In the darkness she could see the tips of the guards' cigarettes like small, glowing dots. They were waiting for the don's return. As she closed the shutter, the latch banged, and she caught her breath, afraid she had wakened the boys. She turned toward the bed.
Neither child had stirred; they lay in exactly the same position. In the dim light she could see a dark area on the pillow between their heads. Puzzled, she moved closer, until she was standing over the little boys.
The dark stain was seeping into the pillow, between their faces. Her lips formed a scream, but no sound was released. As if in slow motion her hand reached out. . . .
Rosa was at the open living-room door when the terrible scream tore through the house. She was the first to see the stricken, terrified face of her grandmother, eyes wide with horror, at the top of the stairs.
Sophia pushed past Rosa and was halfway up the stairs before the girl could move.
"Mama, Mama, what is it?"
Graziella dragged at Sophia's arm, trying to stop her, pleading, sobbing for her not to go into the room. Teresa ran into the hall and up the stairs. Rosa hung back, shaking. Sophia pushed Graziella aside and entered the room.
"What is it, Mama? What is it?" Teresa was trying to follow Sophia when the awful, low moan erupted into a high-pitched shriek: "My babiessss
Sophia lay across the bed, the limp bodies of her sons beneath her. They each had been shot in the temple, and the killer had turned their little faces toward each other to hide the bullet wounds, had even slipped Nunzio's arm around his brother.
The blood matted their hair, drenching their mother as she sobbed uncontrollably, willing them to be alive, shaking them, fighting Graziella away. She would let no one near her, let no one touch her.
The guards, hearing the screams, were running down the path. One man, on the roof, was sliding, skidding down the slates. The men banged on the front door of the villa as more guards converged on the house and the men at the gates turned on their high-powered flashlights.
The garage mechanic watched the air gauge, bent down to feel the tire. Satisfied, he began to unscrew the pump. Emanuel paced up and down, checked his watch. It was almost eleven-thirty.
The don's driver banged on the restaurant door. He could hear a recording of Pavarotti singing Puccini's Turandot. He stepped back to look up at the brightly lit second-floor windows.
The second driver arrived and waited while the first knocked again. They knew something was wrong; one of the bodyguards should have opened the door by now.
The back door of the restaurant was locked. Lights streamed from the kitchen windows. The Pavarotti tape continued, seeming even louder as panic rose in the two men. They kicked at the main door, then fired shots into the lock until it gave way.
The door swung open. Nothing in the empty restaurant seemed out of order; the checked tablecloths and the cutlery were ready for the next day. No chairs were overturned; nothing was disturbed. But there were no bodyguards, no staff.
The drivers stood together with guns drawn. The first man inched toward the door marked "Kitchen." It swung back and forth on its hinges as he kicked it.
Pans of sauce had been drawn off the still-lit burners as if the chef had left them for a moment. Dirty dishes were stacked in a large stone sink, and black refuse bags were half filled, as if someone had been in the process of clearing the rubbish. It seemed that any moment the chef would walk in, brandishing a wooden spoon and singing along with Pavarotti, whose recorded voice still echoed around the kitchen. The two men's panic grew with every second. The back door was bolted and barred from the inside. The pantry was empty. The cellar was empty.
Emanuel inserted the coin. At last there was a ringing tone. His fingers drummed on the window of the phone booth, willing someone to answer. He waited.
As the two drivers came up from the cellar, the telephone was ringing, but it stopped before they reached it. One behind the other, they made their way up the narrow staircase. The beaded curtain clicked as they pulled it aside.
Emanuel pounded the side of the kiosk with his fist. Unable to get an answer from the restaurant, he had again tried to reach Luciano at the Villa Rivera, but the line was busy. Frustrated, he ran to the car and drove out of the garage, heading for the San Lorenzo restaurant.
The Pavarotti tape ended as they reached the door of the private dining room. The door was locked from the outside with an old iron catch. The men stood shoulder to shoulder as they inched the latch up, eased the bolt back. They waited a beat, and then, with a small nod of confirmation, they were ready.
Guns drawn, they kicked the heavy oak door. It creaked, swung open, then started to close. The first man pushed with his shoulder, his breath hissing. Then he whispered, "Oh, sweet Jesus. . ."
The dining room was lit by two candelabra on the table and dimmed electric candles around the walls. The red velvet curtains matched the dark red carpet. Permeating the room was the pungent smell of garlic and almonds. The heavy high-backed oak chairs threw shadows on the rough white walls and on the men still seated in them. Facing the guards as they entered was a terrible, frozen tableau.
Don Roberto Luciano, at the head of the table, was slumped slightly to one side, his body propped up by the wings of the chair, his hand clutching an upright glass of wine. His lips were drawn back in a grimace. On his right, Constantino was sitting well back in his chair, his head turned as if he were speaking to his father, but both his hands were frozen in a clawlike grip on the table edge. Vomit glistened on his chin, over his black silk-lapeled jacket.
On the don's left, Filippo had fallen across the table, his red wine staining the white cloth, mingling with his vomit.
The young bridegroom, Emilio, had managed to rise from the table before he died, his face contorted with agony. He had fallen forward and slipped to his knees. His glass of wine lay smashed at his feet. One hand still grasped at the tablecloth.
The don's driver forced himself to check each body. He knew they were dead, but he made himself do it before he broke down, sobbing.
Mario Domino arrived at the restaurant at the same time as the police. Sitting in his car, the door wide open, was Giuliano Emanuel, his face ashen. He had called Domino, but now as Domino approached him, Emanuel had to lick his lips before he could speak.
The two men made their way up the narrow staircase, Domino leading the way. The bodies awaited the arrival of the medics and forensic officers, so the tableau remained intact. Domino bowed his head and sank to his knees. He would remember afterward how everyone there followed him, how, to a man, they knelt in prayer.
Luciano, in death as in life, was a powerful sight. His open eyes seemed to blaze with a terrible anger, as if his twisted mouth were about to scream the name of his killer. Domino looked from his beloved don to the faces of his sons; the stench of their vomit, mixed with the garlic and the sinister sweet smell of almonds, forced him to cover his face with his handkerchief. He turned and hurried away, knowing he had to be the one to tell Graziella.
As Domino approached the villa, he could see police patrol cars surrounding it. Lights blazed from every window. He put on speed, afraid someone had told Graziella the tragic news before him.
When Domino learned from the police about Luciano's grandsons, the shock was too much for him, and he broke down. How could he tell her there was even more death?
The ambulance doors were open, and two tiny figures on stretchers, covered with sheets, were being carried from the house.
Domino walked into the house without being stopped or questioned. He stood in the brightly lit hall; every room seemed filled with men, every door stood wide open. Totally disoriented, he looked helplessly for a face he recognized and was relieved to see the don's physician walking slowly down the stairs.
The man's face was gray. Seeing Domino, he gave a sad shake of his head. "Why?" he said quietly. "Who could do such a thing?"
Domino took his arm and drew him to one side. "You'd better stay. They'll n
eed you. Where is Graziella?"
"Mario." It was Graziella's voice.
Domino turned to see her standing halfway up the staircase. He held the doctor's arm a moment before going to the foot of the stairs. "I have to speak with you alone."
She walked down the last few steps. Domino held his hand out for her, and she clasped it tightly, giving such a sweet, sad smile that it broke his heart.
"Thank you for coming. I need you here. But I want everyone else to leave before Roberto gets home. There is no answer from the restaurant. I've tried to call so many times—"
They went into the don's study, and she closed the door behind them. He was at a loss how to begin.
Graziella went on. "They went to dine together, you see. He was going to tell them about his decision; he wanted to speak with them alone. Oh, God, Mario, . . . the little boys are dead."
Her eyes were blank with shock and so pale it was as if the color had been drained from them.
"Graziella . . ." His whisper was strained, barely audible. "There is more. ... So help me God, I don't know how to tell you."
She looked at him, so distressed that only now did she really see him. She saw his fear.
"More?" she said.
He nodded, and his face twisted as he tried to stem the flow of his tears as they streamed down his face.
Her voice was like steel, loud, harsh. "Look at me, tell me. . . . Tell me!"
He gripped the back of a chair, and with his head bowed, his eyes closed, he told her. He fought hard to control his own emotions to enable himself to comfort her, but it was she who gently patted his arm. Her hand felt feather-light.
He turned to take her in his arms, but she stepped back. She gave a strange sigh, then patted her chest as if her hand registered her heartbeat. He had no words of comfort; there were no words. He stood in wretched misery.
Slowly she walked behind the don's desk, stood staring at the row of photographs. To Mario's consternation she sat down, almost businesslike, and picked up a pen, pulled a piece of paper forward, and began to write. She wrote quickly, covering the entire page, then calmly reread what she had written before handing it to him.
"Would you please contact everyone on this list? The marquee must be taken down."
"Graziella—"
"No, please listen to me. I want the flowers taken away, the caterers and the guests informed. No one must come to the villa. Tell the guards; then ask everyone to leave. We must be left alone, do you understand? We must be alone."
Domino was in awe of Graziella's self-control. It was her decision to tell each woman separately; she asked only that the doctor accompany her.
She chose to see Rosa first, sat holding her hand while the doctor sedated the shocked, hysterical girl. The wedding dress was still hanging on the wardrobe door, and Graziella was the one who removed it; but Rosa would not let go of the veil. She clung to it tightly, even when she finally slept.
Teresa repeated her husband's name. The terrible confusion of trying to accept not only the deaths of the children but of all the men was beyond her. She smoothed her skirt constantly, chewed her lips, whispering, "I don't understand, I don't understand ..." She looked past the doctor to the waiting, silent Graziella.
"There'll be no wedding, no wedding?" her eyes, behind the thick-rimmed glasses, were magnified like a china doll's, blank eyes that slowly, as Graziella waited, began to register. ... As the facts hammered at her dulled senses, her breath caught in her throat, then quickened until she was gasping. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and at last, she wept. She asked, after a while, to be left alone.
The doctor warned Graziella to take care, that she must rest, but she went across the landing to Sophia's room and inched open the door. Sophia was sleeping, facedown, her arms splayed out, one hand dangling over the side of the bed. Graziella closed the door softly.
"Doctor, please leave some tranquilizers, in case my daughters need further sedation. I shall administer them, I shall take care of them. Good night, Doctor, thank you for being here. You, too, Mario. Good night."
Domino watched the taillights of the doctor's car going down the drive. Then he slowly pulled on his coat. There was nothing more he could do for Graziella tonight. He stood forlornly in the empty hallway for a few minutes, then let himself out. But he couldn't leave; he sat on the stone steps, head in hands, and wept.
Rosa remained deeply asleep. Teresa was grateful; her own sense of loss was too much to share. She wanted nothing but to lie in a dark room, alone.
Graziella persuaded Teresa to sip a little brandy. She had still not told Sophia, although she knew she was now awake. She had seen the light beneath her door.
For Sophia she had to steel herself, clench her hands until the nails cut into the palms. . . .
Sophia was sitting at the dressing table, her long dark hair hanging almost to her waist, her hands folded in her lap. The aftereffect of the tranquilizers made her feel woozy. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, slightly puffy from weeping. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she were whispering to herself or praying. She did not turn when Graziella entered the room and stood quietly behind her. She did not even acknowledge Graziella's hands on her shoulders. Graziella reached over and picked up the silver-backed hairbrush, began to stroke the thick, silky hair. A few strands crackled with static, and Sophia closed her eyes.
"Mama, tell me it is a nightmare. Tell me that any moment I will wake up and it will all be over."
Graziella continued the long, slow strokes. Suddenly Sophia turned sharply and gripped her mother-in-law's wrist. "Where are they? Why aren't they here? Where is Constantino?"
When she was told, Sophia began to wail, and her wails echoed and hung on the air as grief itself.
The shutters were closed, the curtains drawn. The workmen came and went until there was no trace left of the wedding preparations. The gifts were repacked in their boxes; the cards and telegrams that arrived were stopped at the gates. The ornate, brilliantly colored floral displays were thrown onto the rubbish heap, but the fallen petals remained to blow about in the cool night breeze and brown to a crisp in the heat of the day.
The Villa Rivera was shrouded. Like animals caged, the press gathered at the wrought-iron gates, hands clasping at the bars, but they remained closed.
Graziella insisted that she alone identify the dead. Wearing mourning, a veil covering her face, she clung to Mario Domino's arm as he guided her through the groups of camera-flash- ing photographers. Scuffles broke out as the carabinieri pushed the photographers out of the way.
As soon as they entered the morgue, Graziella withdrew her hand, determined to stand alone. Silently she allowed Domino to walk ahead, following the white-coated policemen along corridor after chilling corridor. They entered the white-tiled cold room.
The mortician's hands, encased in fine yellowish rubber gloves, slowly withdrew each cover, lifting each just enough for Graziella to view the face. She moved from corpse to corpse, crossing herself and calling each one by name, the only words she spoke. She made no attempt to touch the bodies.
"Roberto Luciano . . . Constantino Luciano . . . Filippo
Luciano . . . Emilio Luciano . . . Carlo Luciano . . . Nunzio Luciano ..."
Then Graziella once again took Domino's arm, and he helped her back to the Mercedes; but she refused his offer to accompany her to the villa. As he closed the door carefully, a feeling of helpless inadequacy again consumed him.
Slowly her window slid down. Her face was a shadow behind the veil.
"I will bury my dead. There is not one Luciano left alive, and I want everyone in Sicily to know, to demand justice. You will arrange for me to meet Giuliano Emanuel. You are to tell him he has a new witness for the prosecution, do you understand? Grazie, Mario, grazie. ..." She raised her black-gloved hand a fraction to indicate that she wished to leave. Before he could say a word, the window closed, the car drew away from the sidewalk, and she was gone.
CHAPTER 3
Hours after the L
uciano murders were discovered, the bodies of the chef and one of the waiters were found. They had been bound and shot with a Heckler & Koch P7M8 pistol, the sign of a professional gunman. The bodies of the don's guards were not discovered for another week. The stench of rotting flesh led the carabinieri to a well twenty yards from the restaurant. They had been shot with the same gun. The second waiter had disappeared without trace.
Cyanide was the cause of the Luciano deaths. There were traces of it in every dish they had eaten and even in the wine.
As the investigation continued, it was calculated that three or possibly four men were involved. Casts of footprints were taken from the damp earth around the well. Fingerprint experts began assessing the hundreds of prints taken from the restaurant. A week after the assassinations there were no suspects.
Luka Carolla traveled by train to the northwestern tip of Sicily, sixty miles west of Palermo. He was heading for the walled town of Erice, which rises half a mile above sea level, a virtual citadel, looking out over the Egadi Islands with a clear view to Tunisia and the North African coast.
The walk from the station was long, and the steep, recklessly curved road was deserted. He had chosen to arrive so that he made the climb in the cool of the evening. He carried a small overnight bag and a long, thin leather case. His shoes were scuffed and white with dust. He had removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, but his straw hat made his head sweat, soaking his white blond hair and dripping on his shirt. The heat was exhausting, and his mouth was dry; but when a donkey cart passed him, he made no attempt to obtain a lift.
He kept climbing, higher and higher, until he came to the Chiesa Matrica, the small church of the Mother of God. He gave a small bow of his head as he passed. Continuing along the narrow cobbled lanes, he reached the rough track he knew so well. It was not far now, perhaps another two miles.
The sky darkened. The heat gave way to a cool, light breeze from the sea. Luka took out a handkerchief and dusted his shoes, then put his jacket on. Soon he could see thick, hand-built walls with dark green moss between the stones, and he knew that he would soon reach the high monastery gates.
BELLA MAFIA Page 7
