BELLA MAFIA (48 page)

"Well, in a way. They used my business as a cover. This is a cheap mail-order business. . . . You'll see what I mean when I show you the stock."

"And you never knew anything about it?"

Sophia sighed. "No, Teresa, I have just said I didn't know anything about it. I had no idea."

"I don't understand."

Sophia paused on the stairs and looked down at her. "Because they didn't want me to. I believed I was doing everything on my own, all separate from the Lucianos, making my own money, when in truth I was doing nothing. Don Roberto financed me, via Constantino. It was very simple. I used their accountants, their business managers. My boutiques were a cover; they lost money. But they used them, used me."

"And you never suspected?"

Sophia opened the door into the sweatshop. "No, I never suspected."

She was astonished when Teresa suddenly put an arm around her. "Bastards, huh? You must have felt sick."

"I think 'betrayed' is more the word. My husband used me. Papa, too. What does it matter? I failed. They treated me as if I were a child, and the boutiques my toys."

She led them into the cavernous empty room. It had been stripped of all the machines, and Sophia gave a humorless laugh. "There were about thirty girls working on machines in here. As you can see, when I paid them off, they took everything they could lay their hands on. Either them or the disgusting manager."

"Your so-called partner must have had a hand in this," Teresa said. "Those machines were worth a fortune."

Sophia agreed. "I guess he felt he could do exactly as he wanted. There was no one to be afraid of anymore."

There was still some discarded stock left, some hanging out of the boxes. Rosa picked up a pair of frilly panties. "Oh,

I love these, and look at this nightie! Oh, Sophia, they're gorgeous."

Sophia looked at Teresa, and they burst out laughing. "Rosa, they are disgusting, cheap crap. Look at the colors, and it's all nylon. Still, take what you want."

"You serious? Oh, thanks!"

While Teresa and Sophia looked around the building, Rosa delved into the boxes with relish.

The luxurious apartment was the first thing Teresa suggested should be sold. The cash released by the sale could be used to start Sophia's company functioning again.

Among the bills and letters were several orders, two of them from major department stores wishing to restock on specific lines and requesting details of S&N's new-season show. The orders in themselves were not enough to salvage the business, but they gave Sophia confidence. So did Teresa's enthusiasm, which was fueled by Rosa. She assured Sophia that her taste was perfect and that the range was "mega" because it catered to all ages. Sophia laughed; they knew so little, understood even less about her business, and their presumption that she designed everything on the rows of hangers amused her. They didn't notice the designer labels, possibly because they could not believe the price tags—and those were the wholesale prices!

They raided the stock rooms, sorting through hundreds of garments and laughing like children let loose in a toy shop. Like everything else, the stock would be swallowed up by the bankruptcy, so with Sophia's permission Rosa and Teresa took as much as they could carry. They returned to the apartment for their own private fashion show.

Teresa had surprised Sophia with her choices; they all were brilliant colors, swathed silks, and brocaded velvets, sequined and frilled, and most in the wrong size. Teresa's disappointment was pathetically childlike when she tried to squash herself into a size 12 although she was closer to a 16. Rosa had grabbed gowns that were far too sophisticated, again with lavish embroidery and beading. Sophia praised and made suggestions, treading very carefully, but when she brought Teresa a plain black velvet gown by Valentino, it was viewed with scorn.

"My God, it's awful, like an old bag would wear! It'd maybe suit Graziella, but I was thinking of something more . . . rich-looking, you know, maybe with sequins. . . ."

Sophia nodded, then looked at Teresa with a professional eye and brought out a gown by Gianfranco Ferre.

"Maybe this is more you. It was actually ordered by Princess Loredanna, but she never collected it. In dollars it'd cost about five thousand."

"What! Five thousand?"

The price tag attracted Teresa more than the garment itself, and she couldn't wait to get into it. "Oh, she must be

my size."

"Yes, she is very slender, and the dress complements rather than—"

"I see what you mean. Hey, Rosa, what do you think? This would cost five thousand dollars in New York."

Rosa was wandering around in a
Gone with the Wind
green shot silk gown with a hooped skirt and enormous puffed sleeves, decorated with dark green velvet ribbons.

Teresa squinted. "Oh, Rosa, that is worth dying for! Sophia, what would that dress set us back if she were to buy it?"

Sophia shrugged. "It's a very popular English line, quite reasonable, maybe a few hundred—"

"Oh, a few hundred! In that case,
get it off\"
shrieked Teresa, and Rosa made a face, having rather fancied herself as Scarlett O'Hara.

Sophia brought out a velvet dress with tiny ribbon straps and a full skirt, but the layered petticoats were trimmed with sequins that glittered when the skirt swayed. "I don't know if you like this, Rosa, but I designed it myself. I just never saw it modeled. Would you try it on just for me?"

Teresa surveyed herself in the mirror. "Oh, she won't wear that, hates frills. Sophia, what do you think I should do about my hair? And is there anything you can do with Rosa's?" She turned as Rosa stepped into the frilled black velvet and cocked her head to one side, impressed. "Oh . . . oh, Rosa, that is . . . Is that expensive, Sophia?"

Sophia nodded. It was a perfect fit, and she fussed with the skirt until it hung right. Standing behind Rosa, she looked in the mirror and sighed. "You have to be young to wear those tiny straps, and you have such beautiful shoulders. . . ."

Rosa said only, "Yeah, it's okay," but she couldn't resist a spin and danced around the room.

Sophia looked at them both, knowing that with a few touches they would be walking advertisements for her designs. She picked up the phone.

"How about having our hair done, facials, really go to town? Yes? Shall I call?"

Teresa hunched her shoulders, more girlish than ever, and Rosa nodded, then suddenly leaned over and kissed Sophia. It felt so good, the impulsive show of affection brought tears to Sophia's eyes.

Then they descended on the beauty parlor. There were not enough hours in one day. They agreed to spend another day in Rome. While Rosa went shopping, Teresa and Sophia spent the remainder of the afternoon with the accountants and lawyers. It was finally decided that Sophia should let the bankruptcy go through, then start up again under another name.

They put the apartment with all its contents on the market, and by the time they met Rosa, they were laughing excitedly at how well the meetings had gone. With so many of Nino's designs still in her possession, Sophia would not even need, initially, to go to the expense of acquiring a designer for Luciano, her new label.

It was after six in the evening. Teresa, her hair set in rollers, looked up from Sophia's scrapbook. It was filled with newspaper clippings covering her fashion shows, magazine articles featuring Sophia discussing women's wear, interviews with Nino Fabio plus many of his designs, and photographs of the two of them at social functions. They all were pasted in and neatly labeled.

"I had no idea you were so productive, Sophia. Quite a celebrity. Did you have a PR company arrange all these articles?"

Sophia nodded. "Nino hired them. I guess if the truth be known, I didn't really do all that much. I was very decorative; it was lovely to have access to such beautiful clothes. I hired good people, Nino especially. He did most of the work, all the designs. I just made the suggestions."

"Yeah? Well, don't put yourself down! Rosa and I know just how good your suggestions are. ... I mean, I'd have put money on it that Rosa would never have looked at that dress, but when it's on! You can tell it costs, looks beautiful. Good thing you still have his designs. I like his work—I should! It costs enough, and he certainly cost you."

"May I ask you something, Teresa? Why, after you've had your hair done, are you wearing rollers?" Sophia was trying not to stare.

"Well, I've got straight hair, and Rosa said it was dropping, so she put them in. Don't you think she should have?"

Sophia shrugged.

Teresa continued, "Do you like the color? I would never have gone this blond, but Rosa said it suited me. What do you think?"

Sophia smiled and was truthful. "It makes you look a lot younger."

Rosa called out, "You ready? Remember that gear from the sweatshop? Get ready for this . . . Ta-raaaa!"

She entered the room, grinning sheepishly at first, and sashayed across the room like a model on a catwalk, letting her robe slide to the floor. She wore a black nylon lace half-cup bra, her young breasts spilling out, and a pair of disgusting panties with holes in the rear through which her round pink buttocks protruded.

Teresa sat with her mouth open, in a state of shock. Rosa pouted, then sprawled full length on the sofa, sucking her thumb.

"Rosa! Rosa,
get them off this minuteV

Humming "The Stripper," Rosa began to peel one stocking off, slowly.

Teresa leaped to her feet. "Rosa, what would your father say if he could see you?"

"Mama, he loved it. All men love it! It turns them on, doesn't it, Aunt Sophia?" She hooked the stocking over her toe and catapulted it across the room, to land at Teresa's feet.

"That is enough!"

Rosa giggled and picked up her robe. "You are such a prude, Mama. Don't you know women get a kick out of wearing these things under straitlaced suits and shirts?"

Teresa stood over her, hands on hips. "They do not! No decent woman would be seen dead in those panties. You know what they are for? Sophia, tell her what kind of women wear these things—sluts, prostitutes. . . . Tell her, Sophia."

Sophia was biting her lip, trying not to laugh. Teresa pointed majestically to the door for Rosa to leave. As she went, she wiggled her bottom. . . . Teresa screeched, but she surprised Sophia because she wasn't angry. When she turned around, she was grinning from ear to ear.

"What am I going to do with that girl, huh? I tell you, we've got to find her a husband fast. She knows too much, and it's not good for her. When I was her age ..."

She hesitated and gave a little shrug. "I tell you, Sophia, when I was her age, they couldn't even say I had a great personality, you know. I was no beauty, and sometimes I look at her and I don't know how I did it. But her papa, he was handsome, the one with the Luciano looks and not much else. My daughter got lucky, she took after him. I say a Hail Mary every night for that. I grew up scrimping and saving every dime. I was dressed from thrift shops, and I used to think all clothes smelled of mothballs; I thought that was how they were made. I was never young, Sophia; I was born looking middle-aged, and now I am. My mama said once, 'I'm old, I'm fifty,' and my father said, 'No, you're not old, that's still young.' And she said, 'It's middle-aged, Lenny. How many people you know live to be a hundred?' "

Without a word Sophia got up and went to her room. She came back carrying a large box and calling for Rosa.

"These are samples for a line I thought about starting, but they proved too expensive. They are silk, all hand-embroidered. Provencal lace . . . And there're all sizes, so take your pick. Maybe no one else sees them, but you know you are wearing them, makes you feel good. Go ahead, take what you want."

She paused at the door, their oohs and aahs delighting her, bringing memories of the first time Constantino had given her silk underwear. She had always worn the finest ever since but had almost forgotten her reaction that first time. Seeing them now, she remembered.

Teresa was holding up a silk chiffon underslip. She sounded breathless, and there were two bright pink spots on her cheeks. "Could I have this?"

Sophia smiled. "Sure, take whatever you want. I am going to take a bath."

As she left the room, Teresa sighed. Rosa looked at her mother and said softly, "I am beginning to feel better, Mama, like things are not so dark anymore . . . Mama?"

"She's right, Rosa, these are really special. I mean, wearing this kind of thing makes you feel like a lady, you know, precious."

Later that evening the women stood together, admiring themselves in their new finery, ready to end the evening with a sumptuous dinner at the Sans Souci restaurant.

The uniformed chauffeur of the hired Mercedes raised his eyes in admiration, bowing to each of them as she stepped into the car. Rosa wore her new dress that she said swirled with tiny stars, and Teresa wore the wonderful sleek Ferre. Sophia herself wore a swirling taffeta gown with a vast frilled wrap, designed by Nino Fabio. They all were different in style, but they had one thing in common: All the gowns were black.

The Sans Souci was located just off the Via Veneto. The small bar was dimly lit but shimmered with mirrors and wonderful tapestries. As the three women entered, the maitre d' hurried to greet them. He bowed and kissed Sophia's hand.

"Signora Luciano, we have missed you greatly. You have your usual table."

As if they were royalty, he ushered them to the central table. Waiters scurried to draw their chairs out for them, and the other diners turned and stared. The whispers flew around that they were the Luciano widows.

Even the women had to acknowledge Sophia's beauty, with her blue-black hair coiled like a snake at her neck. She slipped her black silk cape off, revealing slim shoulders that were a fragile contrast with her dark, strong eyes.

Under the pretext of reading the menu she glanced around the room. She had dressed many of the women diners, yet not one of them acknowledged her.

A group of laughing people arrived, and for a moment attention was drawn away from the center table. Then the buzz of whispers began again at a feverish pitch.

Sophia leaned close to Teresa. "The group that just arrived, the small man leading them is Nino, my designer. Don't turn your head. ..."

Nino stared, then ignored Sophia, although he came within feet of her as he led his party to a table near the wall. After he was seated, however, he could not help looking at her. He knew she was bankrupt, everyone in the fashion world knew it, and he had presumed she was out of business. He still feared some sort of retaliation for his betrayal of her.

One of his guests squeezed his hand to get his attention and demanded to know who the occupants of the center table were.

Nino swiveled around to face the widows squarely and flipped his napkin in their direction. "Sophia Luciano . . . God knows who the others are—perhaps a schoolteacher and a virgin."

The general laughter that followed was obviously directed at the Luciano women, but the widows sat like royalty, apparently impervious. They continued their meal, talking quietly, but each of them was aware of the attention. Finally, Sophia could stand it no longer. She rose from the table. Teresa put out a hand to restrain her, but she was too late.

Sophia moved between the tables as if mesmerized, then came to a standstill at Nino Fabio's table. Nino, flustered, introduced Sophia to his companions. She leaned toward him slightly, placing her hand on his neck as if feeling his pulse.

Nino sat back, his face white, his own hand at his throat as he felt her cold fingers. It would take him a long time to forget her tiny whisper: "So, Nino, you are still alive. ..."

As Sophia returned to her own table, Nino stared after her, his face pinched and terrified, his right hand still pressed to the pulse at the side of his neck.

Rosa leaned over to ask what on earth Sophia had said to Nino. Sophia just smiled and lifted her champagne glass in a toast. "To our future."

The following morning
La Repubblica
carried a photograph °f the three elegant women with the caption "Bella Mafia, remnants of the once-powerful Luciano family."

The photograph, at first greeted with amusement, somehow left a nasty taste. The accompanying article went over well-worn ground about the murders and the family connections. Teresa tore the offending paper to shreds and tossed it in the trash can. She still had to find a buyer for Graziella's pearls, so with the excuse of checking out some of the Luciano subsidiary companies she left Sophia and Rosa together.