BELLA MAFIA (33 page)

"Who, Mama? What are their names?" Teresa sounded hysterical.

Graziella released her hand from Sophia's grasp and stood up. "Forgive me, at this moment I cannot recall. The most important thing to us is that we will have justice. Don Roberto was an honorable man. . . . We will have the justice he wanted. It is not over. I brought you here because—"

Teresa hurled the papers from the desk. "Damned right it's not over, but let me tell you, Mama, I don't give a goddamn about his honor! He should never have done what he did, and you should never have allowed this to happen.
I don't care about justice,
do you hear me? All I care about is
me
and my daughter. And I care about the years I slaved in the background for the Luciano family, that's what I care about. To be left with nothing ..."

She gritted her teeth, determined not to cry. Her face twisted with anger. "You think that is justice, Mama? I am forty-six years old. All I had was my inheritance, that was all I had, and you have thrown it away.
Screw your fucking justice ..."

The slap was so hard it sent Teresa reeling, but she leaped forward and gripped Graziella's wrist. "That's the second time! Never, never hit me again! What gives you the right?
What right do you have to slap my face?"

Graziella jerked her wrist free. "Because I am now head of the family. You will never speak to me like a fishwife, and you will never again swear in this house, is that clear, Teresa? I have every right to do what I wish, behave as I wish. This is my house, my home. You insult my husband's memory, you insult yourself, you should be ashamed, you have no pride, no honor—"

The room fell silent.Graziella stared from one daughter to the next.

It was Sophia who answered her, her dark eyes glittering. But there was no hysteria in her voice; it was low, husky.

"I don't think, Mama, that we are concerned right now with honor. The fortunes, the money you sneer at our desperation for, would have eased the loss, the emptiness. Papa put his faith in justice; well, I hope he turns in his grave when Paul Carolla walks free from the court. Papa's death wasn't honorable, Mama. It was a tragic, sickening murder, but he had lived a long life, unlike my babies. I have lost too much by being a Luciano and would, if you offered me the chance to live my life again, walk away from this house, walk away from being what I am now, one of the Luciano widows. Our men were killed so there could be no retaliation. With the men gone we are nothing. . . . You may be content with the crumbs they throw to you, Mama, but don't ask me to be. I have too much pride, maybe too much honor. Good night."

She left the room and Teresa followed, closing the door quietly behind her. Graziella bowed her head. She had almost forgotten that Rosa was in the room, she had been so quiet. She looked up, surprised, when she heard the young woman's voice.

"Grandmama, can I ask you something?"

Graziella nodded, picking up one piece of meaningless paper after another.

"Grandma, did you and Grandpa arrange my marriage, like you did Mama's?"

The last thing Graziella could think of was arranged marriages. She felt so exhausted that she held out her hand.

"Rosa, help me to my room."

Rosa moved away, not wanting to touch her. Graziella let her hand fall. She sighed and walked out and up the stairs, knowing Rosa was following.

As they entered her bedroom, she sat heavily on the bed, patted the bedspread nervously.

"Let me tell you something, Rosa. Filippo loved your mama. I know, because he told me so. Just as your Emilio loved you and asked Papa for permission to marry you. He needed no encouragement. He loved you, Rosa. Don't you think he did?"

Graziella wanted to weep. She was becoming an adept liar. But was there any harm?

Rosa tossed her head and began to swing the door back and forth, irritatingly. "You shouldn't have slapped Mama. You don't know things. It's been very hard for her even when Papa was alive. He had mistresses; she was never happy—"

"It's been hard for all of us, child."

"But it's different for you. You're old."

"Yes, but it's not over yet. Now, good night, I'm tired."

Rosa left the room without kissing her grandmother, and

Graziella felt truly alone. She had not expected such anger, such desperation from her daughters-in-law. They had no notion of what she had been through, of how much she still had to do to avenge the murders.

She wrote a brief note, giving Sophia charge ofeverything. No matter what she had said, Sophia was still her favorite. Then she took from her dressing-table drawer the photographs she had collected from around the villa and arranged them on every available surface. Surrounded by her dead family, she prayed to God to give her strength.

Teresa had waited until Rosa was sleeping before she crept down to the study. The door was open; she was determined to see for herself what had happened to her inheritance.

Sophia saw the light beneath the door hours later, when unable to sleep, she crept down the stairs. She peeked around the door.

Teresa was elbow-deep in papers, and the entire study was strewn with documents and files. "I could do with some help," she acknowledged. "It'll take days to get things sorted out. They've got invoices in with the payments. I can't even tell how many men we've still got on the payroll."

"I'd say help is putting it mildly. We need an army of secretaries."

Teresa rested her hand on a neat stack of papers. "I think the fewer people who have access to our so-called inheritance, the better. I'll do it, all of it, if necessary. These are Papa's shares; they alone are worth"—she picked up a notebook and flicked through her notes, then gave a wry smile—"at least ten million dollars, but right now, according to the brokers, would be a bad time to sell. They all have been reverted to Graziella's name; at least Domino got that settled. All she has to do is sign them over to us, and we sell when the time is right. Don Roberto was certainly no organization man at the end. That's why he poured his bulk cash into shares, so it couldn't be traced. Maybe he was trying to free us. He almost succeeded. From what I've discovered, it looks like he was trying to liquidate everything. He just didn't get it done soon enough. . . ."

She flicked through another file, while Sophia watched. Teresa squinted through her glasses and tapped the folder. "This is an offer to buy the tile factory, dated May 1985. . . . Now, here ..." She searched the desk and picked up another sheet of closely typed letterhead paper. "Here's the same company's offer to Mario Domino, nearly two years later, for less than the original price, and by your elbow you've got all the factory's sales ledgers and export orders. For two years the business expanded, so how come they offer less? Domino was stalling. There's writing all over the contracts. Two of them were bids that came in
before
Papa died, when Papa wanted to sell everything off, right? But Domino turned the offers down. Then, after Domino's death, the lawyers just carried on, but look at this. . . . All these are offers from a man called Vittorio Rosales, and the only address I can find for him is a box number in Rome."

She pointed to the contract so that Sophia could see. "Can you read what Domino's written in the top right-hand corner? Here, where it's underlined. What do you think it says?"

Sophia took the contract and held it under the desk lamp. "I think it's Parolla. . . ."

"I think it's 'P. Carolla.' Rosales could be a front for Paul Carolla."

"What? Are you serious?"

Teresa was shaking with tension. "If I'm right, it means Carolla had good reason to order the murders of our men. He stood to gain the entire Luciano organization if there was no heir left. If we can prove he is Vittorio Rosales . . ."

"How can we do that?"

Teresa held up one contract. "We do it by checking out the only address we have, a box number in Rome. But we have to do it fast because all these documents are ready for exchange. Tomorrow we revoke the power of attorney to give us more time. Carolla is going to be free in less than a month, but if we can prove this, we can have him arrested again. ..."

Sophia nodded, then patted the stack of documents nearest to her. "How much do you think it's all worth?"

Teresa shrugged. "Minus the shares, I would say the company could be worth ten million, maybe fifteen million dollars. But we won't get that or anywhere near it if these contracts go through. We've got to get them back, put a realistic price on them. But I'm beginning to feel better, and I'd say we can live in a lot more than just comfort."

Sophia sorted through one of Domino's crates. "Teresa, are there any more boxes with Domino's personal papers in them?"

"There's one in the corner, mostly junk, old diaries, and four more behind me."

Sophia saw the stack of calendar books right on top of the crate. Her heart was beating rapidly as she shuffled through them: 1980, 1979, 1976 . . .

"I've made a note of Rosales's box number for you, Sophia," Teresa said.

Sophia's hand was shaking. She had found it, a small diary bound in black leather, dated 1963. She stood up, slipping it into her pocket. "Yes, I—I'll leave tonight."

"Well, there's no need to rush."

Sophia was already on her way to the door. "The sooner, the better. Just write down everything you want me to find out, while I go get ready." Her hand was on the doorknob; she couldn't wait to read the diary in privacy.

Teresa stood up. "You must be careful. Is there anyone who can help you? I mean, we don't know anything about this guy, and if he does work for Carolla—"

Sophia turned, her eyes blazing. "If I discover that Paul Carolla gave the order to kill my babies, then I hope he is freed because I'll kill him myself."

Domino had made no detailed entries in his diaries, just lists of figures and occasional initials. Sophia licked her finger to help turn the pages, looking for the date of her marriage.

There it was, just a single line: "S & C wedding." She turned to the next page. How long was it after the wedding that she had called the orphanage? She jumped as Teresa knocked and peered around the door.

"This is the box number in Rome for Vittorio Rosales. Sorry, did I startle you?"

"Yes, yes, you did. Good night, and thank you. I'll return as soon as I know anything."

She almost pushed Teresa from the room, then locked the door after her and snatched up the diary. She couldn't suppress a half moan when she found the entry.

Graziella heard the front door close. By the time she reached her window Sophia was driving away from the villa, moving very fast. She let the curtain fall back into place. So Sophia had left her. She picked up the note she had written to her favorite daughter-in-law and tore it into shreds.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Graziella left the villa. She was wearing her black crepe de chine dress, a lightweight black coat, and her widow's veil, and she carried a large black leather clutch bag. In her black-gloved hand she held her rosary.

Luka Carolla, a small bundle under his arm, left his hotel at eight-fifteen. He walked to the public rest room and changed into his monk's robe. After carefully folding his own clothes, he wrapped them in brown paper and hid them on top of the toilet tank. He stepped down from the toilet seat and picked up his cane.

As he walked along the street, he began limping. He turned down a side street and through an alley that brought him out onto the square, facing the Unigaro jail and courthouse. It was now nine o'clock; the court session would begin at ten.

Dante received the phone call at nine-thirty. He was told exactly what Luka had done.

"Turned into a fuckin' monk? You kiddin' me? Did he get into the courthouse?"

Dario, calling from a phone booth in sight of the courthouse, said Luka was in the visitors' line. Dante told him to keep watching and to call as soon as he knew Luka was in his seat.

Dante put the phone down and went to the bathroom, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He and Luka had spent most of the night working on the weapon and a further two hours of practice out in the woods, Luka firing over and over at one small mark in the chosen tree. When the tree was splattered with bullets, he had loaded one of the specials he had drilled. This time, when he fired, the trunk of the tree seemed to explode. Dante had been stunned, but Luka had laughed.

Dante lathered the soap, spread it around his chin, and picked up his razor. His hand was shaking; the kid, Carolla's son, was a freak, and a dangerous one. Could he get away with a courtroom murder?

Pirelli knew something was up the moment he stopped his car in the courtyard outside headquarters. Ancora was waiting for him with news that the chief wanted to see him. Pirelli charged up the wide stone steps.

The chief took Pirelli to one side. "You'll have to forgo your interrogation of Carolla until after today's session. The government has refused the defense request to read out the statements. None of them will be freed, and Carolla's on the stand again this morning. But his counsel doesn't want him to know."