BELLA MAFIA (57 page)

"What am I going to do, Sophia Luciano? You have me wrapped around your little finger, you know that? From the first moment I saw you."

She laughed and went back into the bedroom, opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. She dressed while he showered and changed, and she sat in her fur coat, waiting for him. Her Turkish cigarettes made the whole apartment smell sweet. It was as if nothing had happened from the moment they had walked in.

"We will be in Palermo for the hearing. Mama's case comes up this week. Will you be there?"

He nodded, realizing he had not called his office. He checked the time. "I'll get a cab to the airport."

She stubbed out her cigarette. "Can you be there? Mama is afraid of the press, she's afraid, and we only have—" She was about to say "Johnny," but then she said they had only their chauffeur.

"I'll be there. . . . Will you be returning to Rome or staying in Palermo?"

"I'm not sure. It depends on the case."

While he phoned for a taxi, Sophia looked around the room, then stood up to look at a photograph. Her back was toward him while he spoke to the taxi company and thumbed through the timetables at the same time.

"Who are they?" She was holding the photograph.

He touched his lip; it was swollen where she had bitten it. "My wife and my son."

She replaced the heavy frame carefully. "How old is your son?"

"Nine . . . Well, eight, nine next birthday. Sophia?"

She picked up her handbag, refusing to look at him.

"Sophia, Sophia, I would have told you—"

"But you didn't."

Sophia refused to talk to him on the way to the airport. His flight was due to leave first. As it was called, he gripped her arm.

"I have to see you again. I can't leave like this. I can't—"

"You had better or you'll miss your flight."

"Fuck it! I want to see you again."

She shrugged. "Fine, I'll see you in court."

"That's not what I meant. I want to see you, be with you."

She smiled and cupped his face in her hands; but it was a false smile, and her eyes were cold. "Why complicate things, Joe? Whatever happened last night happened. It was good, but forget it. I do not want to be anyone's bit on the side."

"Don't speak like that! Do you think I usually go around doing this kind of thing? Do you? I meant what I said, Sophia."

She stepped back. "They're calling your flight again. You'll miss it."

"I don't want to lose you."

"You want to leave your wife? Your son? Don't play games, Joe. We're both too old for that. Let's finish it before we get more involved. It'll be best for both of us."

Pirelli couldn't argue. He hadn't even contemplated leaving his wife. He walked toward the departure gate without turning back.

When she returned to Rome, Sophia was confronted by an irate Luka, who demanded to know what she had been doing. She tossed her coat over the sofa and looked at him.

"We had better get a few things straight: You work for us, you don't give me orders, and you don't ask me where I've been or what I've been doing because it's none of your damned business."

"I am supposed to be protecting you, looking out for you. If I don't know where you are, how can I do that? Who was that guy you were with?"

Sophia walked into the bathroom without bothering to reply. She ran a bath and stripped, stared at her reflection in the mirror. There were no marks on her body from their lovemaking, but she was changed: She felt calmer and more confident.

Soaking in the bath with her eyes closed, she thought about Pirelli, refusing to admit to herself the possibility that she cared for him, that she could— She picked up the sponge quickly and soaped and scrubbed her body. No matter what he said, in the end he had in some way betrayed her. It was foolish even to contemplate becoming involved with him. Instead, when the time came, she would use him; he could prove useful.

Pirelli took a bit of ribbing from Ancora. His lip was badly swollen, and no one believed he had walked into a gate. But whatever Ancora believed, his bad mood was due to the fact that no matter what evidence they kept coming up with, they were still left with the problem of tracing their man. Officers were being pulled off the investigation, and there was still no sign of Luka.

Pirelli went over the reports of the Rocco murder and examined the walking-cane gun. It had been wiped clean, no prints. At a loss for what to do next, he could have gone home. Instead, he worried at the problem like a dog with a bone, after something, anything, to help.

Pirelli put off going back to his Palermo apartment for as long as possible, not wanting to face his wife. Eventually he was so tired that he had no option. Feeling guilty, he bought some flowers and returned home, sheepishly. Lisa was watching television with her feet propped up.

"Hi, you okay?"

"I suppose so, but you are the limit. You get me and Gino to stay here in this awful place. Then you go to Milan!"

He shrugged, and she stared at him. "What have you done to your lip?"

"Had a bit of a run-in with a couple of guys at the airport; it's okay. Anything to eat?"

She rolled off the sofa and went into the kitchen. "Did you get to the apartment?"

"Yeah, just a quick look in. Everything's fine."

"Good. Can we go out to dinner then? Save me cooking?"

He sighed and agreed halfheartedly. He was so exhausted he could barely stand up. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he gave her a small hug. "Oh, is that all I get? Away for two days? You haven't even asked me about your son."

"I'm sorry, just that things are really getting on top of me. Is Gino okay?"

"He's fine. I'll ask the girl upstairs to baby-sit. Oh, by the way, you'll have to get Gino a new bike for Christmas. His has been stolen."

Pirelli yawned his way through dinner, and try as he could to avoid thinking of her, his mind was full of Sophia. When his head finally hit the pillow, all he wanted to do was sleep. Lisa snuggled up behind him, kissing his neck, but he caught her hand.

"Not tonight, Lisa, I've got a terrible headache."

She rolled over to her own side of the bed. "Isn't that supposed to be my line? You know, the sole reason I am here in this god-awful apartment is to be with you. What happens? You go back to Milan. When do I get to see you? Joe? Joe!"

He was deep asleep, dreaming of Sophia with her hair spread across the pillow. . . .

After a solid nine hours' sleep Pirelli presented himself at the magistrates' court for the hearing of Graziella Luciano's attempt to murder Paul Carolla.

Luka was cagey about being seen at the courthouse and had tried to make excuses to stay in the car, but Sophia had insisted. "You are supposed to be looking after us—well, do your job!"

He wore his gray chauffeur's cap and sat with Graziella on a hard wooden bench in the marble-floored corridor outside the court. He was wary, but the many people hurrying back and forth paid him little or no attention. Graziella was nervous, twisting her handkerchief around and around in her lap. She was not afraid of the outcome, just of being alone.

At Sophia's request, Luka went to get her some water. He filled a paper cup at the water fountain and returned along the corridor past another court in session. Posted outside the court were the lists of the day's hearings and beside them notices requesting information on bail jumpers and other wanted felons, arsonists, petty thieves—and there, in full view, was a picture of Luka himself.

The poster asked anyone who had seen Luka Carolla to contact the nearest police station. There was a brief description of him: his blue eyes, his height, and that his hair might be blond or light brown.

A woman was standing directly behind him, reading the notices over his shoulder. He excused himself and went on along the corridor. His bladder felt as if it were about to explode, and his hands were shaking. By the time he returned to Sophia and Graziella, his face was ashen, and his fingers, holding the small paper cup, felt frozen stiff. They were still waiting for Graziella's legal representative to arrive.

"I've just asked how long we might have to wait. Apparently it might be a considerable time," Sophia said to Luka, but her whole attention was on Graziella.

"Why don't I go see about arranging a nice restaurant for lunch?"

Sophia hesitated, looked at her watch. Then she shrugged. "Why not? Also, we can ask the clerk whether we can leave by the back door. I don't want Mama bothered by the press."

Luka stepped back a few inches. "Okay, I'll wait in the car, directly outside the rear entrance."

He hurried away, passing Pirelli, who was deep in discussion with Graziella's lawyer. He didn't even glance in Luka's direction as he passed because Sophia greeted him. He shook her hand, his eyes searching her face.

"Mama, you remember Commissario Pirelli?"

"Si .
. ."Graziella took his hand.

"You've got one of the easiest magistrates, Signora Luciano. I've talked to him and just had a long conversation with your lawyer. I don't think there's going to be any problem. I won't be in the court, but I will come by later." He turned to Sophia. "Could I have a word in private?"

Sophia excused herself and left Graziella with the lawyer. She and Pirelli went into an interview room and closed the door.

"Can I see you after the hearing?"

She wouldn't look at him. "There's no point. . . ."

"I see. What do you want me to do?"

She sighed. "It has nothing to do with me. You are married. It's best we don't see each other."

"Do you want to? Just tell me, do you want to? I mean, I don't know where I am with you."

"I don't know what I want, Joe."

He ran his hands through his hair and gave her a helpless look. "What do you want me to do? "She came to him, touched his face lightly. "Joe, I don't know what I feel for you . . . what I could feel for you. ..."

He pulled her to him and kissed her. She rested against him, feeling his strength, comforted by it, secure in his arms. "Joe, it would be so easy for me to say yes, I want to see you again, but it would all become a tangled mess."

He gripped her arms. "I can't stop thinking about you. I want you every minute. I want you right now. ... I love you."

She made no reply.

He released her and leaned against the door. "What if I were to leave my wife?"

"That is your business. Don't expect me to tell you what to do. If you want to leave her, then—"

"Just tell me if that's what
you
want me to do?"

"No, I won't. What happens if you leave your wife and then we—then we don't work out? You'll make me responsible, blame me! I have had enough heartbreak to last me the rest of my life. Don't give me any more, Joe, please. Maybe, maybe I came to you because I needed you at that moment."

"You don't need me now?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Joe, I have such a need inside me. You filled me, gave me something, but don't you understand, I don't know if it's love or just the fact that you filled my need. I have to try to make myself whole again. I'm only half alive."

He had to swallow hard to prevent himself from weeping. "I'm sorry, you're right, you'd better get back to Signora Luciano. If you need me, you've got me, with or without ties. I mean that. All you have to do is call."

She kissed his cheek, whispered her thanks, and walked out. He remained in the room, trying to compose himself. He couldn't rid himself of a terrible sense of loss.

Luka sat in the car outside the court. He now knew that Sophia had been with the commissario, the man named Pirelli. What had she told him? Why had they gone into that room to talk together? He was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he cringed when someone tapped on the window of the car.

A court clerk bent to speak to him. "Signora Luciano is just coming out. You take the first left, down the narrow alley; then there's a sharp right turn back onto the main road—"

Luka already had the engine running as Sophia helped Graziella into the backseat, then sat next to Luka.

"There's the paparazzi at the front, so hurry."

The Rolls Corniche screeched along the narrow alley.

As Pirelli had predicted, Graziella had been fined and given a suspended sentence. By late afternoon they were ready to leave for New York. There was no trouble with customs; Signora Gennaro, her son, and her daughter were not even questioned.

Luka and Graziella between them had chosen the passports. The photograph in Anthony Gennaro's passport did not really resemble Luka, but the fact that it was a family passport enabled them to pass straight through the security net and customs. They would be landing at JFK within ten minutes. It had been a good, quiet flight, and they all had slept, Graziella resting her head against Sophia's shoulder. Sophia, always nervous about flying, had clasped Luka's hand for assurance as the plane had lifted off, then laughed when her stomach churned. Luka loved her deep, husky laugh.He thought of the surprise he had for her as a result of his late-night visit to Nino Fabio's warehouse: the signed release of all her designs, including some of the 1987 collection. Nino had signed away all his rights and even given permission for Sophia to use his name.

The plane began its descent, and all three leaned over to look out of the window. Graziella made the sign of the cross, praying for their safe landing. Again Sophia reached for Luka's hand, and he was there, beside her, smiling that angelic smile, the soft dimple appearing in his cheek.