Crestfallen, he nevertheless took her arm, and they walked outside. She felt the comfort of him again; his hand on her elbow was firm. She eased her arm away, wrapping her coat around her.
"It's cold. . . ."
Tongue-tied, he answered, "Yes, er . . . My apartment is close by."
She gave him a look and turned away. He coughed. "Er, we could go back there, and I could check on the trains or see if there's a flight."
Before she could reply, he had flagged down a taxi and they were heading she had no idea where. Her confusion growing, she sat as far away from him as she could.
Pirelli said nothing, just stared out of the window. He was just as confused as she was, almost afraid to meet her eyes in case she could see the turmoil he was in.
They walked up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. There was no doorman in evidence.
Once inside, Sophia kept her coat on, standing in the middle of the neatly organized living room while he threw his coat off and checked timetables. Eventually she sat on the edge of the sofa and lit a cigarette.
"Do you have any brandy?"
He immediately brought her a glass of brandy. She seemed uninterested in the apartment, neither looking around nor remarking on the taste. She was simply there. . . .
She cupped the glass in both hands, sipping, not meeting his eyes. He had trouble catching what she said. "I think—I think I should call Mama. "He watched her cross the room to the phone, put her glass on the table. She turned to look at him, and their eyes met; she smiled and continued dialing. Pirelli lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply; his hand was shaking like a teenager's.
"Mama? It's Sophia. . . . No, Mama, I'm still in Milan." Again she turned to Pirelli, seemed to be searching his face for the answer to some unspoken question.
"Something has come up, and I'll be delayed. . . . You okay? . . . No, he's not; he should be back shortly. . . . No! No! Nothing to worry about. . . . Yes."
After another glance at Pirelli, she turned her back on him. "In the morning, Mama, I'll be home then. . . . Yes, plenty of time."
She replaced the phone slowly but did not turn. She began to ease the fur coat off.
Pirelli went to her to take the coat, and as it slipped down to her arms, he bent his head and kissed her neck. Her only response was a slight tilt to her head, as if offering him more of her bare neck. The coat fell to the floor. He stepped back, and she turned.
He was bereft of words. Slowly she cupped his face in her hands. She could feel him shaking. As she rested her cheek against his, all he could say, as if on a sigh, was her name. She opened her jacket and lifted his hand to her heart.
He could feel her heartbeat through his hand, feel the softness of her silk blouse, the curve of her breast. He was drowning in the heat of it. . . . Carefully he slipped her jacket and blouse off, his hands gently brushing her shoulders, then worked the zipper of her skirt down until it fell to the floor. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her softly, nestled in his embrace. He kissed the lobe of her ear.
"I love you, Sophia."
She seemed to collapse against him, and he picked her up and carried her into his bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, and she turned her face into the pillow. She felt as if her mind were not part of her body, not part of her craving. She wouldn't look at him.
Pirelli drew the curtains, unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and peeled his socks off. Then, still wearing his trousers, he moved soundlessly to sit on the bed beside her.
"You know, I never believed it possible to feel this way about someone. The first moment I saw you . . ."
She turned and touched his chest, tentatively at first; then her fingers dug into his flesh, into the thick, dark, wiry hair, and she clawed him, pulling him down. He felt her bite his lip, and he gripped her face, drawing her toward him. He kissed her more roughly than he believed himself capable of. . . . He tore the straps from her slip, pulling it away from her, and gasped at the beauty of her heavy breasts.
She unbuckled his trouser belt, and suddenly he felt her hands on his erect penis, pulling at him roughly, drawing him upward as she lowered her lips around it.
He pushed her away. "No . . . no . . ."
She flopped back on the bed. "What's the matter with you, Commissario? Don't you want me? Don't you want to fuck me?"
He gripped her wrists. "Look at me, look at me! Do you think I want you like this? You think I want this?"
He looked at her scornful face, a half-smile on her lips as if she were laughing at him. "No? You don't want me? What's the matter? Don't you like a woman to go down on you?"
"Jesus Christ!" He moved away from her; he had to because he wanted to slap her. He couldn't cope with the way she had changed. She was a stranger, a whore he had brought back instead of the beautiful dream he had fantasized loving. He snapped, "Get dressed! This was a mistake. I'm sorry."
She laughed. Was she laughing at him? He had never felt so inadequate in his entire adult life. The sneering smile on her face made him turn angrily back to her.
"I can pay for what you offer, Sophia. Get dressed."
Her eyes blazed with anger. "Maybe I can do the same. How much do you want, Commissario? What do you charge for a fuck because that is all I want? I thought that was why you brought me back here."
She reached out and caught his arm, drawing him toward her, but he pushed her away so roughly that she fell against the bedside cabinet. He heard the crack of her head against the wood, and it made him feel worse, even more inadequate. "I'm sorry, Sophia, I'm sorry." She wouldn't look at him, but all the sneering anger had gone. She seemed simply to give up.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked. He sat on the bed, at a Iose: for what to say. His whole body ached for her, wanted her yet he could not reach out and touch her. She turned slowly to face him.
His expression of concern brought the sweetest of smile from her, and she whispered, "No, you didn't hurt me. I wanta you because I felt nothing. I have nothing left."
He kept looking at her, feeling her loss, her emptiness, am her need. He felt an overpowering desire to be the one to fi that need; she drew from him a bewildering tenderness. Slowly he moved closer and closer. Like a father to a daughter, h opened his arms, willing her, wanting her to come to him, to take the offer of comfort freely, without fear.
The release when she reached out, when he encircled he in his arms, when he felt the warmth of her nakedness again; his own was like no emotion he had ever experienced. Never had he cradled such fragility. He tightened his hold, whispering that it was all right.
His was the first embrace, the first physical comfort Sophia had received since discovering her babies murdered, sine burying her dead. She had cried endless tears for her love ones; now she wept for herself. He encouraged the release rocking her backward and forward as shuddering sobs swept over her, until at last she was still, her body pressed again his, her heartbeat at one with his own. Then, at that last moment, he lifted her chin gently and kissed her.
He laid her down and began to take the pins out of her hair, loosening it. He smiled down at her. "I dreamed of seeing you like this, with your beautiful hair spread out. I love you Sophia. I love you."
She closed her eyes, and he stroked her belly, soft, brushing strokes. "I can make you feel loved, make you feel cared for. ..." Her skin beneath his fingers was like silk.
It was Sophia who placed his hand on her breast, let him feel the erect nipple, let him know that he had aroused her that she wanted him. They made love, and he came into her within moments. He smiled down into her beautiful face. "Thank God we got all night ... all night. . . ."And all night they made love. In the early morning he made breakfast and brought it to her, and they ate it, side by side in the bed. He ran her a bath and soaped her body, toweled her dry, then held her tightly.
"What am I going to do, Sophia Luciano? You have me wrapped around your little finger, you know that? From the first moment I saw you."
She laughed and wen
t back into the bedroom, opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. She dressed while he showered and changed, and she sat in her fur coat, waiting for him. Her Turkish cigarettes made the whole apartment smell sweet. It was as if nothing had happened from the moment they had walked in.
"We will be in Palermo for the hearing. Mama's case comes up this week. Will you be there?"
He nodded, realizing he had not called his office. He checked the time. "I'll get a cab to the airport."
She stubbed out her cigarette. "Can you be there? Mama is afraid of the press, she's afraid, and we only have—" She was about to say "Johnny," but then she said they had only their chauffeur.
"I'll be there. . . . Will you be returning to Rome or staying in Palermo?"
"I'm not sure. It depends on the case."
While he phoned for a taxi, Sophia looked around the room, then stood up to look at a photograph. Her back was toward him while he spoke to the taxi company and thumbed through the timetables at the same time.
"Who are they?" She was holding the photograph.
He touched his lip; it was swollen where she had bitten it. "My wife and my son."
She replaced the heavy frame carefully. "How old is your son?"
"Nine . . . Well, eight, nine next birthday. Sophia?"
She picked up her handbag, refusing to look at him.
"Sophia, Sophia, I would have told you—"
"But you didn't."
Sophia refused to talk to him on the way to the airport. His flight was due to leave first. As it was called, he gripped her arm.
"I have to see you again. I can't leave like this. I can't—"
"You had better or you'll miss your flight."
"Fuck it! I want to see you again."
She shrugged. "Fine, I'll see you in court."
"That's not what I meant. I want to see you, be with you."
She smiled and cupped his face in her hands; but it was a false smile, and her eyes were cold. "Why complicate things, Joe? Whatever happened last night happened. It was good, but forget it. I do not want to be anyone's bit on the side."
"Don't speak like that! Do you think I usually go around doing this kind of thing? Do you? I meant what I said, Sophia."
She stepped back. "They're calling your flight again. You'll miss it."
"I don't want to lose you."
"You want to leave your wife? Your son? Don't play games, Joe. We're both too old for that. Let's finish it before we get more involved. It'll be best for both of us."
Pirelli couldn't argue. He hadn't even contemplated leaving his wife. He walked toward the departure gate without turning back.
When she returned to Rome, Sophia was confronted by an irate Luka, who demanded to know what she had been doing. She tossed her coat over the sofa and looked at him.
"We had better get a few things straight: You work for us, you don't give me orders, and you don't ask me where I've been or what I've been doing because it's none of your damned business."
"I am supposed to be protecting you, looking out for you. If I don't know where you are, how can I do that? Who was that guy you were with?"
Sophia walked into the bathroom without bothering to reply. She ran a bath and stripped, stared at her reflection in the mirror. There were no marks on her body from their lovemaking, but she was changed: She felt calmer and more confident.
Soaking in the bath with her eyes closed, she thought about Pirelli, refusing to admit to herself the possibility that she cared for him, that she could— She picked up the sponge quickly and soaped and scrubbed her body. No matter what he said, in the end he had in some way betrayed her. It was foolish even to contemplate becoming involved with him. Instead, when the time came, she would use him; he could prove useful.
Pirelli took a bit of ribbing from Ancora. His lip was badly swollen, and no one believed he had walked into a gate. But whatever Ancora believed, his bad mood was due to the fact that no matter what evidence they kept coming up with, they were still left with the problem of tracing their man. Officers were being pulled off the investigation, and there was still no sign of Luka.
Pirelli went over the reports of the Rocco murder and examined the walking-cane gun. It had been wiped clean, no prints. At a loss for what to do next, he could have gone home. Instead, he worried at the problem like a dog with a bone, after something, anything, to help.
Pirelli put off going back to his Palermo apartment for as long as possible, not wanting to face his wife. Eventually he was so tired that he had no option. Feeling guilty, he bought some flowers and returned home, sheepishly. Lisa was watching television with her feet propped up.
"Hi, you okay?"
"I suppose so, but you are the limit. You get me and Gino to stay here in this awful place. Then you go to Milan!"
He shrugged, and she stared at him. "What have you done to your lip?"
"Had a bit of a run-in with a couple of guys at the airport; it's okay. Anything to eat?"
She rolled off the sofa and went into the kitchen. "Did you get to the apartment?"
"Yeah, just a quick look in. Everything's fine."
"Good. Can we go out to dinner then? Save me cooking?"
He sighed and agreed halfheartedly. He was so exhausted he could barely stand up. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he gave her a small hug. "Oh, is that all I get? Away for two days? You haven't even asked me about your son."
"I'm sorry, just that things are really getting on top of me. Is Gino okay?"
"He's fine. I'll ask the girl upstairs to baby-sit. Oh, by the way, you'll have to get Gino a new bike for Christmas. His has been stolen."
Pirelli yawned his way through dinner, and try as he could to avoid thinking of her, his mind was full of Sophia. When his head finally hit the pillow, all he wanted to do was sleep. Lisa snuggled up behind him, kissing his neck, but he caught her hand.
"Not tonight, Lisa, I've got a terrible headache."
She rolled over to her own side of the bed. "Isn't that supposed to be my line? You know, the sole reason I am here in this god-awful apartment is to be with you. What happens? You go back to Milan. When do I get to see you? Joe? Joe!"
He was deep asleep, dreaming of Sophia with her hair spread across the pillow. . . .
After a solid nine hours' sleep Pirelli presented himself at the magistrates' court for the hearing of Graziella Luciano's attempt to murder Paul Carolla.
Luka was cagey about being seen at the courthouse and had tried to make excuses to stay in the car, but Sophia had insisted. "You are supposed to be looking after us—well, do your job!"
He wore his gray chauffeur's cap and sat with Graziella on a hard wooden bench in the marble-floored corridor outside the court. He was wary, but the many people hurrying back and forth paid him little or no attention. Graziella was nervous, twisting her handkerchief around and around in her lap. She was not afraid of the outcome, just of being alone.
At Sophia's request, Luka went to get her some water. He filled a paper cup at the water fountain and returned along the corridor past another court in session. Posted outside the court were the lists of the day's hearings and beside them notices requesting information on bail jumpers and other wanted felons, arsonists, petty thieves—and there, in full view, was a picture of Luka himself.
The poster asked anyone who had seen Luka Carolla to contact the nearest police station. There was a brief description of him: his blue eyes, his height, and that his hair might be blond or light brown.
A woman was standing directly behind him, reading the notices over his shoulder. He excused himself and went on along the corridor. His bladder felt as if it were about to explode, and his hands were shaking. By the time he returned to Sophia and Graziella, his face was ashen, and his fingers, holding the small paper cup, felt frozen stiff. They were still waiting for Graziella's legal representative to arrive.
"I've just asked how long we might have to wait. Apparently it might be a considerable time," Sophia said to L
uka, but her whole attention was on Graziella.
"Why don't I go see about arranging a nice restaurant for lunch?"
Sophia hesitated, looked at her watch. Then she shrugged. "Why not? Also, we can ask the clerk whether we can leave by the back door. I don't want Mama bothered by the press."
Luka stepped back a few inches. "Okay, I'll wait in the car, directly outside the rear entrance."
He hurried away, passing Pirelli, who was deep in discussion with Graziella's lawyer. He didn't even glance in Luka's direction as he passed because Sophia greeted him. He shook her hand, his eyes searching her face.
"Mama, you remember Commissario Pirelli?"
"Si . . ."Graziella took his hand.
"You've got one of the easiest magistrates, Signora Luciano. I've talked to him and just had a long conversation with your lawyer. I don't think there's going to be any problem. I won't be in the court, but I will come by later." He turned to Sophia. "Could I have a word in private?"
Sophia excused herself and left Graziella with the lawyer. She and Pirelli went into an interview room and closed the door.
"Can I see you after the hearing?"
She wouldn't look at him. "There's no point. . . ."
"I see. What do you want me to do?"
She sighed. "It has nothing to do with me. You are married. It's best we don't see each other."
"Do you want to? Just tell me, do you want to? I mean, I don't know where I am with you."
"I don't know what I want, Joe."
He ran his hands through his hair and gave her a helpless look. "What do you want me to do? "She came to him, touched his face lightly. "Joe, I don't know what I feel for you . . . what I could feel for you. ..."
He pulled her to him and kissed her. She rested against him, feeling his strength, comforted by it, secure in his arms. "Joe, it would be so easy for me to say yes, I want to see you again, but it would all become a tangled mess."
He gripped her arms. "I can't stop thinking about you. I want you every minute. I want you right now. ... I love you."
She made no reply.
BELLA MAFIA Page 41
