said. I think you should let things alone and not do anything to those boys who were there.

I have to disagree with you there, Mrs. A., Vince replied. If they were trying to put something in her drink, these guys have to be taught a lesson. Better if it comes before they do this to someone else. Or maybe they’ve gotten away with it before.

Patty frowned but did not say anything. Vince sat in one of the counter chairs in the massive kitchen. Carmella, the housekeeper, put a plate in front of him with an oversized omelet.

Muchisimas gracias Carmella, said Vince and Carmella smiled shyly at him. Even Carmella was not immune to Vince’s good looks, as he sat there with a tank top on and shorts. The tank top showed off his well-muscled arms.

Morgan walked in through the sliding doors, her dark hair disarrayed from sleep and wearing an oversized T-shirt that came down to her knees. I need caffeine, she moaned, and Carmella obliged her by placing a cup on the kitchen island next to Vince. Morgan settled into the chair to his left and took a large swallow of black coffee.

I didn’t know you take it black, Patty said.

Ugh! I don’t. I need the caffeine to wake me up. Morgan put the mug down, and Carmella placed a silver container of cream and a tray with various sweeteners in front of her. Thank God it’s Friday.

Do you have any classes today? asked Patty.

Yeah, or I wouldn’t be up, Morgan responded. She ran her hand through her long dark hair. I don’t feel like going today.

I’d save up your cuts until you really need one. What time is your class? asked Patty.

They were interrupted by Chrissy walking into the kitchen from the sliding door off the deck. She was wearing an extremely skimpy string bikini and made sure to parade past Vince.

Good morning, everyone, said Chrissy in a cheerful voice.

Oh please! moaned Morgan when she saw her. Why did you bother with wearing anything at all? Morgan needled her about showing off in front of Vince.

Hey, it’s your bathing suit. I just grabbed what was in your drawer, Chrissy responded, taking the seat to the right of Vince. Now he was bookended between Morgan and Chrissy. Morgan remembered that she had bought the suit, thought she looked great in it, and then never wore it out because she felt it was too revealing. She had the body for it, just like Chrissy did, filling it out nicely, but was too modest to wear in public.

How’s our knight in shining armor doing this morning? Chrissy said, nudging Vince in the ribs.

Vince gave her a sideways glance and shrugged. Are you going to class this morning?

I am in the same class as Morgan at 11 today, Chrissy said. Chrissy was attractive and had long blonde hair, which made Vince wonder why it was that all beautiful women seemed to have friends who were also just as good-looking. Good-looking girls sought out their own kind, he decided. Chrissy had made no secret of the fact that she had the hots for Vince, and parading in front of him in a thong bikini was par for the course. She was petite and had the figure to pull it off.

Did you get a handle on those clowns who were hassling you last night? Vince said.

I checked the lacrosse website, just as you said, and there they are, Chrissy said.

I don’t like where this is going, said Patty.

Have you seen any of them around campus? Vince asked.

The one guy who you decked looked familiar, and his picture on the lacrosse web site said he is the captain of the team, Chrissy answered.

Got a name? Vince asked.

Franklin Moreland III, she said. "Anybody who puts a