BELLA MAFIA (71 page)

A gardener, Mama, he had red hair—"

"Oh »
si,
Giulio! He is Adina's nephew. Now he has a taxi firm in Palermo. You know the Excelsior Hotel? Papa bought him his first car . . . Giulio Bellomo."

"Grazie,
Mama, give me Adina's telephone number in Mondello."

Graziella didn't have it, but she instructed Sophia to look for her telephone book in one of her dresser drawers in the bedroom.

Sophia searched the drawers and found the photographs that used to adorn the piano at the Villa Rivera. She looked at each one in turn: her little boys; her wedding to Constantino; another of Teresa and Filippo holding Rosa's hand when she was a toddler.

She found an old photo, brown with age, of Roberto Luciano as a young man. The black eyes stared, unsmiling, from a handsome, arrogant face that was very different from the photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. Last was the familiar face of Michael, the same as the one that had hung on the walls of the Villa Rivera. She touched it fleetingly with the tips of her fingers before she turned to the little worn book.

Adina answered the phone and wept as soon as she heard Sophia's voice. She grew quiet when Sophia assured her that they were fine but needed help. Very slowly Sophia outlined the favor she wanted, the debt that could be repaid to Don Roberto's widow. She simply required Giulio Bellomo to fix his payment books to show himself as the driver of the Lucianos' Rolls-Royce. She also wanted him to go to Milan and familiarize himself with the route from her apartment to Nino Fabio's warehouse. She was not satisfied until Adina had repeated the instructions three times. Then Sophia told her that she must prepare herself for possible questions from the carabinieri, that Giulio must not deviate from the story told by Sophia. It was imperative; it could affect Graziella's life.

Sophia then placed a call to Pirelli's hotel, knowing that he would not be there. She left a message for him to the effect that Graziella's recollection was that the driver was called Giulio Bellomo, nicknamed Johnny, and supplied his address.

Sophia began to remove all the personal papers from Teresa's study, packing anything that seemed to be of importance into her briefcase. She then went to each room, searching drawers and bedside tables, removing everything she thought necessary. She did not want to take too much; it was imperative she did not make Johnny—Luka—suspicious, but she had to make sure she took everything important so they would never have to return to the apartment again.

Sophia's hoped-for freedom was over. She knew now she would never be free of the Lucianos; they would cling to her like a curse. But now she no longer felt dragged down by the fact; it was as if she were standing outside herself, watching, gently denying any fear.

Pirelli opened a new package of cigarettes. Gennaro, sitting next to him on a barstool, gave him a sidelong glance. In front of them stood a row of empty glasses.

"Maybe we should grab a sandwich? What do you think?"

Pirelli gave him a sour look and gulped his whiskey down without bothering to reply.

"What's the next move, Joe? What's next?"

Pirelli hunched over the bar. "I don't know."

Gennaro stared into his drink. "You know, the only time I saw any kind of reaction from her was when you said the name Johnny Moreno. She seemed to kind of tense up, but I couldn't see her face. But say it was him at Fabio's place, I mean, if he had somehow wormed his way into driving for her, do you think even after everything you told her, she still would have denied it?"

Pirelli sniffed and hunched further over the bar. "You got any kids?" "No."

"Well, I've got one, a boy, and if he had been shot and my wife were told who had done it, even if she'd robbed a fucking bank with him, you think she wouldn't do something, say

something?"

"Maybe your wife would, but then she's not a Luciano."

"Jesus Christ, what the hell difference does that make? Sophia’s a woman, a mother. You should have seen her when I first met her. She wanted the killer then, even accused me of not trying to find him because she was a Luciano. . . . Well, "now she knows all there is to know. If she wanted him caught before, stands to reason she wants him even worse now. If she'd recognized him, do you think she wouldn't have said? Wouldn't have reacted? Your witness has to have been wrong."

He ordered another round of drinks. Gennaro shook his head, refusing the refill. "You still gonna see what you can get from the Barzini tip?"

With a nod Pirelli knocked his drink back. "Yeah, while I'm here, I'll do whatever I can. You gonna hang around to see the old lady? Do you need to now?"

Gennaro shrugged. "Nah, it's not worth it. I can get the next flight back. With the expenses that cheap bastard handed out, I can't afford to stay. Besides, I reckon you'd like an excuse to go back and see the beautiful Sophia, huh?"

"What?"

"Come on, you still expect me to believe your meeting was accidental? A quiet supper, and you didn't even try to make her? I would have if I were in your shoes. Christ, what a pair of legs—"

Pirelli interrupted by waving his hand to the bartender. He snapped, "You've got it wrong. You don't make women like Sophia Luciano."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't blame you for trying."

Pirelli glared and turned back toward the bartender. He tossed some dollars on the bar to cover the tab, then picked up his coat. "Don't push it, Gennaro, or you'll get that bowl of peanuts rammed down your throat. Call the hotel, see if there's any messages, and I'll grab a cab."

It was freezing, the snow pelting down. Cab after cab splashed past, and Pirelli, frustrated, turned his fur collar up around his ears. Every cab that passed was taken or had the off duty sign up. He was actually standing within yards of the entrance to the Luciano apartment, but he couldn't bring himself to look in its direction.

Heading down the street, no more than a hundred yards away and hemmed in by the traffic, Luka Carolla impatiently inched the rented limo forward. He was within moments of the apartment block when an empty taxi turned out of a side street, its availability sign lit up. Pirelli stepped into the road to hail it as Gennaro, holding a newspaper over his head, ran from the bar.

"Hey, Joe, she's already called the hotel."

Halfway into the taxi, Pirelli stopped and turned.

"What?"

"Sophia Luciano—she left a message."

Pirelli's heart stopped. "For me?"

"No, it's the name and address of the chauffeur."

Two cars behind in the traffic, Luka Carolla had his hand on the horn, urging the cab to move on. He swore at the delay.

Pirelli climbed into the cab and slammed the door shut. Gennaro banged on the window. "Hey, what about me?"

Pirelli yelled, "I've got to see the attorney general."

The taxi moved on, almost causing an accident with the car behind. The cabdriver yelled abuse while Gennaro shouted to Pirelli, "I thought you'd already seen him?"

Pirelli opened the window and stuck his head out. "I lied! I was making passionate love to Sophia Luciano! See you back at the hotel."

Gennaro, his newspaper disintegrating on his head, gave him the finger. "Lying bastard," he muttered, getting his feet soaked as a stretch limo passed him.

The limo took a left turn into the underground garage beside Teresa Luciano's apartment block, passing Gennaro by inches.

If Pirelli had looked out of the back of the cab, he would have seen him. It was as close as he had come to finding Luka Carolla. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his face dry.

"You have a good Christmas?" the cabdriver adjusted his mirror. "Gonna be freezing tonight."

Pirelli nodded but made no reply. He didn't want to get drawn into conversation, and the lump in his throat wouldn't nave made it any easier. ... He sat back and closed his eyes. Maybe she had no feelings for him; maybe she had been hurt much; maybe she was simply out of his reach, beyond him. e knew he would never forget her. Perhaps when he was an man, he would dream of her, remember the passion, her Wondrous hair across the pillow, her sweet smile when she ched up to him. But he knew it would not happen again; he d make no attempt to see her; it was over.

Sophia ..." He said her name just once, without emotion, and there was none left. It felt as though a missing part of him were being compressed back into shape. As soon as he returned to Milan, he would take the vacation that was owed him, and he would make it up to Lisa. Just thinking of his family gave him a sense of security, a sense of how much he had almost lost. Sophia had lived her life with secrets, weaving lies so that her past would not catch up with her. It was therefore not difficult to lie to Luka; it was easier than she had anticipated because she no longer felt any guilt. At her suggestion Luka returned the rented limo, and they drove to Long Island in the Lincoln. The more lies she wove into her report of her interview with Pirelli, the more she saw Johnny, or Luka, relax. As the snow continued to fall, she felt wrapped in a cocoon, a private world she alone controlled.

The snow was thicker than ever as Sophia and Luka drove up to the Groves. She looked back to the gates to see them ease shut electronically.

Luka deposited her at the front porch and drove around the back to park. She hardly had time to shake the snow from her coat before Graziella threw open the door. She clasped Sophia to her, drawing her into the impressive hallway.

Rose hurried down the wide, sweeping staircase, wrapped in a bath towel. "There's an indoor swimming pool. I've been swimming," she said delightedly.

Sophia was pulled this way and that, and all the while Luka hung back slightly, blushing and smiling with pleasure. Sophia said all the right words.

They all seemed to have had great weights lifted from them, and nothing in Sophia's manner gave even a hint of what was to come.

As soon as Luka drove off to shop with Graziella's extensive grocery list, Sophia called to Teresa and stopped Rosa on her way back to the swimming pool.

"Go and get Mama. I want to talk to all of you, and hurry, we don't have much time."

They converged on the hallway from various parts of the house. Sophia stood at the door of the living room and gestured frantically for them to come inside. She then shut the doors as if to keep them all in the room.

"Is this about Pirelli, Sophia?" Teresa demanded.

"Yes, and you'd better sit down, all of you because I don't know how to make what I have to say any easier."

Her husky voice held them all. "You must keep calm. We have to work out exactly what we are going to do and how we are going to do it."

They waited expectantly as she paused a moment, then plunged straight in: "Johnny Moreno is not who he says he is. He is Paul Carolla's adopted son. His real name is Luka. He is Luka Carolla."

Luka loaded two more bags of groceries into the Lincoln. He could hardly close the trunk; there was enough food and wine to keep them for months. He checked the list to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Then, satisfied, he drove to a gas station. He had been out nearly two hours.

Sophia stood with her arms folded, her fingers gripping her upper arms so tightly she could feel the nails cutting into the flesh. The atmosphere was tense now; she was surrounded by panic-stricken faces.

She continued. "He must not have any idea that we know. Mama will begin cooking, and we will prepare dinner as if nothing has happened. Keep him occupied; keep him out of the way. Teresa and I will make sure every exit from the house is locked. There must be no way out, no escape. As soon as we know he can't move out of the house, we eat. We all sit down together as planned. He may not seem dangerous, but remember, Pirelli said he must be exceptionally strong to cut his victims so viciously. ... If you waver, if at any time you feel afraid, you, Teresa, remember Filippo, Rosa, your Emilio, and you, Mama, think of Papa, my babies, Constantino. . . . All of you keep remembering what he has done and know we will, as we have prayed, at last get justice. And

we all want it, we do all want this? Don't we?"

Her face was like a beautiful mask as she looked from one woman to the next. Rosa wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, afraid to meet Sophia's penetrating gaze.

"Rosa? Rosa?"

Rosa swallowed and half rose from her seat as Sophia loomed over her. "Do you want to leave? Rosa, if you want to leave, you had better say so."

"No . . . No!"

"Fine. Then dry your eyes. Are you all right?"

"No, of course I'm not, because you could be wrong about him. You don't know for sure."

"Then he can prove it. We'll give him that chance. Now go get dressed. You all were expecting to dine in your best, so dress—and act—as if nothing has been said."

Graziella remained seated, her hands on her knees, her eyes closed as if in prayer.

Teresa whispered sliakily, "Maybe you shouldn't have told Mama?"

But Sophia shook her head. "We need her; she'll have to slip the stuff into his dinner; she always serves."

Graziella spoke, and there was not even a tremor to her voice. "I pray to God you are not wrong, and I thank God if you are right. Then I can die in peace."

Sophia knelt by Graziella, held her hands. "Mama, he'll have the chance to answer all our questions. We won't do it until we are sure, and we will be sure when we do it."

Teresa was afraid, she knew it. For all her bravado, everything seemed to pale against Sophia's cold, calculating demeanor.