BELLA MAFIA (54 page)

The Luciano trucks had taken all the crates, and they were still on schedule. Luka had burned his clothes in a bonfire in the garden, together with the blanket he'd removed from the body. Graziella didn't think his behavior strange inasmuch as there was a lot of paper work to be burned, all the private letters and papers from the don's office and the boxes of papers from the lawyers.

At six in the evening the fire still blazed. Sophia watched from the bedroom window. Luka was, she supposed, being useful, but they were running late; they should have left. She went out into the garden and called him.

"Are you ready to leave, Johnny? It's after six."

He asked for another half hour; he still had to get rid of Rocco's body and the car, without their knowledge. He waited until they were sitting in the kitchen, having coffee. He was dirty from the bonfire, and he smiled at Graziella.

"Okay, I'll just have a shower and change. Can I raid the wardrobes again?"

Graziella nodded. "Take whatever you want; it's being left here anyway. That goes for you too, Adina. As soon as we go, you bring your family here, let them take whatever they want."

Adina broke down, sobbing.

Luka climbed out the back window, shinnied down the drainpipe, and ran to Rocco's car. He clashed the gears badly and swore, hoping the women hadn't heard. He ran the car down the drive quietly, without lights.

He could not take the car any great distance since he had to get back to the villa, so he drove by the back streets to a multistory parking garage on the outskirts of Palermo. He tossed the ticket away and parked the car on the fifth floor. Just as he was getting out, the car phone rang. He was startled at first, then smiled and picked it up.

The voice was distorted at first because of the concrete building. "Giuseppe, is that you?"
"Si."

"Where the fuck have you been? Hello? I dunno why you use this make, you never get a good line. I told you to get one same's I got. . . . Rocco? You there?"

"Si
. . . I've got to leave town for a few days."

"You kiddin' me?"

Luka laughed, then raised his voice to a singsong: "I'm kidding."

The voice went silent. Then after a moment the man said, "Who the fuck is this?"

"Leave the Luciano women alone, pass it around. They are protected, understand? Rocco's dead."

Luka had only just torn his clothes off, throwing them across the room, and stepped under the shower when Sophia knocked on the door. He turned the shower off.

Sophia didn't wait for him to answer; she just walked in. "Do you know what time it is? If we don't leave now, we'll miss the last ferry."

Luka wrapped a big bath towel around him. "I'm sorry, I'll get my clothes on."

"What have you been doing in there?"

Luka shrugged. "It takes me such a long time to dress and undress, my shoulder is still very painful."

The dressing on his wound was fresh, but the wound was bleeding; a small dot of blood had seeped through.

She picked up his shirt. "I'll get you a fresh one."

By the time she returned Luka had put his trousers on. She held the shirt out for him, and he slipped his right arm in, turning his back to Sophia as he did so. She stepped back.

"My God, your back! I never noticed the scars before."

Luka went back to the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. "I fell into a combine harvester when I was a kid. Gimme two minutes, and I'll be down."

Sophia was already leaving. "I'll bring the car around to the front."

Graziella was sitting in the front passenger seat. Sophia was impatient to leave. Luka finally appeared, kissed Adina, and hugged her, promising to take care of Graziella.

Sophia snapped, "Would you just get in the car?"

"You want me to drive?"

"No, I'm driving. You can take over later. Is your shoulder all right?"

Graziella offered to drive, and Sophia jumped into the car quickly. "No, Mama, that won't be necessary."

Adina crumpled her sodden handkerchief. She had been well provided for and would return to Mondello to live out her old age in peace. But what was to happen to her beloved mistress?

"Arrivederciiiii,
Signora Graziella,
arrivederciiii\"

Graziella turned and gave her a small wave. "Good-bye, Adina."

Sophia turned the car and headed slowly down the driveway. Adina waved frantically. "Write to me, take care . . . God bless you ..."

Luka turned around in the backseat, put his fingers to his lips, and blew her a kiss. He could not see her face, did not hear her cry as the car disappeared through the gates.

The last time Adina had seen Michael Luciano alive was the day the don had driven him back to the mountain hideout. As the Mercedes moved off down the drive, Michael had turned, lifted his fingers to his lips, and blown his mother a kiss. Adina had seen it. Now, more than twenty years later, a boy with a face like an angel, a boy so similar in looks to Michael that he could have been his ghost, had given an identical farewell kiss. Adina felt chilled to her soul; it was, she was sure, a bad omen.

It was two weeks before Christmas, and there was still no trace of Luka Carolla.
still at large
was now the headline, but many papers didn't want to give it front-page coverage any longer because it was the festive season, and a scandal had just broken involving two prominent society figures.

Commissario Joseph Pirelli was now in receipt of a photograph sent from the United States. It had been taken at the last school Luka was known to have attended, when he was fifteen years old. With the photograph was a rundown of his known associates, his educational prowess, and a brief note from the principal. He had been a poor student with below-average marks and was absent more often than present. He was a loner, moody and prone to rages that caused his dismissal from several classes.

After the midterm break he had simply never come back. In the opinion of the education authorities he was a disturbing influence and required psychiatric treatment.

Pirelli called a refresher meeting in his office of everyone involved in the case. He stood in front of his notorious "wall of death," where the photographs of Luka's many victims were pinned up. Pointing to the photos, he began quietly. "I am sure, I would stake my career on it, that one man is responsible for all these murders. My problem is not proving that I'm right, but finding the bastard. You all know what lengths we've gone to, and so far nothing. But if we find Luka Carolla, it will end this investigation."

Pirelli lit another cigarette from the one he was smoking and, in a low, tired voice, repeated what he had been told by Signora Brunelli. That, coupled with his discussions with the police psychiatrist, made him certain that they were looking for a psychopath who felt nothing whether his victims were nine years old or ninety. Again and again he pointed to the photos of the children.

Inhaling deeply and letting smoke drift from his nose, he looked from man to man. "He's clever as hell, and my guess is that he works alone. His signature, so to speak, is the marking of his bullets. You can see what evidence we have so far, but what I can't figure out is what triggers him. Is it money? Or hate? Or just blood? I don't know. I don't even know if he's hired by a family. I am sure he killed his adoptive father, Paul Carolla. He was the monk, so he's good at disguising himself, and he may have more than one alias by now."

Pirelli paused, sucking at his cigarette. "I have talked to a good inside man. He knows the families. He wouldn't say whether or not the Luciano assassinations had been ordered from the top. I have one name which he tied in somehow; Michele Barzini, a big wheel in New York, acts as a negotiator between families. As yet we have found no connection between Barzini and Luka Carolla, and when I pressed my informant about the possibility of Carolla being used for a hit directed from New York, he doubted it. But Luka Carolla was brought up around Carolla himself, so he must know a lot of made guys. Maybe somewhere along the line he was subcontracted. Okay, that's it, thanks for coming in."

Pirelli had just tipped his overflowing ashtray into the wastebasket when his phone rang. His face lit up as he listened. Then he smiled broadly and turned to Ancora. "We got our break. Security guards at Rome Airport are holding a guy; he's got a ticket in the name of Moreno, Johnny Moreno."

Teresa and Rosa's plane had already taken off. They didn't even see the young student arrested. The guards took him out of the departure lounge, and he was held in the airport customs area to await the arrival of Commissario Joseph Pirelli.

The two remaining first-class rickets the women had handed out, Graziella's and Sophia's, had been given to two hitchhikers, who could not believe their good fortune. They had changed them for tickets to Los Angeles.

Sophia, Graziella, and Luka had arrived safely in Rome and were already installed in Sophia's apartment.

Pirelli took one look at the student in custody and knew he was not Luka Carolla, not Johnny Moreno. He banged out of the room, leaving the poor boy so terrified that he broke down, weeping. Pirelli kicked at the wall, and his foot went through the partition. A terrible coughing fit forced him to sit down, and he hacked and spluttered into his handkerchief.

In Rome Graziella was preparing for bed when Luka passed her door on his way to the children's room, where he was sleeping. He stopped and watched her brushing her hair. The long braids she usually wore coiled in a bun were now loose. She placed the silver-backed brush on the dressing table and picked up a worn black Bible. She had not noticed him and he moved on, soundlessly. By the time he had washed and brushed his teeth, Graziella's light was out, although her door was still slightly ajar.

Sophia jumped. She had not heard Luka enter the kitchen.

'I couldn't sleep. Do you want a drink?" she asked.

He shook his head no and sat down opposite her. On the table were a glass of whiskey and a small pill bottle. He bent his head to read the label, but she picked up the bottle and slipped it into her pocket.

"Do you mind me sitting with you?" he asked.

She shook her head and shrugged slightly. The ashtray was full of half-smoked cigarette ends, and he watched as she picked it up and emptied it into a garbage can.

"Rosa was telling me you're having a lot of trouble with a designer, is that right?"

She sighed and rinsed the ashtray under the tap. Her hair, now loose, reached almost to her waist, like Graziella's. It was dark and silky, and he wanted to touch it; but he didn't move. Sophia dried the ashtray with a paper towel and brought it back to the table.

"Maybe I can sleep now. ..."

"You haven't finished your drink."

She looked at the glass, picked it up and drank, then took it to the sink. As she held the glass under the running water, he was fascinated by her long, delicate fingers and almost white nails.

She dried the glass carefully and reached up to put it away in the cupboard. Her satin robe parted, opening to the thigh, and he saw that she was naked beneath it. As she turned back to him, the top of her robe opened just a fraction, and he saw the crease of her breasts.

"What did Rosa tell you about Nino?" Sophia wanted to know. She was twisting her long hair around her fingers.

"Nothing much, just that he had, I think she said, 'ripped you off.' " His legs were shaking, and he squeezed his buttocks together, feeling himself harden. He dropped his hands into his lap beneath the table. His whole body tingled with heat; he knew his cheeks were turning red.

"Well, you could say that. Probably my own fault. I was very foolish. My husband warned me not to trust him."

Luka had changed his position on the hard chair. "Do you"—he pressed his erect penis between his hands—"do you want to tell me about it?"

She bit her lower lip and unconsciously ran her hands down the satin of her robe, outlining her breasts, and tightened the sash. The whiskey and the Valium were making her slightly woozy but completely relaxed. "Not now. I think I'll go to bed. Will you turn off the lights? I think every where's locked up, but I suppose you'll check."

As she left the room, he came, soaking his pajamas. The relief made him sigh, a quiet moan of pleasure. Then he hurried to his bedroom, wanting to clean himself, but he remembered to turn off the lights first.

In the darkness of the children's room, hurrying to get out of his semen-filled pants, he tripped and fell to the floor, landing on his bad shoulder. He winced with pain and kicked his pajama bottoms away, angry at his own clumsiness. Then he stripped off the pajama top and checked his wound, easing away the adhesive that held the small dressing in place. It was clean, and he tossed the bandage into the basket.