BELLA MAFIA
LYNDA LA PLANTE
Prologue
At ten o'clock in the evening on the second day of the adjournment of the biggest Mafia trial in history, one of the chief prosecutors, Giuliano Emanuel, received a telephone call at his office. It was Mario Domino, an old legal adversary from Emanuel's early court days.
Domino wasted no time in pleasantries. He announced that he wanted a private meeting with Emanuel, and if it could take place immediately, it would be to Emanuel's advantage.
"I am parked outside your office. Please tell your security guards to expect me." The car phone went dead.
Emanuel slowly replaced his receiver. He decided he had no option. He warned his guards of the impending visit and returned to his desk.
The trial, intended to be the exorcism of the Mafia's stranglehold on Sicily, had been adjourned almost before it had begun. An open file on Emanuel's desk showed the gruesome reason. On top of it lay a black-and-white photograph of Emanuel's prize witness for the prosecution. He had been murdered. Lenny Cavataio's mutilated body had had the desired effect;witness after witness had withdrawn statements against the most important prisoner, Don Paul Carolla. The prosecution was very much aware that many more might die before Carolla could be brought into court.
Domino entered minutes after his call, and the two old friends clasped each other in greeting. Domino held the embrace to whisper in Emanuel's ear, "I am trusting you, Giuliano. Pray God you do not abuse my trust."
Refusing a drink, Domino sat down and opened his briefcase. "It is of the utmost importance that no one overhears our conversation."
"Mario, I assure you that you can talk freely. My office is checked every day." He watched as Domino withdrew a large manila envelope from his briefcase, opened it, and took out a photograph.
"If you recognize this man, just nod your head. I do not want his name mentioned. One cannot be too sure."
When Emanuel looked at the black-and-white photograph, the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. It was Don Roberto Luciano, II Papa—the real "Boss of Bosses," a leader from the past, when the Mafia was considered a force for poor people unable to fight for their rights. He had been a part of the organization for more than fifty years, and no one knew if he was still active. But he was still honored, even revered, in Palermo.
Emanuel handed the photo back to Domino. "I know who it is."
"He is a close friend of mine, and I have acted on his behalf on numerous occasions. He wishes to meet with you but is well aware of the danger to his family should it become known."
Emanuel's mouth felt dry, and he swallowed. "Why does this client of yours want to meet with me?" he asked.
"He will tell you that himself. I think you will find it beneficial, if you can arrange top security for his family and him."
The two men shook hands on their agreement. Domino's client would arrange the meeting place. Emanuel was to expect a call and was to do exactly as instructed. If he deviated from
the arrangements, the meeting would not take place.
The call came two nights later. Emanuel was to leave his home immediately and drive to a warehouse on the waterfront, leave his car there, and walk to the end of Pier 3, where he would be picked up. Alone.
Emanuel obeyed. His stomach churning, he waited on the pier for almost half an hour.
At last a man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, moving soundlessly, and instructed Emanuel to follow him. A second man slipped into place behind them. A third man was waiting in a car a short distance away, with the engine running.
Emanuel was searched before he climbed into the car. No one spoke as they headed back toward town.
The San Lorenzo, a small restaurant, seemed closed, the ground floor in darkness. Emanuel's nerves were in shreds as he followed his two escorts among the neat tables toward an archway. The two men then stood aside, gesturing for him to continue up the narrow linoleum-covered staircase.
A gray-haired man in his sixties was waiting at the top. With a curt nod he ordered Emanuel to raise his hands and proceeded with a body search. Satisfied, he motioned Emanuel to follow him up to the next landing and into a small, elegant dining room hung with red curtains.
There was no one else in the room, but the single table was set for three. The gray-haired man seated Emanuel at the table, poured him a glass of wine, then left.
It was fifteen minutes before Emanuel heard the quiet, unhurried footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and Domino entered, bowed to Emanuel, and sat down. Without saying a word, he picked up the wine bottle, examined the label, and poured himself a glass.
The moment the glass was full, the curtains were moved aside and a waiter appeared with an elaborate tray filled with silver dishes. His movements were deliberate as he placed the tray on a serving table. Emanuel looked at his watch, then at Domino, and was about to speak when the curtains were drawn aside again and Don Roberto Luciano entered the room.
The photograph had not conveyed the man's aura; even at seventy he was impressive. More than six feet tall, he stood erect, his white hair framing a face with dark, heavy-lidded eyes and a slightly hooked nose.
The waiter hurried to remove the camel-colored cashmere coat draped casually about Luciano's shoulders. Luciano was wearing a pale fawn linen suit, cream silk shirt, and dark blue silk tie in which a diamond pin sparkled.
Luciano went first to Domino, placed both hands on his friend's shoulders, and kissed his cheek. Then he turned to Emanuel, his right hand outstretched. His grip was strong.
Luciano seemed concerned that Emanuel approve of the menu. As they ate the seafood rolled in fresh pasta, Luciano murmured his own pleasure. Throughout the meal the conversation was simply polite, Luciano complimenting Emanuel on his handling of a number of cases, then discussing a mutual friend with Domino, as Emanuel studied il Papa more closely.
Luciano's large, strong hands made almost hypnotic gestures. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a ring with a circle and moon picked out in gold on the blue stone. The nails were square-cut and polished. These were not the hands of an old man.
Brandy was served in balloon glasses, and cigars were lit as the waiter disappeared behind the curtains. Emanuel heard a door's lock click into place. He straightened in alarm, but Luciano placed a comforting hand on his arm. "It is just a precaution. I apologize for this theatricality, but it makes me feel more secure."
The old man who had searched Emanuel now entered the room from the stairs and nodded to Luciano. This door, too, was locked as he left.
From his pocket Luciano took a fob watch, checked the time, and replaced it. Then he rose from the table and sat in a deep, comfortable chair, with a high, winged back. He crossed his long legs and leaned back on the red velvet cushions.
"You must have some idea of why I asked for this meeting. I am prepared to be your main witness for the prosecution, on condition that you protect my family. They must have safe houses, armed guards. I must have your word on this before I give you the evidence that will, I assure you, mean the death sentence for Paul Carolla." Luciano spoke with the confidence of a man used to having his orders carried out.
Domino tapped the ash from his cigar. "Would it be possible for you to arrange such security without divulging my client's name? It is imperative that no one know his identity until the time comes for him to take the stand. This is not just for his protection but for your own. Can you, in your position, organize such security?"
Emanuel knew he could not make such a promise on his own, but he gave his solemn oath that the evening's conversation would remain secret. He coughed to ease his constricted throat before he spoke.
"Signor Luciano, providing safety for you and your family will require negotiation
s with the judges and police chiefs, and time is obviously of the essence. When will I be able to assess the evidence you are prepared to divulge?"
Luciano laughed a deep, guttural laugh and shook his head. "You think I have documents? Papers I can give you? No, no— I am your evidence, me. Dates as far back as 1928, all recorded, but not on paper—here, in my brain." He tapped his temple with his finger, then leaned toward Emanuel. A chill entered his voice. "Come, my friend, do you really think I would put anything on paper to substantiate my offer? What do you take me for? You are looking at a seventy-year-old man who would not be alive if he made notes."
Emanuel persisted. "You must understand it from my point of view. The government will require some kind of physical proof before it will release funds for total surveillance, around-the-clock guards, safe houses—and for a man whose name I cannot divulge."
The dark eyes flashed, but there was a half-smile on Luciano's face. "I brought you Lenny Cavataio. If the protection given to him is what I am to expect, my friend, we have no deal."
"That was unfortunate."
Luciano sneered and leaned foward. "No one will gain access to my villa, but in court I am vulnerable. In meetings with you I am vulnerable. Lenny Cavataio was the most valuable witness you had against Carolla, and you let him die like an animal. But my family is my life; my sons are my blood. They will need your protection more than I will."
Emanuel's nerves were beginning to show. "I understand, signor, but you have to give me something that will prove without doubt that I have a witness worth protecting."
Luciano closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then leaned forward and spoke softly. "Paul Castellano, head of the Gambino family, and his driver, Thomas Bilotti, were shot to death in front of Sparks Steak House in New York. Neither man was carrying a gun. There was no backup team to protect Castellano. Yet until that moment he had always been protected, insulated by his men. He was losing sight, not comprehending anymore the world in which he had been raised. He had refused to have his food distribution companies used as covers for drug couriers. He was not prepared to take the risks of drug running, and the main importer, the main dealer in heroin to the United States, was Paul Carolla. I have evidence that will give you Paul Carolla as the man who ordered the murders." Luciano's eyes were like slits. He cocked his head to one side as if to say, "Is that enough?"
But Emanuel knew that it was not. What Luciano had given him was evidence that any number of men could give. Emanuel rose to his feet and stood by the big velvet chair. "I'm afraid it is not enough to ensure your protection."
Luciano looked up at him, then at Domino. After a moment he, too, rose to his feet and placed his hand on Emanuel's shoulder. The big hand felt like a dead weight. The room was eerily quiet.
Emanuel was afraid of this man, and his relief as the hand slowly lifted made him gasp.
"Lenny Cavataio gave you a statement regarding the death of a young Sicilian boy. Cavataio was prepared to take the stand and name Paul Carolla as the instigator of the murder." The eyes didn't flicker. They held Emanuel's attention as he whispered, "The dead boy was my eldest son."
Nowhere in the soft, cultured voice was there a hint of what Don Roberto Luciano was feeling. He continued. "Now, my friend, I am not prepared to talk with you further. It is up to you. You say time is of the essence. Then so be it. You have two weeks. I will wait to hear via Domino. I have arranged the marriage of my granddaughter, which will take place on February the fourteenth, two weeks from today. It will be the first time the whole family has been gathered together for many years—my sons, my grandchildren. If you can guarantee the protection I need, it will be easier to accomplish with my entire family under one roof. The danger to my loved ones is obvious, and will be more so when, if, I take the stand. My sons will not approve of my decision; but my mind is made up, and I will not retract my offer. Thank you for coming to meet me. It has been a pleasant evening."
The door opened without any obvious command, and he was gone, leaving behind him the sweet smell of fresh limes.
Domino drained his glass. "Don't underestimate what he is offering you. You will make your career on his back. You will become a very famous man, or a dead one."
Emanuel snapped, "He wants protection for his family. Dear God, what about mine? As it is, they balked at giving me two personal around-the-clock guards. You'd think I'd asked for a private army, and that is what Luciano will need—an army."
"Then get it. Step up your own security because I warn you, if it were ever to leak that Luciano is your witness, he would not live to take the stand. Believe me, I am against this madness."
Emanuel's mind was reeling, but he had to take one last shot at Domino. "Why? Just give me one good reason why he's doing it."
"He told you—for his son, for Michael Luciano."
"Is that it?"
Emanuel was not prepared for the rush of anger that made Domino's cheeks flush.
"Paul Carolla saw to it that Michael Luciano was introduced to heroin while the boy was studying in the States. Then, when he became an addict, they shipped him back and flaunted him like a beaten whore to the father who worshiped him. Carolla did that to a beautiful boy because Michael's father refused to deal in narcotics." Domino's hand clenched into a fist. "Yet the don never gave way. You have the proof now; the man who was in this room tonight is one of the most highly respected legitimate exporters of goods from Sicily, and he paid the price. He paid for it with the life of his son."
Domino paused, shook out a silk handkerchief, and wiped his mouth before continuing. "Michael was his father's son, and he fought back. At the time of his death he was cured of his addiction. But his killers injected him with enough heroin to kill five men. Even that did not satisfy them; they tortured him, beat him, until even the mortician could not repair his features. Don Roberto carries all this in his heart; he blames himself for that broken body, for the terrible things that were done to his beautiful son."
Emanuel watched as Domino wiped his eyes. The old man was speaking as if the tragedy had just occurred.
"Why, if he knew all this, did Luciano wait? His son has been dead more than twenty years."
Domino gave Emanuel a disdainful look. "Because he has two more sons."
"Yet now, all these years later, he is prepared to jeopardize his life and the safety of his family. I don't understand."
Domino tucked his handkerchief away and smiled, but his eyes were ice cold.
"You are not one of us, you could not understand. Call it revenge, call it the end to a vendetta, but I guarantee that Paul Carolla is finished if you get Luciano on the stand. Capich'?"
Domino excused himself, and again the door opened to some unseen signal. The two men who had brought Emanuel to the meeting were waiting for him.
Emanuel arrived back at his apartment to find one of his guards washing down, yet again, the main entrance. Red stains could be seen on the cloth as the man wiped the door. Emanuel sighed. Once or twice a week a dead cat was pinned to the door, its guts hanging out, pitiful legs pinned as if crucified.
"Another cat? They carry on like this, and there won't be one left in the neighborhood."
The guard shrugged. "This one's a bit different," he said.
Emanuel looked, not even sickened anymore. "Oh, yes?"
"Yes, it's yours."
CHAPTER 1
Sophia Luciano sat beside her husband, Constantino, watching the road, knowing that within moments they would reach the brow of the hill from which they could see the sprawling Villa Rivera.
The elder son of Don Roberto Luciano, Constantino had handsome features and blue-black hair that were reminiscent of his father as a young man. But only reminiscent; there was a shyness, a gentleness to him that were even more evident when he spoke, for he was afflicted with a slight stammer. Sophia waited for him to tell their children they were "home"; it annoyed her that her husband always referred to his father's house as "home" when they had lived in Rome for
the past eight years, but she said nothing.
Below them now, sparkling in the February afternoon sun, the Villa Rivera seemed bathed in golden light, which spread across the tiled roof, the swimming pool, and tennis courts. White curtains billowed from the painted shutters and caught the breeze along the veranda.
Constantino stopped the car on the brow of the hill. They could see the striped awnings of the marquee, already erected for the wedding. Constantino stared down while his two sons grew impatient, urging their papa to hurry.
"Is something wrong?" asked Sophia.
"They must be workmen, see them? On the roof, around the gates."
Sophia shaded her eyes and replied, "There'll be a lot of people, darling. You know Mama will want only the best."
Graziella Luciano was waiting on the porch, her gray hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, her tailored dress concealing her extra weight. Her face, with no trace of makeup, was still, at sixty-five, hardly lined. Her excitement was held in check; she appeared almost austere, but her pale blue eyes were sharp, watchful.
The guards were opening the fifteen-foot-high wrought-iron gates. As Constantino's car continued up the long driveway, she waved, acknowledging their arrival, but at the same time she gave a curt order to the florist to space the floral displays a little farther apart and reminded him that everything had to be completed before five o'clock.
The boys ran from the car and into their grandmother's arms. Her face softened by smiles, her blue eyes warm and brimming with tears, she hugged her grandchildren. Constantino followed, arms outstretched, to kiss his mother. She smiled, touching his face lovingly.
"Are you well?"
"Mama, you saw me a month ago. You think I'd change?"
Graziella linked her arm through her son's and smiled a welcome to her daughter-in-law. Sophia blew a kiss with her fingertips and instructed the maid to take care with the wedding gown, which was draped in sheets to keep it clean. When Sophia came to her, Graziella reached up to stroke her cheek.
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