Omerta (35 page)

Astorre coolly watched them. Aldo Monza was standing unnoticed behind another of the machines. Astorre saw a twitch in Aspinella’s face. Then, as if it were happening in slow motion, he saw her slip behind Tulippa and fire at Cilke. But as soon as she fired, Tulippa broke free and dove to the ground, pushing her off balance.

Cilke had been hit in the chest. But he fired once at Aspinella and saw her stagger backward, blood spurting from below her right shoulder. Neither had been shooting to kill. They were following their training to the very end, aiming for the widest part of the body. But as Aspinella felt the searing pain of the bullet and saw its damage, she knew it was time to forget procedure. She took aim between Cilke’s eyes. She fired four times. Each bullet hit its mark until Cilke’s nose was a flattened pulp of cartilage and she could see chunks of his brain splattered on what was left of his forehead.

Tulippa saw that Aspinella was wounded and reeling. He tackled her and elbowed her in the face, knocking her out cold. But before he had a chance to grab her gun, Astorre came out from behind the machine and kicked it across the room. Then he stood over Tulippa and gallantly offered his hand.

Tulippa accepted it and Astorre pulled him up. Meanwhile, Monza and the surviving members of his team rounded up the rest of Portella’s men and tied them to steel support beams of the warehouse. No one touched Cilke and Portella.

“So,” Astorre said, “I believe we have some business to finish.”

Tulippa was puzzled. Astorre was a mass of contradictions—a friendly adversary, a singing assassin. Could such a wild card ever be trusted?

Astorre walked to the center of the warehouse and signaled Tulippa to follow. When he reached an open space, he stopped and faced the South American. “You killed my uncle and you tried to steal our banks. I should not even waste my breath on you.” Then Astorre pulled out the stiletto, its silver blade flashing, and showed it to Tulippa. “I should just slice your throat and be done with it. But you are weak, and there is no honor in butchering a defenseless old man. So I’ll give you a fighting chance.”

With those words and an almost imperceptible nod toward Monza, Astorre raised both of his hands, as if in surrender, dropped his knife, and took several steps back. Tulippa was older and bulkier than Astorre, but he had carved rivers of blood in his lifetime. He was an extremely qualified man with a knife. Still, he was no match for Astorre.

Tulippa picked up the stiletto and began to move toward Astorre. “You are a stupid and reckless man,” he said. “I was ready to accept you as a partner.” He lunged at Astorre several times, but Astorre was quicker and evaded him. When Tulippa stopped momentarily to catch his breath, Astorre removed the gold medallion from his neck and threw it to the ground, exposing the purple scar in his throat. “I want this to be the last thing you see before you die.”

Tulippa was transfixed by the wound, a shade of purple he had never seen. And before he knew it, Astorre kicked the stiletto out of his hand and with rapid precision kneed Tulippa in the back, put him in a headlock, and snapped his neck. Everyone heard the crack.

Without pausing to look at his victim, Astorre picked up his medallion, placed it back on his throat, and left the building.

Five minutes later a squadron of FBI cars arrived at the Viola Macaroni Company. Aspinella Washington, still alive, was taken to the intensive care unit of the hospital.

When the FBI officers had completed their study of the silent videotape recorded by the cameras Monza had run, they determined that Astorre, who had raised his hands and dropped his knife, had acted in self-defense.

N
ICOLE SLAMMED
down the phone and yelled to her secretary, “I am sick of hearing about how weak the damn Eurodollar is. See if you can track down Mr. Pryor. He’s probably on the ninth hole of some golf course.”

Two years had passed, and Nicole had taken over as head of the Aprile banks. When Mr. Pryor was ready to retire, he had insisted she was the best person for the job. She was a skilled corporate fighter who wouldn’t fold under pressure from bank regulators and demanding customers.

Today Nicole was frantically trying to clear her desk. Later that night she and her brothers would fly to Sicily for a family celebration with Astorre. But before she could go, she had to deal with Aspinella Washington, who was waiting to hear whether Nicole would represent her in an appeal to avoid the death penalty. The thought of it filled her with dread, and not just because she had a full-time job.

At first, when Nicole had offered to run the banks, Astorre had hesitated, remembering the Don’s final wishes. But Mr. Pryor convinced him that Nicole was her father’s daughter. Whenever a big loan was due, the bank could count on her to deploy a potent combination of sweet talk and veiled intimidation. She knew how to get results.

Nicole’s intercom buzzed, and Mr. Pryor greeted her in his courtly manner: “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“We’re getting killed on these exchange rates,” she said. “What do you think of moving more heavily into deutsche marks?”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mr. Pryor said.

“You know,” Nicole said, “all of this currency trading is about as logical as going to Vegas and playing baccarat all day.”

Mr. Pryor laughed. “That may be true, but baccarat losses aren’t guaranteed by the Federal Reserve.”

When Nicole hung up, she sat for a moment and reflected on the bank’s progress. Since taking over, she had acquired six more banks in booming countries and doubled corporate profits. But she was even more pleased that the bank was providing larger loans to new businesses in developing parts of the world.

She smiled to herself as she remembered her first day.

As soon as her new stationery had arrived, Nicole had drafted a letter to Peru’s finance minister demanding repayment of all of the government’s overdue loans. As she expected, this produced an economic crisis in the country, resulting in political turmoil and a change of government. The new party demanded the resignation of Peru’s consul general to the United Nations, Marriano Rubio.

In the months that followed, Nicole was delighted to read that Rubio had declared personal bankruptcy. He was also involved in fighting a series of complicated lawsuits with Peruvian investors who had bankrolled one of his many ventures—a failed theme park. Rubio had vowed it would become “the Latino Disneyland,” but all he had been able to attract was a Ferris wheel and a Taco Bell.

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T
he case, which the tabloids dubbed the Macaroni Massacre, had become an international incident. As soon as Aspinella Washington recovered from the wound inflicted by Cilke’s gunshot—a punctured lung—she had made a series of pronouncements to the media. While awaiting her trial, she portrayed herself as a martyr on the scale of Joan of Arc. She sued the FBI for attempted murder, slander, and violation of her civil rights. She also sued the New York Police Department for back pay she was owed while under suspension.

Despite her protestations, it had taken the jury only three hours of deliberation to convict her. When the guilty verdict was announced, Aspinella fired her attorneys and petitioned the Campaign Against the Death Penalty for representation. Demonstrating further flair for publicity, she demanded that Nicole Aprile take her case. From her cell on death row, Aspinella told the press, “Her cousin got me into this, so now she can get me out.”

At first Nicole refused to meet with Aspinella, saying that any good lawyer would recuse herself from such an obvious conflict of interest. But then Aspinella accused Nicole of racism, and Nicole—not wanting bad blood with minority lenders—agreed to see her.

The day of their meeting, Nicole had to wait twenty minutes while Aspinella greeted a small congress of foreign dignitaries. They hailed Aspinella as a brave warrior against America’s barbaric penal code. Finally Aspinella gave Nicole the signal to approach the glass window. She had taken to wearing a yellow eye patch stitched with the word
FREEDOM
.

Nicole launched into all of her reasons for wanting to turn down the case and concluded by pointing out that she had represented Astorre in his testimony against her.

Aspinella listened carefully, twirling her new dreadlocks. “I hear you, she said, “but there’s a lot you don’t know. Astorre was right: I am guilty of the crimes I’ve been convicted of, and I will spend the rest of my life atoning for them. But please, help me live long enough to begin to make whatever amends I can.”

At first Nicole figured this was just another one of Aspinella’s ploys to gain sympathy, but there was something in her voice that moved Nicole. She still believed that no human being had the right to condemn another to death. She still believed in redemption. She felt Aspinella deserved a defense, just as every death row inmate did. She just wished she didn’t have to handle this one.

Before Nicole could make a final decision, she knew there was one person she had to face.

A
fter the funeral, at which Cilke had received a hero’s burial, Georgette had requested a meeting with the director. An FBI escort picked her up from the airport and took her to Bureau headquarters.

When she entered the director’s office, he wrapped her in a hug and promised that the Bureau would do everything necessary to help her and her daughter cope with their loss.

“Thank you,” Georgette said. “But that’s not why I came. I need to know why my husband was killed.”

The director paused quite a while before speaking. He knew she had heard rumors. And those rumors could pose a threat to the Bureau’s image. He needed to reassure her. Finally, he said, “I’m embarrassed to admit that we even needed to mount an investigation. Your husband was a paragon of what an FBI man should be. He was devoted to his work, and he followed every law to the letter. I know he never would have done anything to compromise the Bureau or his family.”

“Then why did he go to that warehouse alone?” Georgette asked. “And what was his relationship with Portella?”

The director followed the talking points he had practiced with his staff prior to the meeting. “Your husband was a great investigator. He had earned the freedom and respect to follow his own leads. We don’t believe he ever took a bribe or crossed the line with Portella or anyone else. His results speak volumes. He’s the man who broke up the Mafia.”

As she left his office, Georgette realized that she didn’t believe him. She knew that in order to find any peace, she would have to believe the truth she felt in her heart: that her husband, despite his zeal, was as good a man as she would ever know.

A
fter the murder of her husband, Georgette Cilke continued to volunteer at the New York headquarters of the Campaign Against the Death Penalty, but Nicole had not seen her since their fateful conversation. Because of her responsibilities at the bank, Nicole had said she was too busy for the Campaign. The truth was, she could not bear to face Georgette.

Even so, when Nicole walked through the door, Georgette greeted her with a warm embrace. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” Nicole responded. “I tried to write you a condolence letter, but I couldn’t find the words.”

Georgette nodded and said, “I understand.”

“No,” Nicole said, her throat tightening, “you don’t understand. I deserve some of the blame for what happened to your husband. If I hadn’t spoken to you that afternoon—”

“It still would have happened,” Georgette cut in. “If it hadn’t been your cousin, it would have been someone else. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. Kurt knew it and so did I.” Georgette hesitated only a moment before she added, “The important thing now is that we remember his goodness. So let’s not talk any more about the past. I’m sure we all have regrets.”

Nicole wished it were that easy. She took a deep breath. “There’s more. Aspinella Washington wants me to represent her.”

Though Georgette tried to hide it, Nicole saw her flinch at the mention of Aspinella’s name. Georgette was not a religious woman, but at this moment she was certain God was testing her powers of conviction. “OK,” she said, biting her lip.

“OK?” Nicole asked, surprised. She had hoped Georgette would object, forbid it, and that Nicole would be able to refuse Aspinella out of loyalty to her friend. Nicole could hear her father telling her, “There would be honor in such loyalty.”

“Yes,” Georgette said, closing her eyes. “You should defend her.”

Nicole was amazed. “I don’t have to do this. Everyone will understand.”

“That would be hypocritical,” Georgette said. “A life is sacred or it isn’t. We can’t adjust what we believe just because it causes us pain.”

Georgette became silent and extended her hand to Nicole to say good-bye. There was no hug this time.

After replaying that conversation in her mind all day, Nicole finally phoned Aspinella and, with reluctance, accepted the case. In one hour Nicole would be leaving for Sicily.

T
he following week Georgette sent a note to the coordinator of the Campaign Against the Death Penalty. She wrote that she and her daughter were moving to another city to start a new life and that she wished everyone well. She did not leave a forwarding address.

A
storre had kept his vow to Don Aprile, to save the banks and ensure the well-being of his family. He had avenged the death of his uncle and brought honor to Don Zeno’s name. In his own mind he was now free of any obligations.

The week after he had been cleared of all wrongdoing in the warehouse murders, he met with Don Craxxi and Octavius Bianco in his warehouse office and told them about his desire to return to Sicily. He explained that he felt a longing for the land itself, that it had insinuated itself into his dreams for many years. He had many happy memories of his childhood at Villa Grazia, the country retreat of Don Aprile, and he had always hoped to return. It was a simpler life but a richer one in many ways.