Filippo sprang to his feet, his face twisted with anger, but Constantino soothed him. "Take it easy. . . . But you've got to admit it's a bad time for a wedding, unless that's the intention. We're all here, all under one roof; maybe he knows something we don't. You taken a look out there? Papa's hired what looks like an army to guard us. Maybe he's worried. I know he was blazing about Lenny Cavataio. The whole trial's ground to a halt."
Filippo, calmer now, lit a cigarette. "Who's he?"
"Cavataio, used to deal in junk for Paul Carolla."
Filippo shrugged. He had never heard Cavataio's name. Constantino realized that the stories about his brother must be true; rumor had it that he was nothing but a front in New York, that their father had virtually maneuvered him out of the business. Now he wondered if the reason the marriage was taking place was that their father intended moving young Emilio up to look after New York. The wedding had been organized too fast. The question was why. But as always, the don had kept his plans to himself.
Constantino kicked at the grate, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets. "Papa's sold two companies without even discussing it with me. ... It has to have something to do with this Cavataio business."
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.
CHAPTER 2
Roberto's family were seated in the living room, awaiting his arrival. His sons, his daughters-in-law, his grandsons, his granddaughter, his nephew—all sat and talked loudly among themselves.
His appearance silenced them all. His sons rose to their feet to shake his hand. He kissed each one and then welcomed his daughters-in-law. He looked at Rosa and gave her a private smile. "The beautiful bride, Rosa, and my nephew Emilio, welcome." The two little grandsons stared up at him, openmouthed, and he cupped each face in his big, strong hands and kissed them on the lips. "And last but not least, welcome to my special boys."
Graziella lifted her glass in a toast. "To Papa ..."
They toasted their papa and were surprised by his tears. "You make me happy. It is good to have you all here. Now we eat before Mama's food goes cold." He took out a clean handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
The don had a private word to say to everyone, making each feel special, while the wine flowed freely. By the time the ice cream and sweets were served, the don had one grandson on his lap and the other on the arm of his chair, his small arm around his grandfather's shoulders.
Constantino watched his wife, Sophia, as she passed a dish along the table. She looked exquisite in a flamingo red dress, her thick black hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was talking animatedly to Rosa, telling her how she had worked on the design of her wedding dress.
"I wanted it to be like a fairy tale. I used all my girls. Some of them should have been working in the shop, but I had to use everyone to get it ready in time. Nino, my designer, was furious, but I said, 'Rosa Luciano is going to be the most beautiful bride in Sicily.' "
Constantino nudged Filippo and whispered, "You know, I will never be able to repay you. After all, if it weren't for you, I would never have met my wife. Isn't she the most stunning woman in the world?"
Filippo, flushed with wine, looked at Sophia, who turned and smiled at him. He sighed, "Ah, if I had been just a few years older, I doubt that you would have stood a chance." Then he whispered to Constantino, "You want to trade? Anytime, any day."
Teresa pursed her lips suspiciously. "What did you say?"
"He wouldn't trade you any day," Sophia interjected, then exchanged grins with Filippo.
"Exaaactly!"
Nothing in Don Roberto's manner gave a hint of his intentions. He would inform his sons the following night, when the men dined alone together. They would know then that he was to be the major witness for the prosecution, then and not before. Tonight he wished to enjoy his family. He brought out his vintage brandy and a treasured box of Havana cigars.
The little boys began to tire, but would not leave their grandfather's side. They vied with each other for his attention, demanding stories.
Puffing on his cigar, the don began to tell them about an incident in his own childhood, when he was no older than Nunzio. He had climbed into an orchard and stolen two big rosy apples. He needed his hands free to climb back over the wall, so he stuffed the apples down the back of his pants.
"Well, there I was, half over the wall, when the farmer caught me. He pulled at my boot. . . ." He made a face and stuck out his bottom lip. "Caught you, you thieving little beggar!" He raised his eyes in a show of innocence. "Me, sir? I have not taken anything. I was just looking over the wall at your beautiful orchard and thinking to myself how nice it would be to have one of your big rosy apples."
Constantino slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders. Everyone was listening as the don continued, spreading his hands wide. "Look, sir, I haven't stolen anything. I'm innocent."
He blinked and gave a clownish grin. Constantino whispered to Graziella, "I have never seen him so relaxed. He never told us stories."
Graziella patted her son's hand and looked up into his face, saying very softly, "You forget. ..."
" 'Well,'
said the farmer, 'I am sorry. Now you be on your way and count yourself lucky I didn't box your ears. Go on, off with you.' So I began walking away from him, backward, because if I turned around, he couldn't help seeing just where I had hidden the apples. Then he called out, 'Wait a minute, wait a minute!' and he reached into his basket for a big, big apple, and held it out. Just as I reached for it, can you guess what happened?"
Two little faces peered up at him, and two little heads shook from side to side.
"Why, the two apples I had stolen fell to the ground and rolled right up to his feet. He chased me down the lane, shaking his fist, and then can you guess what he did? No? He was so angry that he threw the apples after me, and guess what then? Later that night I went back and picked up the apples. I was so pleased with myself that I ate them all, every one. And then can you guess what happened? No? No?" He roared with laughter. "/ got a bellyache/"
Everyone rocked with laughter. Tears rolled down the children's cheeks. When they finally subsided, Don Roberto gave his wife a private, intimate look. Their house burst with life and energy, and it felt so safe. He knew he was right not to tell them, not tonight.
The following morning the Villa Rivera reverberated with the sounds of the family. Gifts for the bride and groom were being stacked in the living room as they arrived, a profusion of wedding bells and horseshoes, but only the don and his wife knew that each one had been carefully inspected and rewrapped before being brought into the house. Only they knew why, as the family gathered for breakfast, every door was guarded. There were men on the roof, men in the orchards and in the stables, and more checked everyone who entered or left the premises against the list of staff hired to complete the wedding arrangements.
The same tight security enabled the prosecuting counsel, Giuliano Emanuel, to feel secure in his own house. He was still tired from the previous night, having worked late over the Luciano tapes in the privacy of his own home. It was after ten o'clock when he drove to work, where security was even more in evidence. It was a considerable time before he could enter his own office, but he could not complain as the guards checked his identity papers. He was the one who had instigated the security measures. He had told Mario Domino the day after their meeting in the restaurant that he had arranged to have fifteen guards allocated to the Luciano household. The don and his family would be protected as requested.
BELLA MAFIA Page 5
