BELLA MAFIA

by Lynda La Plante

  She removed her gloves carefully, straightening each finger, and folded them neatly in her lap. "Will he also be accused of destroying my family?"

  "Signora, there is no evidence so far that he was involved in that tragedy. At the time he was in jail."

  "He was also in jail when the little Paluso child was murdered, yet I believe he is suspected of ordering the killing. Is that not so?"

  "I understand he has been questioned, yes."

  "So is he to be accused of my family's murders?"

  "If evidence is produced, it will necessitate a separate trial. You must realize, when it became known that Don Roberto was to testify, there would be many who would want to stop him."

  "Did my husband's evidence incriminate others?"

  Emanuel twisted the cap of his fountain pen on and off, then spoke with care. "He made no accusations against any other named party. He chose only to tell me the pertinent facts surrounding your son's death. He incriminated himself more than anyone else."

  "Are you able to use the statements he made?"

  The pen twisted and turned in his hands. "Without Don Roberto's presence the statements could be dismissed as circumstantial evidence. This also applies to the statement made by Lenny Cavataio. As I explained to your husband, all the evidence contained in the Cavataio statement was contested by the defense counsel as hearsay. . . . Don Roberto knew this; it was the sole reason he chose to offer himself."

  Graziella leaned forward, her black-gloved hand resting on the edge of his desk.

  "First, I would like to have the tapes my husband made. Would that be possible?"

  Emanuel nodded. They had been transcribed to computer files. But he was not prepared for her next words.

  Sitting upright in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, she said, "I wish to offer myself in my husband's place. I am prepared to be a witness for the prosecution."

  She paused, searching his face for a reaction, but all she saw was that the nervous hands twisting the fountain pen had become still. Emanuel rose from the desk and walked to the window. He parted the slats of the blind a fraction and peered out.

  "Did you discuss the statements with your husband, Signora Luciano?"

  "I did not need to. I am fully aware of the facts. I am prepared to be your witness; I am prepared to repeat in court everything my husband told you."

  "You mean, repeat his statements?"

  "No, I mean, tell the truth as I know it."

  He turned and scrutinized her. He wondered how much she really knew. "These facts, signora, would you be prepared to discuss them with me now? Or would you require access to your husband's taped interviews first?"

  "Are you asking me if I would perjure myself?"

  He blushed and returned to his desk. "I am in the middle of the case. The time required to discuss everything with you would mean my asking for a stay of at least one week. If I were to ask this of the judge and be awarded it, only to discover that your evidence was not—could not be used against Paul Carolla, then my time would have been wasted, and my time, right now, is my primary consideration. These men have been held in jail for almost ten months. We cannot afford further delays—·"

  "The murder of my entire family is just a delay? How long did my grandchildren's deaths delay the court proceedings, sig-nor? One day? One hour?"

  "Please, I mean no insult, but we have already discussed the fact that to date the police have discovered no connection—"

  "No connection? My husband was the main witness against Carolla; is that not a connection?"

  Emanuel was angry but very controlled. "I am unaware, as are the authorities, who it was who organized, arranged, whatever term you wish to use, the terrible tragedy that occurred. I am prepared to accept you as a witness if, and only if, you have evidence that stands up by itself without your husband's tapes."

  "I know Paul Carolla instigated the death of my son. I know he, and only he, benefited from the death of my family—"

  "But forgive me, signora, without proof—"

  "The proof is in the graveyard."

  He sighed. "Trust me, I give you my word—"

  "Your word means little to me. My husband trusted you, trusted your word that there would be protection for himself and for his sons. . . ."

  Emanuel took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. There was no denying that the leak had come from this very office, his office. After a moment he asked if she would be prepared there and then to answer certain questions in front of a witness. If he believed she had valuable evidence, he would accept her for the prosecution.

  Hesitantly Graziella agreed. A secretary brought them coffee while they waited for a stenographer. Emanuel sifted through his notes, preparing questions. Graziella slowly approached his desk.

  "Would it be so wrong to allow me to listen to my husband's tapes? Would it be so wrong to allow me to say the words he died for? In the end what we both want, what you want, is justice."

  "I cannot, signora, no matter how much I want, no matter how much I believe in the man's guilt, go against the law. I cannot do this for you—or for the animal Paul Carolla."

  Graziella remained with Emanuel and the stenographer for an hour. Emanuel was as tough on her within the confines of his office as he knew the defense would be with her in court.

  "Would you state your relationship with Paul Carolla?"

  "I have no relationship with him."

  "How well did you know the defendant?"

  "He came to my home, to visit my husband."

  She could not recollect the exact date but knew that the first time she had met Carolla was in the late fifties. She explained that there had always been friction between Carolla and her late husband.

  "What exactly do you mean by friction?"

  "When Paul Carolla's father died, his will did not name his son as head of the family. Instead, he chose my husband. Paul Carolla always bore a grudge against my husband because he felt usurped."

  Emanuel tapped the side of his desk with his foot. "So you were aware of ill feeling between the two men as far back as the early fifties?"

  "Yes. Paul Carolla came to my home wanting my husband to release him; he no longer wished to work for him. He wanted to start his own business."

  "And what business did Paul Carolla wish to begin?"

  "I believe it was narcotics."

  "You believe? Do you have any evidence to substantiate this statement?"

  "No."

  "I see. So let us move on to the ill feeling between your husband and the defendant. . . ."

  "The second time Paul Carolla came to my home, he wanted my husband to assist him, to use the Luciano export companies as a cover for shipping narcotics. He had become very wealthy, and he threatened my husband."

  "Were you a witness to any of these threats?"

  She hesitated, and he knew before she spoke that she was lying. "I heard them shouting at each other. I heard Paul Carolla say that he would make my husband pay for abusing his friendship. My husband refused to assist him in any way. He had always maintained his companies legally, had spent years building up a good name. My husband was a man of honor, and he hated drugs of any kind."

  "Signora Luciano, when you say a man of honor, do you accept the fact that your husband was, up until the time of his death, a known Mafia—"

  She interrupted angrily. "My husband was a man of honor, a war hero, decorated for bravery, a man who despised the trade in drugs, despised Paul Carolla."

  Emanuel was already certain that it would not work, but he had to continue. He changed the subject, asking gently, "Tell me about Michael Luciano."

  She seemed grateful, giving him a half-smile. "He was my firstborn son."

  Emanuel listened patiently as she described Michael's academic history, his acceptance into Harvard. Eventually he interrupted her. "Would you tell me what happened to this young man, a boy with such a tremendous future ahead of him?"

  "He came home, in the summer of sixty-three, hal
fway through the second year at Harvard. He was very sick; my second son collected him at the airport, and Michael could hardly walk unaided. His hair was matted, and his clothes . . ." Her eyes filled with tears.

  "He was ill, you said?"

  "Yes. He collapsed, and my husband took him to the hospital. He remained in the hospital for a few weeks. Then he was taken to the mountains to recuperate. He came home once, looking well and fit, full of life. He was a very handsome boy, his blond hair bleached silver by the sun. He was better, but my husband felt he should stay in the mountains a few more days until he was completely recovered."

  "What happened to your son, Signora Luciano?"

  She tried to say it matter-of-factly but could not. "My son was . . . murdered."

  "Did you witness his death?"

  "No, I did not. My son was shot, killed as a warning to my husband not to stand against Paul Carolla. My son's return, signor, coincided with Carolla's threats, and my husband took my son into the mountains in the belief that he would be safe there."

  Emanuel was kicking the side of his desk with small, light taps of his shoe. "These threats, signora—did you actually hear Paul Carolla say that he would . . ." He paused, knowing that Michael Luciano had not been shot, and chose his words carefully. The stenographer waited, the persistent, soft clicking silenced for a moment.

  "What was the development of this tragedy? Was anyone ever charged with this brutal killing?"

  Slowly Graziella shook her head. "No, but it was Paul Carolla."

  "Was he ever arrested? Was he ever charged? Did anyone, signora, have any evidence to prove that Paul Carolla had anything to do with this tragic death?"

  There was a helplessness to her. She shook her head. "No . . . but there was a witness."

  "Do you know the name of this witness?"

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she gave a pleading look to the stenographer, as if she could help. In the end she lowered her head and whispered, "No, I do not know, signor."

  Sophia sat in the cool, empty church. She had been sitting there for almost two hours. She wore a lace veil over her face and clutched her rosary.

  She had tried to pray, but her mind had blurred. She could do nothing but listen, her face cupped in her hands as she knelt. Footsteps came and went; voices echoed; there were whispers from the confessional. Twice she had risen and moved closer, only to stop and kneel down again. She had no tears left, and the small yellow pills Graziella had given her wrapped everything in a distant haze.

  She had asked the maid to clear the children's toys away and take them to a children's home along with their clothes. Constantino's clothes had also been removed. The large apartment was empty, desolate, and she was so lacking in energy that she spent most of her time in bed, the blinds drawn, the pills giving her deep, dreamless sleep.

  The church was the only place she went to, and for three days she had come, needing to confess, needing to tell someone, but had been unable to enter the confessional. The priest knew who she was and knew of her loss, but he did not approach her, did not intrude on what he believed were her prayers.

  The candles she had lit for her sons and her husband were flickering, almost at an end, and she quietly got three more. She lit them and stood staring into the flames beneath the Virgin's feet. Two women knelt, praying, the clicking of their rosaries like small hammers to Sophia.

  The confessional was empty, and she inched closer, closer. . . . Then she moved quickly to swish the curtain aside. Once in the small dark booth she forced herself to speak, but her voice was so low that the priest had to ask her to speak up.

  "I have sinned, Father."

  He leaned closer. Her voice was so husky he could barely hear her. He encouraged her to continue.

  "I have sinned, Father."

  The priest scratched at a gravy stain on his cassock, then folded his hands. "Ease the pain in your heart; say what you feel you need. There is time. Take your time. I am just here to comfort you, to pray with you."

  "I had a child, a son. I was very young. I left the baby in an orphanage. I intended ... I wanted to go back for him, but first I needed to tell his father, explain to him."

  The priest waited. He saw her hand, a delicate white hand with blood-red nails, the fingers threading through the grille. He touched her fingers, gently. His hand felt warm, soft. She withdrew her hand.

  "Did you tell the father of your baby? Tell him of his son?"

  "I couldn't, Father. I couldn't."

  "Were you afraid? Afraid of rejection?"

  "No ... no, you don't understand—"

  "I can only understand, be of help to you, if you tell me everything."

  "He died, he died. ... I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell anyone."

  "So the father of your baby was dead. What did you do then?"

  She gave a short, humorless laugh, then sat silent for more than five minutes. The priest's stomach rumbled loudly, and he looked at his watch.

  "I married his brother, Father."

  "And what of your child?"

  "I never went back for him. I left him. I never told anyone he even existed. I left my baby in the orphanage. I left him. . . ."

  He heard the brass curtain rings clicking and peered through the grille as Sophia ran from the church.

  Emanuel watched Graziella being driven away in her car. The stenographer asked if he would need her further, and he shook his head. He was tired; he didn't want to continue working.

  He had done what had to be done; if it appeared hard, cruel even, it would in the end prove a kindness. Graziella would have been put through worse on the stand, and she had, as he had known to begin with, no evidence that he could use. He had simply wasted his valuable time.

  Sophia kicked off her shoes while pouring herself a vodka. She took two Valium and lay down, fully clothed, on her bed, and drained the glass. But she could not forget. She found herself reliving all the emotions she had felt when she stood in her cast-ofif shoes, her cheap hand-sewn dress, waiting outside those huge wrought-iron gates of the Villa Rivera, only to be told that Michael Luciano, the boy she had loved, was dead and buried.

  The guilt descended like a black cowl; her body felt as if she were drowning in a swamp of emotion. The guilt she had never allowed herself to face began to emerge, and she fought it, twisted it until it surfaced as rage. Michael Luciano, the father of her bastard child, Michael Luciano was to blame for everything. If it hadn't been for him, her husband, her sons would be alive. . . . She hurled her glass at the wall.

  "Bastard! Bastard! Bastard" she screamed. Her rage was out of control. She tore the duvet from the bed, the pillows, hurled everything she could lay hands on across the room. She swiped her perfumes and creams from the top of the dressing table, then opened her wardrobe and started dragging out her clothes, ripping at them in her frenzy, kicking the rows of shoes until exhausted, she fell to her knees. Clinging to the side of the bed, she wept uncontrollably, asking God to forgive her, repeating over and over, "It was not my fault. No one can blame me. ... It was not my fault. . . ." But she knew there was no one to answer for her sins but herself.span>

  Sophia returned to the confessional. "Don't you understand what I have done? Don't you understand?"

  The priest quieted her, said he understood, could understand her heartache.

  "No, you cannot, you can't understand."

  "Well, my child, tell me what I cannot understand."

  The white hand, the red-painted fingernails, again scratched at the grille.

  "I wanted so much to be a part of the family. I wanted everything they had. I wanted to be—" As disturbed as she was, Sophia still held back, still could not say the name Luciano. "I wanted everything I had never had. I was so poor, Father. My mother scrubbed floors. It was all I saw for myself, scrubbing, washing other people's clothes. That was all I saw ahead of me. When I had the baby, I was sure, so sure, that they would accept me. I was sure he loved me."

  "Do you know what became o
f the child?"

  "No ... I made myself forget him. I had to forget him to survive. . . . And then, after I was married, how could I tell them? Do you think I would have been allowed to marry the son of—" Again she would not speak the name. If she explained further, he would know who she was; the deaths of the Luciano family had made headlines.

  "Do you now want to find your child?"

  She leaned back. She could smell the mustiness of his robes just as he could smell her distinct, heavy perfume. She answered on a long, low sigh. "Yesss . . . yes, that is what I want."

  "Then that is what you must do. Trace this child you harbor such guilt, such deep guilt for. Your sense of betrayal is natural, you know what you have done in the past, and you know the reasons. Find him, ask his forgiveness, and God will give you the strength. Now together we will pray for his soul, pray for you, my daughter, and pray for God to forgive your sins."

  Graziella looked toward her husband's study. She could hear the murmur of voices. She handed Adina her veil and black lace gloves.

  "It's Signor Domino; he said it would be all right. He has three gentlemen with him, signora."

  "In future, Adina, no matter who it is, no one is allowed here, especially not in my husband's study, unless I have given you authority. You may go."

  She waited until Adina had returned to the kitchen before she moved closer to the study door. She paused, listening; she could hear Mario Domino speaking.

  . . Panamanian companies. Listed alongside are the U.S. state bonds. We were recycling the proceeds through our bank to Switzerland—"

  Graziella walked into the study, and Domino froze in mid-sentence.

  "Graziella, I was not expecting you to return. ... I apologize for the intrusion, but . . . Please allow me to introduce these gentlemen. They are from America and are handling the legal side over there for Don Roberto."

  Graziella did not offer her hand but remained standing at the open door. Domino made the introductions, first gesturing toward a tall, well-dressed man in a dark gray suit. His eyes were small but accentuated by heavy, horn-rimmed glasses.

  "This is Eduardo Lorenzi from New York."

  Lorenzi gave a small bow. "Signora."

  The next man was squat, his face shining with sweat, his collar stained. His plump hands clutched at a large white handkerchief. "I think you have met Signor Niccold Pecorelli, a very old and trusted friend, now taking care of the don's interests in Atlantic City. And last, Giulio Carboni, also from the East Coast, who has been assisting me here."