BELLA MAFIA

by Lynda La Plante

  Filippo was more confused than ever. "You still haven't told me about Cavataio."

  "What've you got upstairs, a set of marbles? Lenny Cavataio was the guy who fed Michael the bad junk that killed him. Papa searched for him after Michael's murder. There was no trace of him, not till he surfaced in Atlantic City. Papa sent me over to get him."

  Filippo waited impatiently while Constantino puffed a cigar alight.

  "Lenny wanted to make a deal. He'd been hiding out in Canada for a decade, finally crawled out from the gutter to try and blackmail Carolla. He surfaced because he was broke, been pumping his veins full o' the shit himself. But Carolla wasn't taking any crap; he tried to get Lenny wiped out. Last thing Carolla wanted was old history raked up, especially as he'd got so high up in the organization. But Lenny was running scared, and he came to us. Cavataio came straight to the very people Carolla was desperate to keep him from."

  He looked at Filippo, who sat, head bowed, his manner so defeated that Constantino couldn't help growing more expansive.

  "I got him back here; let's say he was my gift to Papa. Lenny talked, understand? And at last we got the evidence that it was Carolla who'd instigated Michael's murder. Lenny was the last, the only, surviving witness. We needed him alive, because through him Papa knew he could really nail Carolla, not only for narcotics trading but for the murder."

  Filippo still looked confused. Constantino paused, irritated. "You following me? This getting through? Carolla was going to be charged with Michael's murder. Lenny was singing his head off, not only about the murder but everything else to do with Carolla's rackets. The feds, the New York drug squad were on to Carolla, and the asshole ran right back to Palermo, hid in the mountains. . . ." He laughed, shaking his head. "Man, did he choose the wrong place, because he ran right into the arms of the law. They were hunting him like crazy dogs over here. When they've got through charging him here, they'll ship him back to the States. He's looking at one hundred years behind bars."

  Filippo still didn't quite understand. "So why have they dropped the murder rap?"

  Constantino shook his head at Filippo. "You don't have newspapers in New York? Lenny Cavataio was wiped out four months ago. He was found in a sleaze hotel here in Palermo with his balls cut off."

  Filippo stared at the thick carpet, dug the toe of his cowboy boot into the pile. "You should have told me."

  "You know how Papa works, Filippo, he likes to k-keep secrets."

  Filippo sprang to his feet. "Secrets? Jesus Christ, secrets!"

  "I only got to know because Lenny came to me in Atlantic City. Doesn't mean anything that you didn't know—"

  "What do you take me for? We've all been living with Papa's obsession about Carolla, and you tell me it doesn't mean anything. . . . Jesus Christ. Why didn't you contact me, why? Why didn't Papa contact me? I had a right to know. This is family business—"

  Constantino sighed. "I g-g-g-guess you know why. You been slack, Filippo. Your wife kept appearing at the company; she was handling certain contracts. Papa didn't like that."

  "She's a lawyerl Teresa knows the import licenses better than me!" He sighed, knowing he had no comeback. "Ah, what the hell, I never wanted to be in New York. You think this kid Emilio's gonna take my place?"

  His brother gave no answer.

  Filippo was close to tears. "Papa never contacts me. He's been in New York and not even called to see me, and now this . . . No matter what I've done wrong, I should have been part of this Lenny business." He began to weep. "I remember, I remember that night when he told us . . . about Michael."

  Filippo was referring to the night six weeks after Michael's death, when their father had discovered Constantino's intention of marrying Sophia. Constantino had begun to call on her without his father's permission and, while Don Roberto was away from home, had brought Sophia to the villa. None of them had been prepared for their father's rage.

  His fury terrified them and centered on the fact that they had allowed a stranger, albeit a young girl, into the house. It was against the rules; no one outside the immediate family was ever allowed within the walls of the family home. The don's anger had become a tirade against his sons. Apparently out of control, he had ranted and raved until, finally, he had told them the truth about their adored elder brother, Michael.

  The two brothers sat silent now, immersed in their memories of that night. Michael had been their hero, their champion, their shining example. He was not only athletic but academically brilliant, and to his father's pride he had won a coveted place at Harvard. But then he had, mysteriously, returned home halfway through his second year. They had believed he was suffering from a virus. On the night of his return he had collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. Weeks later he was sent to the mountains to recuperate, but he never came back. The virus, they had been told, had killed him.

  He had been buried with a funeral befitting the eldest son of a don. The grief had consumed them all and darkened the house. Their mother had been bereft, and their beloved papa had changed before their eyes. His head of thick black hair had turned gray overnight; the lines of his face had deepened with pain. But worst of all was his frightening silence. It had lasted until the night they both remembered, the night he had released before them such anguish it had struck them dumb with fear.

  He had told them at last that Michael Luciano had been murdered. The so-called virus was a heroin addiction, carefully arranged by Paul Carolla because Don Roberto Luciano had persistently refused to cooperate with him, refused to use his legitimate export company as a cover. Luciano had told Constantino and Filippo that they were as vulnerable as Michael. Michael was a warning.

  The don had initiated his sons that night, teaching them the codes of the Mafia. He had told them, without emotion, how many had already paid the price for their involvement in Michael's murder, had urged them to keep their brother's soul alive in their hearts, never to forget the need to make his killers pay. He had made them promise never to tell their mother what had taken place that night or how her beloved firstborn son had died.

  In confirmation of their obedience, they had kissed the ring worn by their father, the ring that Paul Carolla coveted. But when he had drawn them into his arms, they had felt only terror.

  Filippo's shoulders shook as he wept. Constantino tried to comfort him.

  "Look, they got Carolla banged up on so many charges the odds are stacked against him. He'll never get free. They'll drop the murder rap against him, but in the end he's finished. Maybe it'll let Michael's ghost rest in peace. I hope so because if you want the truth, I've had him on my shoulder too long."

  "I thought I was the only one who felt like that, like I had to live up to him and I was never good enough. I thought it was just me. . . . You know, it got so bad I hated him."

  Constantino opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. He downed it in one swallow. "I guess we both were in competition with him. Just take a look at the family album perched on the piano. You see me, Sophia, the kids; there's you, Teresa, Rosa . . . and there is Michael, always Michael, the biggest frame, the biggest photograph."

  Filippo chuckled. Then his face lit up in a grin. "I used to put his photo at the back. Every day I did that. And every time back it would go, and there he was smiling at me, like he was saying, 'Fuck you, you don't get me out of your life that easily.

  Laughing, Constantino poured two whiskeys, and they clinked their glasses together. "To Michael, may he rest in peace and leave us in peace."

  They drank, and Filippo threw his empty glass into the stone fireplace. Constantino followed suit. They both stared guiltily at the shattered glass.

  "Holy shit, Mama's gonna hit the roof. That was her b-b- best crystal."

  Paul Carolla was led into the small interview room. He went to the counter and pressed his hand against the bulletproof glass partition. On the other side his son gave a slow smile that made him appear younger than his twenty-five years. Luka laid his hand flat against the
glass, his long, fine fingers with their perfectly manicured nails tanned to a golden brown. Carolla's own stubby fingers and square palm rested against his son's. They both reached for the communicating phones.

  Carolla was guarded day and night because his life had been threatened over the murder of the jail cleaner's child. Luka had arranged the hit, and Carolla had instructed him to leave Sicily lest anyone make the connection between them. Seeing him made Carolla shake with rage.

  He looked at his two guards, then back to his son, and whispered hoarsely into the mouthpiece, "I told you I want you out of Palermo."

  "But I have something for you."

  The sweat began to trickle down Carolla's face. "You get out and you stay out, you hear me, Luka?"

  Luka held the phone loosely. The only indication that he had heard his father was a slight arching of one of his fine, almost invisible blond eyebrows.

  When he spoke, his soft voice was a strange echolike whisper. "I know the name; I have the name; everything is going to be all right."

  Puzzled, Carolla watched as Luka took out a pencil and wrote on a piece of paper. He looked up and smiled, then spoke into the mouthpiece again. "I got it for you. I had to pay ten million lira for it."

  "What? What?" Sweat streamed down Carolla's face, and the hand holding the telephone was clammy. "You are fucking insane, you hear me?"

  Luka's pale blue eyes narrowed, the pupils turning to pinpoints. He waved the scrap of paper and spoke in a singsong voice, "I have what you want, but you tell your man to pay me."

  Carefully Luka straightened the piece of paper and laid it flat against the glass. In his strange, old-fashioned spidery writing he had scrawled the name of the witness for the prosecution.

  Carolla's stomach lurched, and his bile rose. He tasted it as he retched uncontrollably, but his eyes were riveted on the name: his old enemy Don Roberto Luciano.

  Don Roberto's driver radioed to the guards at the gates that they were arriving in minutes. The message was passed by walkie-talkies to the men on the roof, and the last part of the journey was closely monitored through field glasses.

  The gates opened, and the gleaming black Mercedes headed toward the villa. The don sat between two bodyguards in the back, with his faithful driver up front.

  The villa was ablaze with lights. As the car stopped, Don Roberto sat for a moment, waiting for the door to be opened. One of the bodyguards adjusted the cashmere coat to sit perfectly on the don's shoulders, then handed him his kid gloves and hat. He had been giving statements to Emanuel since ten o'clock that morning; it had been a grueling, painstaking day, a day when memories flooded back, old wounds opened, but he stood straight, inches taller than his bodyguards, and smiled. The front door opened as he walked up the white steps and onto the porch.

  There was not one of them in the sprawling villa who did not know, could not sense the presence. Don Roberto Luciano was home.

  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. Capi
ch'?"

  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."Q

  W^ophia 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."