BELLA MAFIA (14 page)

"And what business did Paul Carolla wish to begin?"

"I believe it was narcotics."

"You believe? Do you have any evidence to substantiate this statement?"

"No."

"I see. So let us move on to the ill feeling between your husband and the defendant. . . ."

"The second time Paul Carolla came to my home, he wanted my husband to assist him, to use the Luciano export companies as a cover for shipping narcotics. He had become very wealthy, and he threatened my husband."

"Were you a witness to any of these threats?"

She hesitated, and he knew before she spoke that she was lying. "I heard them shouting at each other. I heard Paul Carolla say that he would make my husband pay for abusing his friendship. My husband refused to assist him in any way. He had always maintained his companies legally, had spent years building up a good name. My husband was a man of honor, and he hated drugs of any kind."

"Signora Luciano, when you say a man of honor, do you accept the fact that your husband was, up until the time of his death, a known Mafia—"

She interrupted angrily. "My husband was a man of honor, a war hero, decorated for bravery, a man who despised the trade in drugs, despised Paul Carolla."

Emanuel was already certain that it would not work, but he had to continue. He changed the subject, asking gently, "Tell me about Michael Luciano."

She seemed grateful, giving him a half-smile. "He was my firstborn son."

Emanuel listened patiently as she described Michael's academic history, his acceptance into Harvard. Eventually he interrupted her. "Would you tell me what happened to this young man, a boy with such a tremendous future ahead of him?"

"He came home, in the summer of sixty-three, halfway through the second year at Harvard. He was very sick; my second son collected him at the airport, and Michael could hardly walk unaided. His hair was matted, and his clothes . . ." Her eyes filled with tears.

"He was ill, you said?"

"Yes. He collapsed, and my husband took him to the hospital. He remained in the hospital for a few weeks. Then he was taken to the mountains to recuperate. He came home once, looking well and fit, full of life. He was a very handsome boy, his blond hair bleached silver by the sun. He was better, but my husband felt he should stay in the mountains a few more days until he was completely recovered."

"What happened to your son, Signora Luciano?"

She tried to say it matter-of-factly but could not. "My son was . . . murdered."

"Did you witness his death?"

"No, I did not. My son was shot, killed as a warning to my husband not to stand against Paul Carolla. My son's return, signor, coincided with Carolla's threats, and my husband took my son into the mountains in the belief that he would be safe there."

Emanuel was kicking the side of his desk with small, light taps of his shoe. "These threats, signora—did you actually hear Paul Carolla say that he would . . ." He paused, knowing that Michael Luciano had not been shot, and chose his words carefully. The stenographer waited, the persistent, soft clicking silenced for a moment.

"What was the development of this tragedy? Was anyone ever charged with this brutal killing?"

Slowly Graziella shook her head. "No, but it was Paul Carolla."

"Was he ever arrested? Was he ever charged? Did anyone, signora, have any evidence to prove that Paul Carolla had anything to do with this tragic death?"

There was a helplessness to her. She shook her head. "No . . . but there was a witness."

"Do you know the name of this witness?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she gave a pleading look to the stenographer, as if she could help. In the end she lowered her head and whispered, "No, I do not know, signor."

Sophia sat in the cool, empty church. She had been sitting there for almost two hours. She wore a lace veil over her face and clutched her rosary.

She had tried to pray, but her mind had blurred. She could do nothing but listen, her face cupped in her hands as she knelt. Footsteps came and went; voices echoed; there were whispers from the confessional. Twice she had risen and moved closer, only to stop and kneel down again. She had no tears left, and the small yellow pills Graziella had given her wrapped everything in a distant haze.

She had asked the maid to clear the children's toys away and take them to a children's home along with their clothes. Constantino's clothes had also been removed. The large apartment was empty, desolate, and she was so lacking in energy that she spent most of her time in bed, the blinds drawn, the pills giving her deep, dreamless sleep.

The church was the only place she went to, and for three days she had come, needing to confess, needing to tell someone, but had been unable to enter the confessional. The priest knew who she was and knew of her loss, but he did not approach her, did not intrude on what he believed were her prayers.

The candles she had lit for her sons and her husband were flickering, almost at an end, and she quietly got three more. She lit them and stood staring into the flames beneath the Virgin's feet. Two women knelt, praying, the clicking of their rosaries like small hammers to Sophia.

The confessional was empty, and she inched closer, closer. . . . Then she moved quickly to swish the curtain aside. Once in the small dark booth she forced herself to speak, but her voice was so low that the priest had to ask her to speak up.

"I have sinned, Father."

He leaned closer. Her voice was so husky he could barely hear her. He encouraged her to continue.

"I have sinned, Father."

The priest scratched at a gravy stain on his cassock, then folded his hands. "Ease the pain in your heart; say what you feel you need. There is time. Take your time. I am just here to comfort you, to pray with you."

"I had a child, a son. I was very young. I left the baby in an orphanage. I intended ... I wanted to go back for him, but first I needed to tell his father, explain to him."

The priest waited. He saw her hand, a delicate white hand with blood-red nails, the fingers threading through the grille. He touched her fingers, gently. His hand felt warm, soft. She withdrew her hand.

"Did you tell the father of your baby? Tell him of his son?"

"I couldn't, Father. I couldn't."

"Were you afraid? Afraid of rejection?"

"No ... no, you don't understand—"

"I can only understand, be of help to you, if you tell me everything."

"He died, he died. ... I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell anyone."

"So the father of your baby was dead. What did you do then?"

She gave a short, humorless laugh, then sat silent for more than five minutes. The priest's stomach rumbled loudly, and he looked at his watch.

"I married his brother, Father."

"And what of your child?"

"I never went back for him. I left him. I never told anyone he even existed. I left my baby in the orphanage. I left him. . . ."

He heard the brass curtain rings clicking and peered through the grille as Sophia ran from the church.

Emanuel watched Graziella being driven away in her car. The stenographer asked if he would need her further, and he shook his head. He was tired; he didn't want to continue working.

He had done what had to be done; if it appeared hard, cruel even, it would in the end prove a kindness. Graziella would have been put through worse on the stand, and she had, as he had known to begin with, no evidence that he could use. He had simply wasted his valuable time.

Sophia kicked off her shoes while pouring herself a vodka. She took two Valium and lay down, fully clothed, on her bed, and drained the glass. But she could not forget. She found herself reliving all the emotions she had felt when she stood in her cast-ofif shoes, her cheap hand-sewn dress, waiting outside those huge wrought-iron gates of the Villa Rivera, only to be told that Michael Luciano, the boy she had loved, was dead and buried.

The guilt descended like a black cowl; her body felt as if she were drowning in a swamp of emotion. The guilt she had never allowed herself to face began to emerge, and she fought it, twisted it until it surfaced as rage. Michael Luciano, the father of her bastard child, Michael Luciano was to blame for everything. If it hadn't been for him, her husband, her sons would be alive. . . . She hurled her glass at the wall.

"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard
" she screamed. Her rage was out of control. She tore the duvet from the bed, the pillows, hurled everything she could lay hands on across the room. She swiped her perfumes and creams from the top of the dressing table, then opened her wardrobe and started dragging out her clothes, ripping at them in her frenzy, kicking the rows of shoes until exhausted, she fell to her knees. Clinging to the side of the bed, she wept uncontrollably, asking God to forgive her, repeating over and over, "It was not my fault. No one can blame me. ... It was not my fault. . . ." But she knew there was no one to answer for her sins but herself.span>

Sophia returned to the confessional.
"Don't you understand what I have done? Don't you understand?"

The priest quieted her, said he understood, could understand her heartache.

"No, you cannot, you can't understand."

"Well, my child, tell me what I cannot understand."

The white hand, the red-painted fingernails, again scratched at the grille.

"I wanted so much to be a part of the family. I wanted everything they had. I wanted to be—" As disturbed as she was, Sophia still held back, still could not say the name Luciano. "I wanted everything I had never had. I was so poor, Father. My mother scrubbed floors. It was all I saw for myself, scrubbing, washing other people's clothes. That was all I saw ahead of me. When I had the baby, I was sure, so sure, that they would accept me. I was sure he loved me."

"Do you know what became of the child?"

"No ... I made myself forget him. I had to forget him to survive. . . . And then, after I was married, how could I tell them? Do you think I would have been allowed to marry the son of—" Again she would not speak the name. If she explained further, he would know who she was; the deaths of the Luciano family had made headlines.

"Do you now want to find your child?"

She leaned back. She could smell the mustiness of his robes just as he could smell her distinct, heavy perfume. She answered on a long, low sigh. "Yesss . . . yes, that is what I want."

"Then that is what you must do. Trace this child you harbor such guilt, such deep guilt for. Your sense of betrayal is natural, you know what you have done in the past, and you know the reasons. Find him, ask his forgiveness, and God will give you the strength. Now together we will pray for his soul, pray for you, my daughter, and pray for God to forgive your sins."

Graziella looked toward her husband's study. She could hear the murmur of voices. She handed Adina her veil and black lace gloves.

"It's Signor Domino; he said it would be all right. He has three gentlemen with him, signora."

"In future, Adina, no matter who it is, no one is allowed here, especially not in my husband's study, unless I have given you authority. You may go."

She waited until Adina had returned to the kitchen before she moved closer to the study door. She paused, listening; she could hear Mario Domino speaking.

. . Panamanian companies. Listed alongside are the U.S. state bonds. We were recycling the proceeds through our bank to Switzerland—"

Graziella walked into the study, and Domino froze in mid-sentence.

"Graziella, I was not expecting you to return. ... I apologize for the intrusion, but . . . Please allow me to introduce these gentlemen. They are from America and are handling the legal side over there for Don Roberto."

Graziella did not offer her hand but remained standing at the open door. Domino made the introductions, first gesturing toward a tall, well-dressed man in a dark gray suit. His eyes were small but accentuated by heavy, horn-rimmed glasses.

"This is Eduardo Lorenzi from New York."

Lorenzi gave a small bow. "Signora."

The next man was squat, his face shining with sweat, his collar stained. His plump hands clutched at a large white handkerchief. "I think you have met Signor Niccold Pecorelli, a very old and trusted friend, now taking care of the don's interests in Atlantic City. And last, Giulio Carboni, also from the East Coast, who has been assisting me here."

The latter was very much younger than the others but stockily built. He was wearing an open-necked casual shirt and rose-tinted glasses. Graziella glanced around the study; drawers and even the safe door were wide open. Stacked around the desk were files neatly tied with string, obviously ready for removal.

"I shall be in the dining room. If you wish refreshments before you leave, please call Adina." Graziella walked out, leaving the door open and making it obvious that she wanted the men to leave.

She sat in the cool dark dining room in her husband's chair with her back to the shuttered windows. She could hear the men preparing to leave, their hushed voices sounding to her like those of conspirators. Then Mario himself appeared in the dining room.

"I am sorry, Graziella. I was hoping to have everything completed before your return. Don Roberto was conducting international transactions. I am not the only lawyer involved with the businesses, so we had a lot of work to do. They will be handling all the American issues."

She had never seen Mario so hesitant. He looked guilty, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "They have removed only the files necessary—"

She stared at her folded hands. "Perhaps in the future you would be kind enough to warn me if you require access to my husband's study."

"Of course, but I doubt if I will have to intrude again. Forgive me."

He bent to kiss Graziella's cheek, but she averted her face. Hurriedly he retrieved his briefcase from the study, his eyes darting around the ransacked room, making sure there was no trace of incriminating documents. There was not one room in the villa that had not been thoroughly searched. Now he would begin the marathon job of assessing the Luciano holdings, knowing that many of the territories had already been taken over, that someone had already stepped into Roberto Luciano's shoes. He had known the moment he had been approached by the three men Graziella had just met.

Graziella watched Domino drive away before she picked up the heavy package of her husband's tapes. She carried it to the study desk and looked around. The room smelled of the men's cigar smoke and of charred papers. . . . Sure enough, there in the grate were the telltale blackened scraps of paper.