BELLA MAFIA (8 page)

The statements went back as far as twenty years, to the death of Michael Luciano. Although he had listened to the man for days on end, the don's voice impressed him with its strength and clarity, his choice of words. He never rambled; he was concise, meticulous about dates and facts, and when he mentioned a name, he spelled it out carefully so there could never be any confusion. Rarely was there any hesitation, and then only when Luciano, aware of implications against himself, sidestepped issues that would entail naming names he did not wish to disclose.

Emanuel typed onto the screen: "Roberto Luciano, Statement 3, Tape 4. February 12, 1987." He worked solidly until after twelve, rewinding the tape when he wanted to confirm or query something Luciano had said, continually cross-referenc- ing and checking against statements he had already compiled from previous days. He tapped the "Execute" key, tapped again; the screen had locked out. He could neither execute nor exit from the program.

Suddenly the screen flashed: "Power failure." He sat in mute fury, refusing to believe the hated words, desperately wishing them away because against all instructions, he had not backed up his disks or saved the changes he had made. The only thing he could do was shut down the system to clear the hang-up; all the work he had just done would be lost.

Swearing at his own stupidity, he reached for the switch as the telephone rang. The bell cut through his anger, startling him. As he reached for it, he knocked over a mug of cold coffee from the night before. In trying to save it from falling to the floor, he dropped the telephone receiver. It smashed against the side of his desk.

He could hear his wife's voice from the dangling phone, asking if he was all right. Yelling for her to hold on, he picked up the mug, then grasped the telephone cord to pull the receiver up. The curly flex hooked on the edge of his desk, and he swore yet again as he ran his fingers along the desk to release it. Suddenly he reacted as if he had been given an electric shock. He pulled his hand back.

His wife was shouting, "Hello? You there? Hello?"

Emanuel quickly picked up the receiver. "I'll call you back. . . . No, I'm fine, nothing's wrong. I'll call you later."

Nothing wrong? Jesus Christ . .
. He slammed the phone down and felt along the side of the desk, heart thudding. He trembled as he touched it again; he knew exactly what it was. He ran to the door and yanked it open.

The guards were at the far end of the corridor, holding a whispered conversation.

"Get in here! Move it!" Emanuel yelled.

His office was bugged. How it had been done was immaterial; the most important thing was when. How much of the Luciano tapes, his own phone calls, had been recorded? His face white with fury, nerves on edge, he stared at the word processor. Could someone have tampered with it? Even worse, accessed his disks?

Sophia and Teresa were in the hall of the Villa Rivera, waiting for Graziella. They were going to do some last-minute shopping. Rosa, who had refused the invitation, was sitting in the garden with Emilio.

As the car left the villa, Teresa was close to tears. There was the ornate marquee, the drive bedecked with flowers, all given an air of fantasy in the brilliant sunshine.

Sophia felt it too, and clasped Teresa's hand, turning back to smile at Rosa. Only then did she see the car moving into position behind theirs. She didn't realize that they were being followed until they had left the villa and passed the guards on duty at the gates. All Graziella would say to their questions was that it was what Papa wanted, that the extra hands could be useful for carrying their purchases.

"They had a guard sitting up front with the driver, and then another car trailing them with two more guys. Okay, so Papa's uptight about the trial, but they're all around the place. It's like Fort Knox."

Constantino shrugged. Like Filippo, he had been very aware of the security measures.

They could not discuss it further as their father appeared. To his sons' astonishment he was wearing a pair of carpet slippers.

"Filippo's discovered that old motorbike of his," Constantino told his father. "Do you know, he's got that engine turning over! It was rusty, not been used for ten years, but he's fixed it."

The don sat down in the wicker bucket chair; his long legs stretched out. "I was never very good on the mechanical side. You remember that time I tried to repair your mama's spin dryer? Her best linen tablecloth was spun into shreds." He laughed, shaking his head.

Filippo nudged his brother to broach the subject of the guards. Constantino opened his mouth to ask.

Don Roberto leaned on the rail of the veranda and spoke as if talking to himself. "Strange, during the war I worked in the bomb disposal unit, yet I ruined Mama's tablecloth. They taught me to blow men apart, to destroy buildings, defuse bombs, but I couldn't fix a spin dryer. ..."

His voice trailed off. Neither of his sons remembered the incident, but he seemed almost unaware of their presence. The days spent recalling the past with Emanuel had made him remember things he had long forgotten. Now he could hear a child's voice calling him: Michael's voice, no older than his grandsons'.

"Papa, Papa . . ." The don could see the white blond hair, the brilliant blue eyes peering at him over the veranda. "Papa, Papa, come for a ride with me, ride with me! Look, it's my very own bicycle!"

"You want a ride on my bike, Papa?"

Filippo didn't dream that his father would agree but asked as if it were a dare, not really caring one way or the other. When the don did agree, he became protective, suggesting that perhaps his father should just watch. But nothing would dissuade the don. Lifting his leg, he positioned himself awkwardly on the pillion. "You think I'm too old? I ever tell you about the time Michael and I rode into town on his Lambretta?"

He saw the way Filippo's face changed as he turned away and snapped, "I am not Michael, Papa, and this is a motorbike. You want a ride or not?"

Gently the don put his arms around his son's waist. "You take care for me, now. ..."

Around and around the garden went the old Harley. Theirpapa, his hair standing on end, clung to Filippo, yelling \ sheer enjoyment, waving as they passed the veranda for third time. "This is wonderful! It's wonderful!"

At four-thirty in the afternoon the women returned fi the town to find Constantino sitting on the veranda while lippo played tennis on the lawn with the two little boys i their grandfather. Graziella noticed that one of her beribboi floral arrangements looked very bedraggled, with telltale lo soil around the base, but she said nothing.

Nunzio saw his grandmother and ran to the veranda ste "Grandpa's been on the motorbike, Grandmama—and fell off!"

Graziella gasped, and Constantino laughed. "F fine, Mama. ..."

Don Roberto called the boy back and demonstrated a s vice, scattering balls all over the lawn. It was all so relaxed tl one of the guards had been cajoled into acting as ball boy. 1 don tapped Filippo on the head with his racket and called Graziella, "You know, this boy is a brilliant mechanic. He paired that old motorbike!"

Filippo twisted his racket, tossed it in the air, then cau£ it by the handle. He saw the name on the side, "Michael L ciano," just as his father put an arm around his shoulder.

"You don't tell Mama about racing those bikes, that a dei But the next race you get me a seat, okay?" He looked clost into his son's face and pinched his cheek. "Is it a deal?"

They shook hands. Then Don Roberto pulled his son in his arms. "I love you. . . . Maybe I've been too hard on yo but we'll work it out. You are my son."

Filippo could not remember ever feeling happier.

It was almost six o'clock. The men were dressing to go o to dinner. The women, who were staying home, sat togeth sorting out the wedding gifts. They had decided to display the on the dining-room table.

Sophia had fussed over the wedding dress, nervous th Rosa would not like it. It was ready to be tried on but was st; shrouded in white sheets.

Bathroom doors banged; their husbands called to each otheThe more the brothers were together, the noisier and more boisterous they became, behaving like young boys, reverting to shouting nicknames and joking.

Graziella smiled at her immaculately dressed husband as she carefully tied his bow tie. "You'll tell them tonight?"

"Yes, tonight."

She held him in her arms. "I feel it, the house opening. . . . Having everyone here has done it, even using Michael's room. We should have filled the house before this. . . . It's over, I know it. It is over, isn't it?"

He kissed the top of her head, which smelled of the sweet violet perfume he always bought her. "I feel it, too, Mama."

She patted the lapel of his dinner jacket into place, even though it sat perfectly. "You have been wonderful with the boys, especially Filippo. He loves you so. They all do, and maybe what you've decided has made you feel free to show your love."

"It is time Michael rested in peace. Maybe they won't love me too much once they know of my decision." There was a hardness to his face.

Her throat felt dry, and she blinked back her tears. "They were his brothers. They'll understand. And they will stand by your decision, as I do."

"They have no option." Gently he cupped her chin in his hand. "Don't be afraid, Mama, and don't tell the women, not yet. Let their men, my sons, tell them. That is the way it should be."

Graziella called to the women that the men were about to leave. Chattering and laughing, they waved casual good-byes, in a way anxious for the men to be gone so they could unveil the wedding gown.

Rosa, wearing a robe, blew Emilio a kiss from the landing. He was about to run to her when Filippo grabbed him.

"Don't you know it's unlucky to see the bride half naked before the ceremony?"

"I'm not, I'm not!" shrieked Rosa. She rushed to Emilio and flung her arms around him. Barefoot, her hair hanging loose and her face flushed with happiness, she kissed his crimson cheeks.

He looked fearfully toward Don Roberto, but the don was admiring Filippo's rather flamboyant dinner jacket. Turning, leaving his arm around his son's shoulder, he called to his grandsons, who peeked through the banister rails. "Sweet dreams, little ones! Now, is everybody ready? My sons ready? Come, we'll leave the women in peace."

Seeing his sons still at the top of the stairs, dressed in matching pajamas and with their faces scrubbed, Constantino could not resist. He leaped up the stairs two at a time, clasped them in his arms, kissed them both good night, and made them promise to be good.

Filippo called from the porch that the car was waiting, and Constantino hurried out. He was the last to leave the villa.

Sophia took Rosa upstairs to try on the gown while Teresa unwrapped the gifts and put them on display in the dining room. Graziella settled the two boys into the big double bed, tucking the sheets around them and listening to their prayers.

The evening was warm, and she left the shutters open slightly, noticing as she did so that the guards were gathering at the gates. She checked her watch. It was eight-fifteen; they were not due to change over until after ten o'clock.

Rosa's excited voice called out that she was ready. Teresa and Graziella hurried to the hall and waited for Rosa to come down the stairs.

Sophia ran down ahead and confided, "I think she likes her dress!" Then she called up to Rosa, "We're waiting, Rosa!"

Slowly Rosa walked to the top of the stairs. The waiting women gasped. The bodice was low-cut with a wide, scooped neck, the long, tight sleeves reached a point at her wrists, and her tiny waist was emphasized by tight lacing and a full, hooped skirt. The deeply ruffled hem was cut slightly higher at the front, trailed on the floor at the back. The cream satin fabric shimmered with thousands of tiny seed pearls stitched into a daisy pattern; a daisy headdress supported the veil. It was a fairy-tale gown.

Brimming with happiness, Rosa came down the stairs. The skirt swayed, moving with her; there would be no problems with the train.

She lifted her hands to her flushed cheeks. "Oh, Mama, I feel so good."

Emanuel insisted that his wife and little daughter leave Palermo that night under top security; he had arranged accommodation for them in Rome.

His office was swarming with police officers trying to discover how the bug had been planted despite the tight security net. They began to sift carefully through the records of every police officer who had been on duty in the past few weeks. Emanuel had given orders that they all be suspended from duty and a new team put on the case.

Emanuel took the head of the security force aside. Since his prize witness's identity was now known, it was obvious the don was in great danger. Emanuel insisted that every guard assigned to Luciano be checked thoroughly and, if necessary, replaced that same evening.

Satisfied for the time being that he had done everything humanly possible, he returned to calm his hysterical wife and to assure her that she and her daughter would be safe. He wished he could believe it.