BELLA MAFIA (75 page)

He murmured something unintelligible through the wet scarf. After a while Sophia gave up and walked out. Luka listened for the door to close, but all he heard was her footsteps. Was he alone? Beneath the scarf his lips stretched into a smile. . . .

Rosa, sitting on the stairs, saw Sophia walk from the room and pause beneath the chandelier in the hall. For a moment Sophia tilted her head back, closing her eyes, and she was so still, so unnaturally still, that Rosa could say nothing. She watched as Sophia crossed the hall to the coatrack, threw a coat around her shoulders, and went out, closing the door quietly. The cold draft made Rosa shiver.

Suddenly Rosa was afraid. What had her aunt done? She crept toward the open doorway and switched on the lights.

He was still sitting there, still trying to free himself. Rosa felt drawn into the room.

"Johnny? It's Rosa. Are you all right now?"

She needed to know for herself: Had he been involved in Emilio's death? So far nothing she had heard made sense, and Sophia seemed to care only about her children.

She untied the damp blindfold and Luka blinked, trying to adjust to the light. She stared into his face, then gasped and stepped back, almost falling. He was smiling, an angelic smile, but his eyes were crazy.

His voice was wheedling, plaintive. "Help me, Rosa. Untie me, please . . ." Then softly, as if he were making love to her: "Rosa, Rosa . . ."

She straightened, and for a moment he had a faint hope. Her pretty young face was confused, and he tried smiling to encourage her forward. But his eyes betrayed him, made her fear him, and she closed the door behind her.

Rosa hurried across the hall to the living room. He called her name again, just once. "Rosa!" Then he was silent.

Rosa sat with her mother. "I went in to see him. Did you hear him calling my name?"

"Yes, yes, I heard." All Teresa could do was hold her daughter's hand.

Sophia joined them, closing the door purposefully, and

looked toward Graziella's chair by the fire. "Where's Mama?"

"She wanted to be alone; she's in her room."

Sophia nodded, then drew the curtain back from the window, rested her head against the ice-cold pane and stood there with her back to them.

After a long silence she said softly, "We can bury his body in the garden. I've marked out a place, beneath a tree, where the ground is not so hard. There are spades in the garage. We must be careful to remove the top layer, the grass, and replace it after—" She turned to face them. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

Teresa was shaking, and her voice wavered. "Are you going to— Who's going to do it?"

The curtain swished back into place. The way Sophia patted the fabric back into its folds was unnerving. "I am. All you have to do is help me when it's over. I don't want Graziella downstairs, but I will tell her we have decided."

Teresa smoothed her skirt, a strange, futile gesture, and Rosa put her arm around her mother's shoulder. "It's all right, Mama, but we'd better change; it's cold outside." She gave Sophia an almost defiant look before leaving the room.

Sophia smiled sadly. "Rosa is a Luciano, Teresa."

"I hope to God you know what you're doing, Sophia."

Sophia's voice was icy. "It is what all of us are doing, Teresa. Because we are all that's left."

Teresa and Rosa headed across the lawn to the area Sophia had marked out for the grave. Their footprints were clear in the snow. They began to dig, working hard, in unison. They did not speak as they laid the frozen turf carefully to one side and dug into the hard dark soil.

Sophia had changed into a cotton nightgown, having brought few clothes with her. She had decided that whatever she wore would have to be burned. She was barefoot and moved silently around the house, hoping Graziella would not hear her. She collected an armful of towels and took a sheet from one of the beds.

As she crossed the landing, Graziella opened her bedroom door. She looked at Sophia, at the white gown and the towels, and walked back into her room, knowing Sophia would follow.

"Are you all right, Mama? Can I get you something to help you sleep?"

Graziella shook her head. "So you have decided. I knew it would be you. I am sorry. You must be very sure, Sophia. Did he talk to you?"

"No, Mama, I think he is in a world of his own—maybe hell, who knows? He certainly put us there."

"Don't say that. . . ." The pale blue eyes searched the dark, hooded ones; then she reached for her daughter-in-law's hand. She held it tightly and lifted it to her lips, kissed the soft skin. "Stop his heart for him. The boy is so sick. I saw some poison on the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards. . . . Do you need me?"

"No, Mama."

"I'll pray for you, for us all."

"Yes, Mama."

Sophia went down the stairs and listened at the door. She went into the living room and felt between the cushions, brought out the knife. She could not hesitate, could not think about what she was doing. She opened the dining-room doors.

Luka sat with his head resting back on the chair. His eyes were closed, but the fact that his blindfold had been removed unnerved Sophia. She had not wanted to see his face.

Soundlessly she moved across the room. She let the sheet drop to the floor and placed the towels around the legs of the chair. The third button of his shirt was where she would knife him, but the strap Rosa had tied around his shoulders had worked down and was covering his heart.

She put the knife on the table and began to unbuckle the belt. She had to take it off, leave his chest bare.

Suddenly he turned, opened his eyes. "Sophia? I knew you would help me. I knew you would be the one." There was no trace of the child in his voice. He was Luka. She pulled the belt away, found it wet with his sweat. She went back to the table and picked up the knife.

He smiled, convinced she was going to cut through his straps. The knife was poised, held in both her hands. The tiny gold heart on the thin gold chain was like a glowing target. She gasped, and her eyes widened. . . . Then she blinked and stepped back. Luka tilted his head to one side. Confused, he watched her put the knife down on the table. She turned to face him, staring at him with almost his own confused expression. She came closer, closer, lifted her right hand. . . . She was trembling so much her fingers quivered; she was looking not at him but at the gold locket around his neck.

Suddenly she snatched at the heart. He pulled back, and she jerked the chain harder, harder, until it snapped. She held it for a moment in her clenched hand as if afraid to open her fingers. Then she moved away from him into the shadow of the room. Her thumb rubbed at the heart, but her eyes did not leave his face. She could feel the telltale teeth marks and knew without looking that it was her heart, it was Michael's heart, it was her baby's heart.

"Where did you get this?
Where did you get this?"

With the heart still clenched in her fist she hit him directly in the face. The chain cut his lip.

"It's mine," he said.

"No, no, you stole it, you stole it." She turned, shocked, as the door was rapped sharply. Teresa's frightened whisper asked if she was all right.

"Leave me alone,
don't come in. ..."

Her breath rasped. She felt as if someone were strangling her. She pressed her face against the heavy wooden doors until she heard the footsteps going away across the marble hall. With her back to Luka, her face hidden, she uncurled her hand, then clenched it tightly again.

To Luka it seemed an age before she turned to face him again. He watched, now afraid, as she slowly circled the table. When she was at the opposite end, he saw her open her hand and look again at the heart.

Sophia could hear Graziella saying how much Johnny reminded her of Michael. Could this insane boy be her son? Michael's son?

He watched as she came closer; he could see the small beads of sweat on her brow, her upper lip, the sheen of her cheeks. He looked into her eyes, preparing himself, but it wasn't the same. There wasn't that look on her face, the one he remembered, the look in their eyes just before they hurt him.

"Please, tell me, where did you get this?"

"It's mine."

He could see the outline of her body through the thin cotton gown. She was naked underneath; strange, it was all he could think of:
She is naked.
There was something in her voice. Was it fear? What was she afraid of?

"Where did you find this, please tell me?"

"It's mine."

She moved closer to the table. "It is very important. You must tell me. Please . . ."

She reached out and touched his face, then withdrew her hand. Still frightened, he pressed his body back against the chair.

Sophia scrutinized his face, then suddenly spun around, her eyes darting about the room, looking for the envelope she had brought the pictures in. Graziella had taken the pictures that had been on the table, but Sophia knew there was one more. She saw the envelope on the floor and ran toward it, snatched it up, and withdrew the last photograph.

Luka watched, fascinated. Why was she behaving so strangely? He saw her take the photograph out inch by inch, then turn her back to hide what she was doing. A soft moan escaped her.

Standing directly in front of him now, she looked into blue eyes that registered only confusion and fear.

"Tell me the names of those who wanted the Luciano family destroyed, and in return ... in return I will tell you the name of your father."

He gave her nothing but an angelic smile of disbelief. She moved closer "I swear on the Holy Virgin that I am telling the truth. I know, Luka, I know."

His whole body was poised in an unreal stillness. He did not believe her; his pale eyes were accusing, unwavering. . . . He could not be tricked. He had no father, no mother. He had been born of the devil; that was why he had to be punished, why they had locked him away.

"You ran away, didn't you? From the holy sisters? They looked for you at the fairground."

His face became a mask; only his eyes registered the torment of confusion, one moment accusing, the next, fearful. How did she know about the fairground? And his refusal to answer made Sophia doubt. Could she be wrong?

She leaned closer. "Did you go to a fairground? Were you in Catania, Luka? Do you remember?" He looked upward; his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Tell me who ordered the deaths of my children. Give me that at least. . . . Luka?"

Silence. His eyelids fluttered; he blinked rapidly; then he stared at her, through her, an unnerving, steady gaze. He seemed to be mocking her, forcing her to be the one to look away, and it made her angry—at last, angry again.

He is not my son,
she told herself.
Thank God. He is not my child.
Somehow he had found the heart, stolen it. He was a thief, a killer, and she was wasting time.

"It was the slide, big, high slide. You came down headfirst, on a little rough mat. ... I wanted another turn on the slide."

Her breath caught in her throat. Dear God, was he lying to her? Why had she mentioned the fairground? He was clever; he always lied; he had to be lying.

She held out the gold heart in the palm of her hand. "Where did you get this?"

"I don't know," he said matter-of-factly.

"Did you steal it from another child? Find it? Why do you have it?"

"Because it belongs to me. I like to swing it in front of my eyes; it helps me sleep." He seemed to be playing a game; he showed no fear of her. Instead, he asked slyly, his head tilted to one side, "How do you know about the fairground?"

"I'll tell you, Luka, if you'll give me the names, tell me who ordered the deaths of the Lucianos."

He smiled. "Okay!"

Outside the room, Teresa, still wearing her overcoat, rested her head against the door, trying to hear what was happening. She whispered to Rosa that Luka was talking.

"What is he saying?"

Teresa put her hand up to silence her; then she straightened. "I can't hear."

Rosa sat by her side. "It's stopped snowing."

Teresa looked at her, not understanding.

"It means the grave will show clearly."

Sophia leaned on the table, about to write on the back of Michael's photograph. Luka, still bound to the chair by his arms and legs, strained forward.

"Barzini."

"You are giving me a dead man's name, Luka. I know Barzini is dead."

He continued quietly, as though he hadn't heard her. "Barzini carried the message to Sicily; that is why his was the first offer to buy out the Lucianos. He was nothing; Peter Salerno is more important, but three, maybe four families were involved. They were out to make sure that no man as high up in the organization as Don Roberto should be a witness."