BELLA MAFIA (18 page)

"Go on."

"I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, and he was probably even more embarrassed by the situation than I was. I suggested that we go out for a coffee, you know, get out of the house—Mama and Papa were hanging around right outside the door—and he agreed. He took my hand like it was the most natural thing to do, and we walked out. I loved him from the first moment, Rosa. Then I was scared he would turn me down, so scared that I agreed to everything. I agreed to the wedding taking place within the month and agreed to allow the Lucianos to arrange the guest list, the reception, everything. When I met Graziella Luciano, I was even more afraid Filippo would not go through with the wedding. I knew she didn't think I was good enough. She made the mistake of speaking in Sicilian to Filippo; she didn't realize I understood every word. She was tearful, telling him he should wait, he was too young."

"And he was a Luciano."

"That meant nothing to me then. It was only Filippo that I was interested in. I had never had a boyfriend, and suddenly I had the handsomest man I had ever known."

"Did he love you?" Rosa could not help the disbelief in her voice.

"Yes, Rosa, he loved me. I asked him if he was having second thoughts. . . . Part of me was so afraid that he would admit that he was, but he seemed afraid that I had changed my mind, so we got married."

"Why did they choose you? Did you ever find out?"

Teresa stared at the tiled floor. "Don Roberto wanted to find someone steady for Filippo, sensible, and I guess I fitted the bill. He had never left Sicily before he met me, and Don Roberto had decided it was time for him to work in America. ..."

Teresa suddenly didn't want to talk anymore. She dropped the towel into the laundry basket. "My parents were given the bakery, Rosa, and the apartment, and every day Mama said a Hail Mary for Don Roberto Luciano. She died blessing him, still thanking him. . . ."

"Didn't you ever ask Papa why you?"

Teresa's eyes brimmed with tears. Years later, when Filippo had started playing around, when she knew he no longer loved her, she had asked. All he had said to her was he had married her because it was what his father had wanted. He had said it with such cruelty, such disregard for her feelings, that even now she could not bring herself to tell her daughter.

"Mom? Did you ever find out why?"

"No."

"Maybe he saw you someplace, met you—"

"Yeah, maybe . . ."

Rosa followed her mother into the corridor. "Emilio said he fell in love with me when he first saw me. You remember that time at the Villa Rivera last summer, Mom?"

Teresa's head was throbbing; she pressed her fingers to her temples.

"You think he would have married me anyway? Even if Grandpa hadn't wanted it? Mom? I mean, he gave your parents the bakery. Did he ever say what he was going to give you?"

"I've got a headache, Rosa. I need to lie down."

"I need to know. . . .
Mom,
I have to know."

"Does it matter now, Rosa? The boy is dead."

"I know Papa was being squeezed out of the business. Was Emilio going to take over? Was that why he was going to marry me?"

Teresa was stunned that Rosa had guessed so much. She snapped, "Rosa, you talk of things you know nothing about."

"I'll go call Grandma. . . . I'll ask her."

"You won't."

"Why not? You scared I might say something to upset her? She might cut you out of the will. Are you scared of that—?"

Teresa had taken enough. "Yes, maybe I am. Graziella holds the reins, and until I get what is due to me, you don't even speak to her. You are her granddaughter, but she'll cut you out like
that."
She snapped her fingers. "And that was all he ever had to do, Rosa, that's all Don Roberto ever had to do to get people exactly where he wanted them. If it was for his son to marry me, his nephew to marry you. . . . Grow up, Rosa! He manipulated everyone, and Graziella was right at his side. You upset her, and we'll get nothing. Right now that may not be important to you, but it is to me; it's all I have left."

Rosa shut herself in her bedroom and opened her photograph album. Beneath each one was the name of the person in her neat, childish print. She tore every picture of Emilio into shreds. Then she came across an old photo she had forgotten she had. About to toss it aside, she changed her mind.

"Mom? Mom!" she called.

"I'm in the study," Teresa answered.

Teresa was looking over stacks of papers and documents, searching through Filippo's desk.

"Mom, who's this?" Rosa interrupted her.Teresa squinted at the photograph in her daughter's hand. The picture was of the three sons of Roberto Luciano, but Michael Luciano's face had been obliterated by some scribbling. Teresa pointed. "That would have been Michael Luciano, the eldest son."

"Who scribbled over it?"

"Probably your father. That must have been taken . . . twenty-odd years ago, maybe even more. You know this is weird, I got all those old files from the company, the import licenses."

Rosa was still looking at the photograph. "Trying to assess how much we're gonna be worth, huh?"

"I was just interested. I got a bus to the docks. The Luciano warehouses are all boarded up, the gates to the yards covered in barbed wire.
... I know I had the files right here."

Teresa was banging open the drawers, slamming them shut. Suddenly she sat back. "Someone's been here. There's not one file left with the Luciano name on it, not one letter. Filippo's diaries, his address book, they were all here because I put them on the desk myself."

"You going to call the cops?" asked Rosa.

Teresa shook her head. "What's the point? Nothing of value's been taken."

"Must have been of value to someone. Otherwise they wouldn't have bothered breaking in and taking whatever they took, right?"

"Unless they thought there
might
be something . . . I'll call Sophia."

The ringing of the telephone seemed to be part of Sophia's dream. She struggled awake.

"Sophia? It's Teresa. Did I wake you? I never checked the time."

"That's okay, Teresa. How are you?"

"Broke and waiting. You seen Graziella?"

"No."

"You've not been to see her?"

"No . . . I've had things to do, the new season starts soon, and the sale of last season's dresses. I have to get the stock ready for the boutiques, and I haven't even been near the warehouse—"Sophia realized she was making one excuse after another for not contacting Graziella. She closed her eyes and sighed; she had done nothing, seemed incapable of doing anything.

"We had a breakin here. . . . Hello? You still there? Can you hear me?"

Sophia closed her eyes. "Yes, I can hear you."

"I said we had a breakin. They took all of Filippo's papers, photographs, some of the files I had from the trucking company and the gasoline—"

Sophia interrupted. "Constantino's desk was cleared out weeks ago. Same thing, just papers."

"Why? You don't think it was Graziella or someone working for that lawyer guy?"

Sophia yawned. "Graziella? Of course not. It could be the police; it could be any number of people. Probably someone who used to work for Don Roberto. It's just a precaution; don't let it worry you."

"Worry? Someone's been inside our apartment."

Sophia threw back the duvet. Naked, she eased her legs over the side of the bed, feeling for her slippers with her bare feet. She held the phone loosely. "Don Roberto had a lot of connections, Teresa, people who don't like anyone outside their circle knowing what they're involved in. They were probably just checking there was nothing incriminating, no names, no unfinished business."

Teresa let the phone fall back onto the hook. "Sophia sounded drunk, slurred, but unlike us, she's not hurting for cash. But then she never did."

"You don't like Sophia, do you?" Rosa asked.

Teresa was still checking the desk for the missing items. She sighed. "Sophia said someone had searched her apartment, and she just seemed to accept it. Well, I don't. I'm having the locks changed."

Rosa perched on the end of the desk. "I wouldn't bother. As soon as we get the money, we can move. I want to live near Central Park."

"You'll have enough, sweetheart, to live wherever you want."

Teresa stared at the old family photograph. The three young boys all looked so innocent, but the deep scratches obliterating Michael Luciano's face made the snapshot eerie. She traced the deep lines that almost cut through the paper. "It's strange to think, if it weren't for this faceless boy, Don Roberto wouldn't have offered to be a witness for the prosecution. If it weren't for Michael Luciano, they all would still be alive."

Rosa studied her mother's face. Teresa's mouth was drawn into a thin, tight line as she stared at the snapshot. Rosa watched as she tore it into shreds, letting the pieces fall into a wastebasket one by one. . . ."If we haven't heard by the end of the month, we are going to Sicily, whether Graziella likes it or not. We've waited long enough."

Graziella rewound the tape. She had played the same section over and over and knew it almost by heart, but today she had a notebook and pen ready to make notes of the names her husband had dictated only weeks ago. The deep voice filled the large book-lined room, and she sat, pen poised. "My firstborn son, Michael, returned from America in the summer of 1963 . . ."

Graziella pressed the fast forward button. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . Her husband's voice continued. ". . . and it was Lenny Cavataio, acting under Paul Carolla's instructions, who was waiting for Michael when he returned to Sicily. Lenny Cavataio knew that the heroin he was to sell my son would undoubtedly kill him." Again Graziella wound the tape forward, listened as Roberto Luciano explained how he had traced the heroin and obtained proof that it had been made at Carolla's refineries.

Emanuel's voice began speaking on the tape, asking why, if Luciano had such direct evidence of Paul Carolla's involvement in narcotics, he had never even informed the police. Graziella only half listened as her husband replied that at the time Lenny Cavataio could not be traced. "Besides," he added, "I am a man who settles my own scores. That is my law, a law within a law." There was a brief pause on the tape. Then Don Roberto went on. "Nevertheless, I intended to gain enough evidence to convict Paul Carolla if necessary. But it became exceptionally difficult. Witnesses disappeared, and I had to wait a considerable time until my son recovered enough to be questioned. You must understand he was an addict; he was very sick.

" Graziella groaned softly. Until she had first heard the tape, she had been unaware of her son's heroin addiction. Roberto's voice continued. "Two months later my son had made a good recovery. He was well enough for me to bring him home for a visit. But he was still not secure enough in himself to be entirely trustworthy. He needed more time to adjust, to regain his health, mentally and physically." Graziella couldn't resist the memory of her son, standing beneath her bedroom window with his arms full of flowers, calling up to her "Mama, eh, Mama, I'm home! Mama, I'm well." Her husband's voice was still without a sign of emotion. "Michael returned to the mountains, staying in a small shepherd's cottage. Four of my men guarded him day and night, only my trusted driver knowing the precariousness of his condition. That was Ettore Callea, who died on the second of August, 1963. There is, I believe, a police file on his assassination. August the second, 1963, was the day I found my son's body.

Three of his guards had also died: Marco Baranza, Giulio Nev-arro, and Silvio Braganza. They had been shot with a Biretta, but my son had been beaten to death. He had fought to stay alive, fought with his bare hands. His nails were torn out by the roots. A hypodermic syringe, containing enough heroin to kill four men, had been forced into his arm. One guard, the only one to survive, was found with bullet wounds to his chest and groin. Gennaro Baranza was able to describe my son's killers. They were not Sicilian but American. I did not discover their identities until many years later, when Lenny Cavataio made his statement. He knew my son's killers. They had worked for Paul Carolla. . . ." There was a slight pause on the tape, a rustle of papers. Then Emanuel spoke. "These Americans, I need their names. I will need to question them."

Don Roberto answered, "I'm afraid that will be impossible. Paul Carolla made sure they could never be traced; even their bodies have never been found."

Emanuel asked if it would be possible to question Gennaro Baranza. Luciano replied that Baranza had recently suffered a stroke. His speech was badly impaired, and he had been, since the shooting, wheelchair-bound.

Graziella switched off the tape. The palms of her hands were sweating, leaving an imprint where she had pressed them against the polished surface of the desk. How many lies had her husband told her? Too many even to assimilate. She knew now why the boy brought home in the velvet-lined coffin wore the cotton gloves on his hands, why his face was that of a stranger. He had not been shot, as Graziella had been told. He had died not quickly but fighting for his last breath, clawing at his killers like a pitiful animal.