BELLA MAFIA (68 page)

Her hands clenched into fists. Tomorrow, after Pirelli had been to see her, she would leave, leave them all. There was no possibility of her involvement in Fabio's murder. She had a perfect alibi: She had been in bed with Commissario Joseph Pirelli and would not hesitate to admit it if necessary. She no longer cared what anyone thought. She was no longer Signora Luciano; she was Sophia Visconti.

At eight the next morning Luka was there with the limo to take them to Long Island. He ran up the stairs two at a time.

All their bags were ready and waiting, and Luka began to carry them down to the car, shouting back that they should hurry because he was double-parked.

Rosa rushed to change when she decided she didn't like the dress she was wearing. Teresa helped Graziella into her new coat, then went into Sophia's bedroom. Sophia, still wearing her bathrobe, was creaming her neck.

"I don't like leaving you alone. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes, Teresa, I'll be fine. Now go on, they're all waiting. Johnny has some great surprise in store for you all. Call me when you get there, tell me where you're staying, and I'll join you."

Teresa hesitated, then suggested that Sophia could always get the train. Sophia marched her to the door, saying she could also rent a car and drive herself.

When Teresa had gone, Sophia leaned against the door and sighed. She had done it. It had been so easy, a simple promise that she would join them. Already the empty apartment, the silence felt good.

The doorbell rang, shrill and continuous.

It was Luka. He stood like a man possessed. As Sophia opened the door, he struck it hard with his fist.

"Why aren't you coming? Why?"

She backed away from him. "Because I have to stay here. Didn't Teresa tell you?"

"You have to come with us! I have it all arranged. You have to be there; you can't stay."

He tried to drag her to the door, but she pulled her arm away.

"I can't."

"You don't understand. I have something for all of you. You have to come."

"Johnny, I don't
have
to do anything." "Yes!"

"No!"

"Yesss . . ."He dragged her toward the door, and this time she pushed him forcibly away from her; but he still wouldn't let go. Finally she hit him, and he fell against the door; he kicked it in anger.

After a moment he controlled his tantrum. With his back

to her he muttered, "I have something for you."

"Johnny, I can't come. I have to wait here."

When he turned back to her, his eyes were vivid blue and crazy. "What'll you tell him?"

"Enough so he won't come back again. I burned the drawings."

He glared furiously at her. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I had to. If he found them here . . . Don't you understand? He's coming to question me about Nino. . . ."

"I'll come back for you. Wait for me."

"That won't be necessary."

"Why not?"

"Because I will find my own way to wherever you're going."

"You're not thinking of leaving us?" "No. . ."

"Remember, he is your enemy. Keep saying that to yourself. He's the enemy."

"I'll remember that."

She turned and walked into the kitchen, pausing a moment because she did not hear the door close behind him. She retraced her footsteps to the hall and found him just coming out of the study. He was holding a small gun.

He came to her side. "I bought this for Teresa. You see the small lever at the trigger? Lift it, and it's set for firing. There are only four rounds."

"I don't want it."

"Take it."

"Please, why don't you leave?"

He held out the gun again. "You must be protected. He is the enemy. Always remember that."

She finally took it and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be all right."

He seemed unable to drag himself away. Gently he lifted a stray curl from her face. Then he bent his head and swiftly kissed her lips. She averted her head.

"Don't, please don't. . . ."

Her thick terry-cloth robe was open in a deep V, and he could see the crease of her breasts. He pulled at the belt and stepped back as the robe opened. Slowly she turned to look at him, trying to stop him with her glance as he lifted the fabric from her breasts. His hand was cold, his touch light. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.

He got down on his knees, kissing her belly, moving the thick robe aside to rest his face against her stomach. "I love you, I love you. . . ."

She shivered, wary of his next move, but he clung to her like a child.

"They are waiting, Johnny. You have to go."

He got slowly to his feet, leaned toward her, kissing her as her sons had kissed her. "I'll come back for you. Wait for me. Promise you will wait for me?"

"Yes, I'll wait. . . ."

She sighed with relief when he left but made no attempt to cover herself. She let the heavy gown fall to the floor and stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. As Luka had done, she lifted a stray curl and patted it into place.

Sophia lay in the deep, soapy bath. The silence soothed her; the perfumed oils relaxed her. . . .

Her hair washed and wrapped in a towel, she returned to her bedroom. With studied concentration she chose each garment she would wear, laying it out on the bed.

She stared in the mirror at her nakedness, then picked up the little gun from the dressing table. She ran the cold metal over her skin, tracing her thigh, her belly, her breasts. Then she held the gun to her temple, drew the silver barrel slowly across the high bone of her right cheek until it rested against her lips. The soft, childish kiss from the crazy, foolish boy had felt as cold as the gun.

One bullet and it would be over. She was in control of her life; she could end it if she wanted.

Slowly she put the gun down. She began putting her makeup on, carefully smoothing the foundation over her perfect skin. She brushed her cheeks with blusher and lightly powdered her face before outlining her eyes and applying mascara. Lastly she painted her lips. . . .

Joe Pirelli shaved, brushed his hair, and changed his shirt twice. He dabbed on some cologne, put on his thick, long leather coat, and was still surveying himself in the mirror when Genaro walked in. "You ready?"

Pirelli turned with a boyish smile. "Yeah, I'm ready." He locked his room, then said, "I'll see you outside the Luciano apartment at twelve, then, and don't be late."

Gennaro nodded, unaware that Pirelli had lied about the time of the meeting with Sophia. He wanted to be alone with her first.

Gennaro walked into the elevator. "How do we work it? I talk first? Hit her with the element of surprise et cetera?"

Pirelli nodded, pocketing his key, and they stood in silence while the elevator descended to the lobby. Gennaro watched as the
commissario
checked his appearance in the mirror.

"You're certainly making a great effort. What are you after, another night at the opera?"

Pirelli laughed. "Nah, I want to impress the law over here. I've got a meeting with the New York attorney general. He's supposed to be one hell of a guy, Italian. What are you gonna do?"

"Oh, I'll do a bit of shopping, get the wife something. I'll see you at twelve."

The pair of them walked silently past the reception desk and out into the street. It was thick with slush, and more snow was falling heavily.

Sophia checked her watch. It was still only ten-thirty, and Pirelli was not due until eleven. All she had to do was to get dressed. She had already packed her suitcase and arranged for a flight to Rome that afternoon.

The doorbell rang, dispelling her good mood. Was he back? Had Johnny changed his mind?

"Who is it?"

"It's Joe."

Sophia looked through the peephole and could see he was alone. She opened the door.

"You're early."

"Yes, and I've also lied. I told Gennaro to come at twelve. Is that all right?"

She hesitated, then gave a slight nod to confirm that it was. "Do you want coffee? I was just about to dress."

He stood leaning against the door. The snow had wet his hair, and it formed small curls on his forehead. His thick fur collar was turned up around his ears.

"Yes, coffee would be fine."

She gestured for him to take off his coat and to follow her into the kitchen. He left the coat on a chair in the corridor and ran his hands through his hair.

"Are you sure you don't mind my coming without Gennaro?"

She turned and smiled. "I suppose you have a reason. Black or with milk?"

"Black, no sugar. Oh, I got you some cigarettes, the ones you like."

He tossed a package of her Turkish cigarettes on the table and pulled out a chair. She smiled her thanks and continued filling the percolator.

He sat awkwardly in the kitchen chair, feeling foolish, knowing he should not have come, as he watched her getting cups and saucers, putting them on the table in front of him. As she passed him, he caught her hand.

"I had to see you, to find out if everything was all right. Where are the others?"

"I told you they were going shopping. Do you want to see them?"

"No . . . Are they all together?"

"Yes."

"You've had no trouble?"

"No. Should I have?"

He smiled suddenly. "I've missed you, Sophia."

He turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. She withdrew it quickly and gestured toward the coffee. He lifted his hand in a gesture of apology. "Sorry ..."

"What does he need to ask me? Did he tell you?"

"Better wait for him to tell you himself. By the way, I told him I was having a meeting with the attorney general. . . . It's °only partly a lie; I am having lunch with him."

"Is that why you're here, in New York?"

Pirelli nodded. "I got a possible lead to Luka Carolla. He's here in New York. I got a tip. Someone using his ID picked up the contents of a safety-deposit box previously owned by Paul Carolla."

She seemed uninterested. He continued. "I was virtually off the case. I'd already returned to Milan—"

She turned. "You mean, they closed the case? Even though you hadn't found the killer?"

"Not exactly, but we aren't looking for anyone else. The case is still open, but since this tip . . . Can I help at all?"

She stepped back quickly as if afraid he would touch her again. "No, I won't be a minute."

But when he again reached for her hand, she gave in, leaned against him slightly. "Don't, Joe. Whatever happened between us was a mistake. It is over."

He still held her. "Didn't it mean anything to you?"

Tentatively she touched his head. "Yes, at the time, of course, it did."

Pirelli looked up at her. "I'll leave my wife. Is that what you want?"

She drew away. "What I want shouldn't make any difference. If you want to leave your wife, that is your business. It has nothing to do with me."

He snapped, "Of course, it does!"

Equally angry, she turned to him. "No, it hasn't. You're married. I don't want anything to do with breaking up your marriage. That would put the on us on me, wouldn't it? What you're saying is, if I want you, you will leave your wife."

"But if I left her, where would we be?"

"There is nothing between us."

He felt as if she had slapped his face. "I see. Well, I'm sorry. I believed you felt something, maybe even wanted me, because I wanted you—"

"Then you were mistaken. I'm sorry, too."

Pirelli stood up. "Look, I'll leave, come back with Gennaro."

With some semblance of control, he asked if he could make a telephone call. Sophia nodded and pointed to the study. He made sure he didn't touch her as he passed.

The coffee percolator bubbled and frothed, and she poured herself a cup, then went back to the hall, unintentionally able to overhear his phone call. She heard the name Barzini and moved closer to listen.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, but if you could check out Barzini's associates, in particular over the last five years . . . You can contact me at my hotel. I'll be back there about three this afternoon, local time. . . . Thanks a lot, bad timing. . . . Okay, thanks!"