BELLA MAFIA (76 page)

"Just give me the names, Luka!"

"Okay, okay. I can give you the names I heard. But I was not important enough to be told anything. I only know what I know because I was Paul Carolla's son."

"Adopted son, Luka."

Luka snapped out three names, names that meant nothing to Sophia, and she wrote them down on the back of the photograph. She waited for the fourth, pen poised. . . . She turned to him, and he sat back in the chair, looking directly at her.

This was the child she had abandoned, then searched for, and in her mind had given up again. He was Michael's son; he was her son, the rightful heir to the Luciano family. Now it was up to her to kill him. Yet she believed that he had just spoken the truth, that he had played no part in the murder of the Luciano men. But what about her children?

"Luka, you admitted you killed the jailer's child; the same gun killed Carlo and Nunzio—"

He snapped at her, "No! I have answered your questions. Now it is your turn."

She turned, refusing to give him the photograph. "Tell me, Luka, the two children."

His eyes blazed with impotent fury. Trapped helplessly in the chair, he rocked backward and forward, shaking the chair. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"You admit it?"

"Yes! Now, keep to the bargain. Did you lie to me? You know about the fairground." He clenched his teeth. "Who told?"

"You killed them?"

"Fuck you!
Yes, yes, yes!"

She turned the photo of Michael Luciano over, leaving it directly in front of him on the table. He laughed, leaning forward to see it.

He shook his head in disgust, his eyes narrowed. "You lied to me. I spit on this kid."

"You spit on your father, Luka. He was Michael Luciano. The photograph was taken just before he died. He was twenty-two years old."

He hissed, spitting like a cat at the photograph, then looked at her as if for some reaction, smirking. She saw now the Luka who could kill innocent children, the man who could mutilate and violate his victims with such ferocity; madness had turned his eyes to glittering stones. He was shackled by his legs and arms, yet she had the terrifying feeling that he could, if he desired, break free.

His voice was mocking. "You always were cleverer than the others. I knew it, I always knew it. And I know you'll be the one to cut me loose." He laughed as she turned toward the knife.

"I know you are lying, Sophia, but I'll say I am Michael Luciano's son if that's what you want. I'll do anything for you. The rest of them mean nothing to me. You will have everything I promised you, remember?"

Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the knife, her body shielding her actions. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

"I didn't lie to you, Luka."

She had to force herself to turn back to him. She had to do it now, now while she could still hear that hideous, sneering voice.

The blade went straight between his ribs into his heart. She needed all her weight, all her strength, to push it farther. She forced his body against the back of the chair until she was leaning over him, her knee pressed against his thigh. He made a soft, gurgling sound in his throat.

As she pushed herself away from him, her hand seemed frozen to the knife, as if her son were gripping her tightly, and she pulled hard until she stumbled backward.

He remained upright because his arms were still tied to the chair, but his head had rolled slightly to one side. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth and down his neck. She felt for his pulse; it still flickered. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed his still-warm lips. She could taste his blood in her mouth, could feel his soft hair, his skull between her hands. . . . Slowly the pulse stopped, and it was over.

Sophia slipped the gold heart on its broken chain into the pocket of her bloodstained gown. She unbuckled the straps from his legs and picked up the sheet to cover his body. Then she unbuckled his left wrist, seemingly calm, strangely methodical, but as she started on the right hand, the buckle would not unhook. She pulled it tighter, and his hand moved. . . . She sank to her knees.

His blood began to color the towels beneath him. It became a spreading stain on the sheet covering him. There was a light tap on the door.

"Sophia, are you all right? Sophia?" She heard Teresa's frightened whisper and forced herself to stand. The distance between the chair and the door was only a matter of yards, but each step felt like a terrible weight. Her limbs ached. She reached the door, gasping for breath, and it was a considerable time before she could turn the key and open it.

Teresa and Rosa stood like children, Rosa holding a thick blanket. They did not have to ask if it was done. Sophia's face was ghostly. She opened the door wider.

"I can't unbuckle the belt on his right—his right. . . wrist."

The two women inched into the room, looking at the shrouded figure, the bloodstained sheet. Covered, he was not the nightmare they had expected. But they, too, seemed unable to move. . . .

"Rosa, lay the blanket down, and, Teresa, help me unstrap his wrist." Teresa's hands were shaking as she jerked at the strap. As it came away, his arm, released, lolled over the side of the chair.

Sophia turned to see if the blanket was ready and looked to Teresa. "We'll need all three of us to lift him out of the chair."

Rosa wrapped the sheet tightly around Luka's head and shoulders, then gripped him by the armpits. Sophia and Teresa took his trunk and legs, staggering. They carried him to the blanket and laid him down.

"What about the knife?" Teresa demanded. "Sophia, the knife?"

Sophia got down on her knees. "Pull the sheet down, Rosa. We have to get rid of the knife."

Rosa forced herself to move the sheet away; Luka's head was almost in her lap. She gasped, "Oh, my God, oh, God!"

"Help me, Rosa," ordered Sophia.

"No, no, I can't touch him, please don't make me touch him. . . ." She began to make a strange sound, like a mewing kitten, and cringed as Sophia used both hands to pull the knife out. The blood oozed thickly, and Teresa covered his face quickly.

"Now wrap the blanket around him, hurry, Sophia."

Sophia obeyed.

"Roll him over. We'll have to roll him over."

Her face stricken as she stared now at the rolled blanket, Rosa was still making that noise. Sophia turned on her.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

"Don't. Don't shout at her!" Teresa held her hand out to her daughter. "We need you to help us. You don't have to see him, but you must help us."

They bound him in the blanket, using the straps to make sure it was secure. Then all three lifted him, carried him through the kitchen and out into the garden.

The grave had been dug beneath an oak tree at one side of the snow-covered lawn, according to Sophia's instructions. It was deep but not long enough. "Bend his knees," Sophia whispered.

He lay on his side, his knees curled up like a baby in the womb. The mother who had given birth to him now scraped at the earth with her bare hands while Teresa and Rosa used the spades to refill the grave. It seemed to dominate the vast white area of lawn. Their breath streamed out in front of them in the freezing cold, but they didn't appear to feel the chill. Sophia was still barefoot, wearing just the bloodstained cotton shift.

The grave filled, Teresa surveyed their work.

"Quickly, shovel snow across the top."

"We won't have to," Sophia said. "Look at the sky."

It was gray, and almost as Sophia spoke, the snow started again. Sophia turned back to the house, leaving Rosa and Teresa to shovel the last of the soil into a wheelbarrow. Together they tipped it onto a flower bed.

The snow fell thickly now. Suddenly feeling the cold, they ran back to the house. Rosa, pushing the wheelbarrow, slipped and fell facedown in the snow. She began to sob, and Teresa turned back.

"Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself?"

Teresa ran to Rosa as her daughter's sobbing rose to a hysterical pitch. She dragged her to her feet. "No! No! Rosa! Rosa!"

She had to slap Rosa's face, then held her tightly, talking her down, calming her, as Rosa gasped, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . . I'm sorry, Mama. . . ."

Her face was streaked with soil and blood. The wet snow-flakes made her cheeks shine. The murder they had played a part in, the covering of the corpse, the zigzag road mother and daughter had skidded along like a roller coaster since the murder of the Luciano family were an unreal, distant horror. All Teresa could think of or see at this moment was her daughter's beauty. She cupped Rosa's face in her hands and kissed her lips.

"Rosa, everything will be all right now. It's over."

Graziella slowly drew her curtains. From her window she had watched them digging the grave, watched them carry the shrouded body, watched them bury him. Her heart had reached out to Sophia, in her bare feet and bloodied nightgown, forced to commit a murder that numbed her senses to such an extent that she did not feel the freezing night. She had seen her granddaughter fall as she hid the evidence of the murder, heard her cry and understood the hysteria, wept when she witnessed the gentle kiss between mother and daughter. She had remained watching until there was no trace left of the freshly dug earth or the grave.

It was not over; they had to clear away any incriminating evidence. Each had been allocated tasks, and it helped them to be forced into making sure it was done.

Rosa started a bonfire in what was once a walled vegetable garden; with the house left empty much of it had grown wild. Rosa discovered a stack of old newspapers left in the garage and used them to kindle the fire.

Teresa carried Luka's clothes and few personal belongings from his room, stuffed the pockets of his clothes with paper soaked in turpentine and tied them into parcels with string. Sophia washed down the banisters, Luka's bedroom and the bathroom he had used, putting his toothbrush and comb in a bag. Then she put the bag into the garbage compactor and turned it on. From the kitchen window she could see smoke rising from the fire outside.

Teresa threw Luka's clothes into the fire. As the flames lifted and crackled, she hurried back to the house to check that she had missed nothing. Rosa remained by the fire, prodding it with a stick to keep it burning. Looking around, she noticed a row of canes stuck in the earth in a sheltered corner. She turned back to the flames, remembering that sunny morning when Luka had kissed her, when he had laughed with Graziella, pointed out where he would plant new seeds. She watched now as his clothes turned to ashes.

Sophia still wore her blood-soaked nightdress. From the kitchen door Teresa said, "Take it off. I'll burn it. . . . Sophia?"

Teresa had to repeat herself. Sophia's feet were blue with cold. Slowly she lifted the gown, remembered the heart in the pocket and took it out.

"The gown, Sophia, give it to me. I have to burn it." She looked for something to wrap around Sophia, but there was nothing. She took her own coat off and accepted the blood-soaked nightdress from Sophia. "Put this on, take a hot bath . . ."

Sophia nodded but just stood there. Teresa went to her and tried to put the coat around her, but Sophia pushed her away.

"Don't touch me. Please, don't touch me."

Sophia stumbled up the stairs and into her bedroom. She locked the door after her and lunged across the room toward the bathroom. She almost fell into the white-tiled shower, hitting her shoulder on the wall, but she turned on the water, tried to wash away the bloodstains on her body, her hands . . . and still she clasped the little gold heart.

The icy water hurt her, as if someone were slapping her face, her body. But still she made no attempt to turn on the hot water. She put the heart in her mouth and bit into it; her belly heaved, the pain ripping her apart as it had done at her son's birth.

She hit out at the tiles until her fists bled, banged her head against them, yet she would not allow herself to make one sound. This was her punishment, her silence; no one must ever know what she had done. Nothing anyone ever did to her, nothing she could ever do to anyone, would alleviate her guilt. She had committed the utmost crime: She had given birth, rejected her own blood, and, in the end, slaughtered it. She and no one else had destroyed the heart of the family. The child she had discarded for her own greed had become a monster, but the secret would remain as silent as Luka's grave. She would protect all that was left with the ferocity and, if need be, the violence she now knew herself capable of.

The day after Luka's murder, Teresa, Rosa, and Graziella went to bed. Having been up all night, they slept through the day, overwhelmed with fatigue. Mercifully their exhaustion blanked out the horror in which they had participated.

For Sophia there was no sleep. If she closed her eyes, she saw her son's face. She wandered around the house, unable to sit, unable to rest. Her only solution was to occupy her mind with the family papers.

She left the lights off in the drawing room and read by the glow of the fire, studying Michele Barzini's notebook, checking his figures against the missing sums of money from the Luciano estate, the multiple accounts, the fortune that had so mysteriously vanished. Time and time again, the amounts listed by Barzini, with strange markings beside them, matched those of the stolen money. She couldn't break the code, but she wondered if the few initials beside the figures were the first letters of the banks' names. She turned to the list of names printed on the back page. Graziella had recalled two of them, but Luka had know three. They were members of different families, in diverse businesses. If they all had joined forces, agreed on the