The Incident at Montebello (44 page)

Crispino and Lelo nodded. The farm was a tattered relic from Nonna Angelina's father. It barely produced enough oranges and lemons to satisfy the family's needs, but it was just a few kilometers outside town—close enough for everyone to make the trip before nightfall.

Crispino said, “I'll hitch the wagon.”

“What about you?” Lelo asked Donato.

“I'll stay here and take care of the reporter.”

“How?” Lelo asked.

“Don't worry about it. Balbi's got nothing on me. I wasn't even here when the accident happened.”

“Be careful,” Lelo warned. “Balbi makes up his mind first and looks at the facts second.”

“I'll take care of it,” Donato reassured him.

“Leave it to Donato,” Nonna Angelina said. “He'll handle everything. Our troubles will be over.”

“Of course you'd think that,
nonna,
” Marie Elena said, frowning. “But he's not telling me where to go and what to do.”

To Isolina's surprise, Lucia rested her hand on Marie Elena's sleeve. “He's right. Let's go to the country.”

As Marie Elena stared into Lucia's eyes, her lips twitched, but after a moment, she nodded.

Donato said, “All right everyone.
Andiamo.
Let's go.” Without another word, he rushed out the door.

Nonna Angelina clapped her hands. “Quick. Quick,” she told everyone and the house cleared out.

Isolina and the children followed Lucia back to her house. Once inside, Lucia wasted little time. She told Nietta, “Pack your things. We're going to the farmhouse. Take as much as you can in one suitcase.”

Nietta cried, “But I hate it there. It's cold and everything smells like wet socks.”

Lucia begged, “Please, Nietta. I don't have time for this. It won't be so bad. Isolina's coming with us. Isn't that right, Isolina?”

She nodded. “You can sleep in my bed, dear,” she told Nietta. “We'll be nice and warm.”

“Right now I need you to listen to me, Nietta,” Lucia said. “Go to the barn, pull out the suitcases, and bring them here. Do you know where they are?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Hurry,” Lucia said as Nietta clattered out the door. Then she turned to Charlie. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she told him, “We're not going to the farm. We're going to America. But no one must know.”

Charlie stared at her, wide-eyed. “Not even papà?”

“Especially papà. He's not coming with us. I need you to go to Faustino's and pick up some important documents. Don't lose them and don't tell anyone where you're going and what you're doing. After that, I need you to bring the wagon around. We'll meet by the barn within an hour. And remember. Everyone must think we're going to the farmhouse.” When Charlie dashed away, Lucia sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “Santa Maria mother of God help me,” she murmured.

“Are you sure about this,
zia
?” Isolina whispered.

She lifted her head. “How can I stay here? You heard what Charlie said. He's next.”

“But what about Signor Sardolini?”

“He wrote me a letter right before he left. He told me if he was caught, he wanted us to go to Boston. He'll meet us there as soon as he's released or escapes.”

Isolina was numb, but her legs drove her through the quiet streets. Back at the cottage, she raced upstairs. With a shudder, she emptied the trunk at the foot of her bed and paused, her eyes sweeping over the room. She memorized how the light struck the mirror on the wall, brushed over their wedding picture on the dresser, and shot across the floor to the bed with the handmade quilt passed down from Nonna Angelina. Picking up the photograph, she brushed away a speck of dust as if it were a stray curl that had crossed his cheek. “
Caro mio
,” she whispered, “the truth and justice will win. I promise you. And remember, you're always in my heart, no matter how far away I go.”

The reporter, who was drinking whiskey at Mosca's, dragged a comb through his blonde hair, making tiny furrows. Towering over the local men, he possessed the fair good looks, broad shoulders, and big feet so highly prized in America. In under a minute Donato had decided that this particular American in the gray suit and patterned tie was like all the others—full of unwarranted confidence and limitless arrogance, mostly unjustified. Still he hesitated, knowing Charlie's future and his own depended on his ability to sweet talk this American and make sure he didn't unearth any more damning evidence about the accident, the family, Il Duce, or the
fascisti
. It was a tall order, but he was determined to get the Americans and the police off his back.

“What are you waiting for?” Pasquale said, nudging him. “Set him straight.”

“If you don't, who will?” Arturo whispered.

With a sigh, Donato strolled over to the American. In his fluent English, he offered to buy the reporter a drink. “So what's up, boss?” Donato asked after a blast of whiskey.

“I'm looking for a family that lives here. The Buonomanos. Do you know them?”

Donato's heart was thumping. “What you want with that people?”

“A car accident happened here a couple of months ago. Their daughter Sofia was killed.”

Donato squeezed out a laugh, but to his ears, it sounded more like a nervous twitter. “The
americani
newspapers have interest to that?”

The man leaned forward. “News is news, especially if Mussolini's involved. He was the driver and an American millionaire was the passenger.”

“Mussolini?” Donato frowned. “Where'd you get that crazy idea? Maybe you going to tell me why the big shot like him is coming all the way down to here? This place is so small you can no find us on the map. So, I'm telling you. The driver no is Il Duce.”

The reporter wasn't giving up easily. “But do you know the Buonomanos?”

Donato shrugged. “Sure. What you think? We're the grand place like New York? No sir, boss. Always we seeing this one and that one in the street. But I'm telling you something. Many Buonomano people, they go to America. I gotta maybe one cousin here, maybe two. That's it.
Finito.
”

“So you're a Buonomano?”

Realizing his mistake, Donato started to sweat. Thinking fast, he decided it was safer to dole out the partial truth. “Sure, but we gotta big family. Lots of cousins. But I tell you, most of they go to Boston. The North End.”

“And the girl who died last September—what can you tell me about her?”

“Little. I was living to Boston in that time. I hearing little news from my family. But they tell me my cousin is make sick with malaria in that time. Too many
paesani
make sick and they give it to everybody. The old people and the kids fall down dead like the flies.”

The reporter studied his whiskey, probably worrying about the germs multiplying there. “So you're saying the girl's parents are living now in Boston?”

Donato nodded. “After they putting the body into the dirt, they taking the suitcase and they go to the North End. Salutation Street. They still living over to there.”

“Did they ever mention anything about their daughter's death?”

“Not to me. Sorry, I no can help you. You come all the way over to here for
niente.
Nothing.”

“The paper's paying me, so what do I care?” the reporter said.

Donato shrugged and gulped his whiskey. “So how long you stay here?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“You got some bed for tonight?”

“At the priest's.”

“Why you come to my place? You no get the sleep over there. Forget it, boss. The
padre
snores big time.”

“Thanks just the same. I'll take my chances.”

After shaking the reporter's hand, he rushed out of the
caffè
and headed straight for the rectory. When the priest's housekeeper swung open the door, she scowled at him. Come to think of it, he had never seen her homely face break into a smile. “The
padre's
out,” she grumbled. “He'll be back by dinnertime. You can count on that.”

As Donato rushed through the piazza, he passed Don Cosimo who was, as usual, tossing crumbs to his birds. When the
mafioso
waved to him, a hint of a smile lingered on his lips. “Busy, eh?” he said. “Don't forget. Leave no stone unturned.”

“That's right,” Donato cried and kept moving. Because he was working so hard to contain the damage to himself and his family, he gave little thought to what the
mafioso
said until later. Much later.

Back home, Charlie, who was loading the wagon with bundles and suitcases, shot a worried glance at him. His swollen nose was turning a nasty shade of grayish brown. Stupid little fool. If the boy had listened to him instead of Sardolini, he wouldn't be hurting right now. He had brought it on himself.

“So how does it feel to be a hero?” Donato said. “Prefetto Balbi told me all about it—how you had a laugh on the new mayor and you trusted a traitor, but now you're paying the price. And so is Sardolini. Remember that, Charlie. Look who outsmarted him. If you listened to me, you would have stayed out of trouble.”

The boy nodded and said, “I know, papà. I'm sorry, papà.”

Donato was pleased that the boy was finally humbled, and expected a word of thanks or acknowledgement that he had been right all along, but he got nothing. He frowned. “Where's your mother?”

“Upstairs.”

“Has anyone left yet?”

“Everyone except us and Isolina.”

In a few strides, Donato was clambering upstairs to the bedroom where Lucia was stuffing clothes into a suitcase. “Charlie's ready,” he panted, winded from running upstairs. “What's taking you so long?”

She shrugged off his question and kept folding clothes.

He dragged his fingers through his hair. He needed to explain. “The reporter knew a girl in our family died, but not much more than that. I told him bunch of lies, but he's hungry for more. He's still at the
caffè
drinking whiskey and sticking his big nose into our business.”

She said nothing as she layered clothes in the suitcase. He rushed on trying to make her understand that despite every hurt, every accusation, he still had her best interests at heart. “I'm trying to protect you and the kids, but you can't see it because his love has blinded you.”

She frowned and broke her silence. “I know you better than that. You're more interested in saving your own neck. I know what you're capable of.”

“What do you mean?”

Her stare made him squirm. “I know about the money you stole from your boss. I know Iggy is blackmailing you. It serves you right.”

“
Merda
,” he swore, taking a step towards her. His heart was banging and thumping against his ribs, but she wasn't finished.

“And if that's not bad enough, you stole from me too. Did you think I wouldn't notice? The money was my parents'. They left it to me in their will.”

“I needed it.”

“Why? To pay off Iggy, that bum, who never worked a day in his life?” She turned away in disgust. “It's late. I don't have time to waste talking to you.” Wincing, she hoisted the suitcase and rushed downstairs.

He was right on her heels. He grabbed her shoulder before she reached the door. “Give me a chance to explain.”

“Nothing you say will make a difference.”

As she struggled with the bag, a thought niggled at him. “All that luggage for just one night?”

She hesitated and shrugged. “It's always cold over there.”

He stared at her, his heart hammering. “You're not going to the farm, are you?”

“You have a better imagination than I thought.”

“Tell me where you're going.”

She lowered her head. “I told you. The farm.”

“You're lying. If you think you can leave me and take the children with you, think again. They're staying with me.”

“And if they do, what will happen to Charlie now that Prefetto Balbi has targeted him? You know what the
fascisti
are capable of. Is that what you want?”

He struggled for air. He felt like he was being choked. She kept talking.

“You're going to let me and the children go and you're not telling anyone.”

“And if I don't?”

She studied him, her hands on her hips. “I'm wiring your boss Vittadini and telling him you stole his money.”

He staggered under the weight of her hatefulness. “You would do that to me? I try to protect you and the children from the police and you'd turn me in?”

For a moment, she bit her lip and said nothing. When she looked up at him, she had tears in her eyes. “No one has ever hurt me or the children more than you, Donato.”

“Go,” he said. “Get the hell out of here. A peasant girl can make me happier than you ever could—in bed and out.”