BELLA MAFIA (10 page)

She looked at him, so distressed that only now did she really see him. She saw his fear.

"More?" she said.

He nodded, and his face twisted as he tried to stem the flow of his tears as they streamed down his face.

Her voice was like steel, loud, harsh. "Look at me, tell me. . . .
Tell me!"

He gripped the back of a chair, and with his head bowed, his eyes closed, he told her. He fought hard to control his own emotions to enable himself to comfort her, but it was she who gently patted his arm. Her hand felt feather-light.

He turned to take her in his arms, but she stepped back. She gave a strange sigh, then patted her chest as if her hand registered her heartbeat. He had no words of comfort; there were no words. He stood in wretched misery.

Slowly she walked behind the don's desk, stood staring at the row of photographs. To Mario's consternation she sat down, almost businesslike, and picked up a pen, pulled a piece of paper forward, and began to write. She wrote quickly, covering the entire page, then calmly reread what she had written before handing it to him.

"Would you please contact everyone on this list? The marquee must be taken down."

"Graziella—"

"No, please listen to me. I want the flowers taken away, the caterers and the guests informed. No one must come to the villa. Tell the guards; then ask everyone to leave. We must be left alone, do you understand? We must be alone."

Domino was in awe of Graziella's self-control. It was her decision to tell each woman separately; she asked only that the doctor accompany her.

She chose to see Rosa first, sat holding her hand while the doctor sedated the shocked, hysterical girl. The wedding dress was still hanging on the wardrobe door, and Graziella was the one who removed it; but Rosa would not let go of the veil. She clung to it tightly, even when she finally slept.

Teresa repeated her husband's name. The terrible confusion of trying to accept not only the deaths of the children but of all the men was beyond her. She smoothed her skirt constantly, chewed her lips, whispering, "I don't understand, I don't understand ..." She looked past the doctor to the waiting, silent Graziella.

"There'll be no wedding, no wedding?" her eyes, behind the thick-rimmed glasses, were magnified like a china doll's, blank eyes that slowly, as Graziella waited, began to register. ... As the facts hammered at her dulled senses, her breath caught in her throat, then quickened until she was gasping. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and at last, she wept. She asked, after a while, to be left alone.

The doctor warned Graziella to take care, that she must rest, but she went across the landing to Sophia's room and inched open the door. Sophia was sleeping, facedown, her arms splayed out, one hand dangling over the side of the bed. Graziella closed the door softly.

"Doctor, please leave some tranquilizers, in case my daughters need further sedation. I shall administer them, I shall take care of them. Good night, Doctor, thank you for being here. You, too, Mario. Good night."

Domino watched the taillights of the doctor's car going down the drive. Then he slowly pulled on his coat. There was nothing more he could do for Graziella tonight. He stood forlornly in the empty hallway for a few minutes, then let himself out. But he couldn't leave; he sat on the stone steps, head in hands, and wept.

Rosa remained deeply asleep. Teresa was grateful; her own sense of loss was too much to share. She wanted nothing but to lie in a dark room, alone.

Graziella persuaded Teresa to sip a little brandy. She had still not told Sophia, although she knew she was now awake. She had seen the light beneath her door.

For Sophia she had to steel herself, clench her hands until the nails cut into the palms. . . .

Sophia was sitting at the dressing table, her long dark hair hanging almost to her waist, her hands folded in her lap. The aftereffect of the tranquilizers made her feel woozy. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, slightly puffy from weeping. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she were whispering to herself or praying. She did not turn when Graziella entered the room and stood quietly behind her. She did not even acknowledge Graziella's hands on her shoulders. Graziella reached over and picked up the silver-backed hairbrush, began to stroke the thick, silky hair. A few strands crackled with static, and Sophia closed her eyes.

"Mama, tell me it is a nightmare. Tell me that any moment I will wake up and it will all be over."

Graziella continued the long, slow strokes. Suddenly Sophia turned sharply and gripped her mother-in-law's wrist. "Where are they? Why aren't they here? Where is Constantino?"

When she was told, Sophia began to wail, and her wails echoed and hung on the air as grief itself.

The shutters were closed, the curtains drawn. The workmen came and went until there was no trace left of the wedding preparations. The gifts were repacked in their boxes; the cards and telegrams that arrived were stopped at the gates. The ornate, brilliantly colored floral displays were thrown onto the rubbish heap, but the fallen petals remained to blow about in the cool night breeze and brown to a crisp in the heat of the day.

The Villa Rivera was shrouded. Like animals caged, the press gathered at the wrought-iron gates, hands clasping at the bars, but they remained closed.

Graziella insisted that she alone identify the dead. Wearing mourning, a veil covering her face, she clung to Mario Domino's arm as he guided her through the groups of camera-flash- ing photographers. Scuffles broke out as the carabinieri pushed the photographers out of the way.

As soon as they entered the morgue, Graziella withdrew her hand, determined to stand alone. Silently she allowed Domino to walk ahead, following the white-coated policemen along corridor after chilling corridor. They entered the white-tiled cold room.

The mortician's hands, encased in fine yellowish rubber gloves, slowly withdrew each cover, lifting each just enough for Graziella to view the face. She moved from corpse to corpse, crossing herself and calling each one by name, the only words she spoke. She made no attempt to touch the bodies.

"Roberto Luciano . . . Constantino Luciano . . . Filippo

Luciano . . . Emilio Luciano . . . Carlo Luciano . . . Nunzio Luciano ..."

Then Graziella once again took Domino's arm, and he helped her back to the Mercedes; but she refused his offer to accompany her to the villa. As he closed the door carefully, a feeling of helpless inadequacy again consumed him.

Slowly her window slid down. Her face was a shadow behind the veil.

"I will bury my dead. There is not one Luciano left alive, and I want everyone in Sicily to know, to demand justice. You will arrange for me to meet Giuliano Emanuel. You are to tell him he has a new witness for the prosecution, do you understand?
Grazie, Mario,
grazie. ..." She raised her black-gloved hand a fraction to indicate that she wished to leave. Before he could say a word, the window closed, the car drew away from the sidewalk, and she was gone.

Hours after the Luciano murders were discovered, the bodies of the chef and one of the waiters were found. They had been bound and shot with a Heckler & Koch P7M8 pistol, the sign of a professional gunman. The bodies of the don's guards were not discovered for another week. The stench of rotting flesh led the carabinieri to a well twenty yards from the restaurant. They had been shot with the same gun. The second waiter had disappeared without trace.

Cyanide was the cause of the Luciano deaths. There were traces of it in every dish they had eaten and even in the wine.

As the investigation continued, it was calculated that three or possibly four men were involved. Casts of footprints were taken from the damp earth around the well. Fingerprint experts began assessing the hundreds of prints taken from the restaurant. A week after the assassinations there were no suspects.

Luka Carolla traveled by train to the northwestern tip of Sicily, sixty miles west of Palermo. He was heading for the walled town of Erice, which rises half a mile above sea level, a virtual citadel, looking out over the Egadi Islands with a clear view to Tunisia and the North African coast.

The walk from the station was long, and the steep, recklessly curved road was deserted. He had chosen to arrive so that he made the climb in the cool of the evening. He carried a small overnight bag and a long, thin leather case. His shoes were scuffed and white with dust. He had removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, but his straw hat made his head sweat, soaking his white blond hair and dripping on his shirt. The heat was exhausting, and his mouth was dry; but when a donkey cart passed him, he made no attempt to obtain a lift.

He kept climbing, higher and higher, until he came to the Chiesa Matrica, the small church of the Mother of God. He gave a small bow of his head as he passed. Continuing along the narrow cobbled lanes, he reached the rough track he knew so well. It was not far now, perhaps another two miles.

The sky darkened. The heat gave way to a cool, light breeze from the sea. Luka took out a handkerchief and dusted his shoes, then put his jacket on. Soon he could see thick, hand-built walls with dark green moss between the stones, and he knew that he would soon reach the high monastery gates.

He was not expected, yet he knew that he would not be turned away. The heavy iron ring and old, frayed bell rope were exactly as he remembered them, and he could hear the bell ringing in the courtyard. He knew it would take a few moments before anyone could reach the door and open the small, carved peephole.

Father Angelo was painfully incapacitated by arthritis, but when he was told Luka Carolla was at the gate, he was so eager to see the boy he forgot to use his walker.

Father Angelo wrapped the boy in his arms, weeping with pleasure, making him so welcome that Luka himself was close to tears. Brother Guido, a monk Luka did not recognize, hurried to assist the father. He bent to pick up Luka's bag and was taken aback when it was snatched from his hands. Luka apologized quickly, explaining that the bag was light and he could carry it himself. He never let the long, narrow case leave his grasp.

Brother Guido took Father Angelo's arm, and the three walked slowly across the courtyard into the cool stone corridor.

The father's slow, shuffling steps halted, and he patted Luka's arm. "You shall have your old room, remember it?"

"Yes, Father, I remember it." Luka replied in English.

"They closed the orphanage, did you know? Did I write that to you?"

"Yes, Father, you did. Would it be okay if I stayed a coupla days?"

"My, my, Luka, you are American now."

Father Angelo's sandals made a familiar shushing sound or the flagstones as he leaned heavily on Brother Guido. He seemed frail to Luka; his flesh hung on his bones, and small tufts oi downy white hair sprouted on his otherwise bald head. The younger man felt such a longing to hold the old man that he moved farther into the shadows, afraid of the depth of his emotion.

Father Angelo called to two other brothers across the courtyard.

"It's Luka . . .
Lukal
You remember Brother Thomas, don't you, Luka?"

Thomas was almost unrecognizable. His girth had shrunk to almost nothing, and his once-thick, curly black hair was white above his wizened face. He smiled and waved as he came toward them with a brother who seemed even more elderly. Luka stared hard; it could surely not be Brother Louis, and yet . . . The two old men shuffled closer, and Luka realized that it was indeed Brother Louis, but it was soon clear that the old man did not know his identity. His mind was as vacant as his small, washed-out eyes.

Brother Thomas wrinkled his nose and nodded. "Luka? Well, well, Luka . . . Welcome, welcome. What a fine young man you have grown into, and so smart. You look wealthy; you look like an American through and through."

He bent his head to Brother Louis and shouted, "It's Luka, Louis, do you remember? Luka!" Brother Louis sucked in his cheeks and smiled, exposing his pink gums. Thomas repeated at a bellow, "It is Luka!" Then he shrugged. "He can't hear; he's deaf. He's over ninety, you know. Well . . . welcome, welcome." The two old men shuffled off.

Luka, Father Angelo, and Brother Guido turned a corner. Brother Guido opened the door to a cell-like stone room and ushered Luka inside. The room contained an iron bedstead, a folded mattress and pillow, a small chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. While Father Angelo leaned against the doorframe, Guido carefully removed a pressed white sheet and pillowcase from one of the drawers and placed them on the bed. Then he picked up a large white china jug, excused himself, and went to get some water.

Luka put his bag down and laid the smaller case on top of the chest. He turned, and Father Angelo smiled at him, a sweet, loving smile. Luka's mouth trembled, his eyes filled with tears, and he took the old man gently in his arms.

"Oh, my son, my beloved boy, how happy you make this old man. I began to believe I would not see you again before I die. I give thanks to God."