He released her and leaned against the door. "What if I were to leave my wife?"
"That is your business. Don't expect me to tell you what to do. If you want to leave her, then—"
"Just tell me if that's what you want me to do?"
"No, I won't. What happens if you leave your wife and then we—then we don't work out? You'll make me responsible, blame me! I have had enough heartbreak to last me the rest of my life. Don't give me any more, Joe, please. Maybe, maybe I came to you because I needed you at that moment."
"You don't need me now?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Joe, I have such a need inside me. You filled me, gave me something, but don't you understand, I don't know if it's love or just the fact that you filled my need. I have to try to make myself whole again. I'm only half alive."
He had to swallow hard to prevent himself from weeping. "I'm sorry, you're right, you'd better get back to Signora Luciano. If you need me, you've got me, with or without ties. I mean that. All you have to do is call."
She kissed his cheek, whispered her thanks, and walked out. He remained in the room, trying to compose himself. He couldn't rid himself of a terrible sense of loss.
Luka sat in the car outside the court. He now knew that Sophia had been with the commissario, the man named Pirelli. What had she told him? Why had they gone into that room to talk together? He was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he cringed when someone tapped on the window of the car.
A court clerk bent to speak to him. "Signora Luciano is just coming out. You take the first left, down the narrow alley; then there's a sharp right turn back onto the main road—"
Luka already had the engine running as Sophia helped Graziella into the backseat, then sat next to Luka.
"There's the paparazzi at the front, so hurry."
The Rolls Corniche screeched along the narrow alley.
As Pirelli had predicted, Graziella had been fined and given a suspended sentence. By late afternoon they were ready to leave for New York. There was no trouble with customs; Signora Gennaro, her son, and her daughter were not even questioned.
Luka and Graziella between them had chosen the passports. The photograph in Anthony Gennaro's passport did not really resemble Luka, but the fact that it was a family passport enabled them to pass straight through the security net and customs. They would be landing at JFK within ten minutes. It had been a good, quiet flight, and they all had slept, Graziella resting her head against Sophia's shoulder. Sophia, always nervous about flying, had clasped Luka's hand for assurance as the plane had lifted off, then laughed when her stomach churned. Luka loved her deep, husky laugh.He thought of the surprise he had for her as a result of his late-night visit to Nino Fabio's warehouse: the signed release of all her designs, including some of the 1987 collection. Nino had signed away all his rights and even given permission for Sophia to use his name.
The plane began its descent, and all three leaned over to look out of the window. Graziella made the sign of the cross, praying for their safe landing. Again Sophia reached for Luka's hand, and he was there, beside her, smiling that angelic smile, the soft dimple appearing in his cheek.
When Nino Fabio's receptionist arrived at work, she noticed that the light was on in his office and presumed he had come in early, as he often did.
She opened the mail and brewed coffee before tapping on Nino's door. Receiving no reply, she opened the door and looked into the room.
The white carpet was covered in bloodstains. Entire footprints of bare feet showed where someone had walked through the blood, the marks disappearing into the black carpet of the reception area.
There were more bloodstains in the small private bathroom, smeared across the mirror, over the sink. The footprints were clear again on the white floor tiles. There was blood on the taps, blood sprayed over the wall. As the office began to fill with machinists and cutters, the scene became surreal. The police arrived and immediately cordoned off the area while they tried to find Fabio. Two hours later a young assistant, passing through the area where the life-size dummies were stored, began to scream hysterically. All she could do was point to Nino's body, almost drained of blood, perched on top of a male dummy. He was as waxen and lifeless as the white plastic body he appeared to be humping.
CHAPTER 19
Graziella was distressed at seeing the cramped apartment Teresa and Rosa occupied. She had no comprehension of the high cost of living in New York, and to her the East Thirty-fifth Street apartment was not just rundown but little more than a slum.
She wept, throwing her arms up as she went from room to room, shaking her head at the small kitchen, asking over and over why, why she had never been told, why Filippo had never let her and Papa see the state they were forced to live in.
Graziella called for Sophia, demanded that she find a better place; it would be impossible for them all to stay in such cramped conditions. Sophia could not help agreeing. She was leaning against the front doorframe, gasping for breath, having carried her own suitcase up the stairs.
Luka brought up two more suitcases, and the narrow hallway was full. With Graziella's wailing it seemed like bedlam.
It was late evening by the time they made sense of everything, having allocated rooms and moved furniture to create space. Rosa moved in with Teresa, and Graziella had Rosa's room. Sophia was given a tiny room of her own. Teresa was tight-lipped as they squeezed into the dining room to eat supper.
Luka had fetched and carried, pushed furniture around, and been very willing to assist in every possible way, but he refused to eat with them. He wanted to go out and arrange a room for himself. He would return in the morning. Bidding everyone good night, he edged his way around the stack of suitcases in the hall.
Supper was a noisy affair as they all talked at once, arguing about their accommodations. Graziella made Teresa even more irate by turning her nose up at the food, that if they had to live in the slums, there was no need to eat like the americanos.
"Mama, I don't want to hear another word about the apartment or about the food. If you want to cook, it's fine by me, but I just don't want to talk about it tonight."
"I have a house ... I have one—"
"No, Mama, the villa was sold. You don't have a house, an apartment even."
"Yes, I have a house."
Teresa pounded the table in fury. "Mama, you think we'd be living in this place if there was anything else? We've got no other place. We live as we are until we get things organized, okay? Okay}"
"There's no need to shout, Teresa. Mama is confused. We have been in and out of Palermo, back to Rome. . . . Maybe instead of arguing, you should ask how it went in court." Sophia pushed her dreadful hamburger around her plate. "Mama had to pay a fine, or I did."
"I presumed everything had gone well; otherwise you wouldn't be here. Can we talk about what's really important?"
Graziella folded her arms. "You know something, Teresa? What you think is important is not always right. What's most important is the home; that is the place you live from, you grow from. The family and the home are one."
Sophia slipped her arm around Graziella's shoulders. "You are right, Mama."
"Of course, I'm right. I don't like this place. My bed is next to a wall; who wants to wake up looking at a wall, huh?"
"Okay, Mama, you want my room? Take it, have my room."
"I don't want your room, Teresa. I want out of this place.
It closes in on you. Tomorrow, when we have had some sleep, we look for a new place."
Sophia helped Graziella to her feet and was elbowed away.
"And don't treat me like I was an old lady; show me some respect. I have left my home; you think I don't feel it in my heart? Don't you know what I lost, what I left behind?"
"You had no choice, Martfta." Teresa was fighting to control her temper.
Graziella leaned across the table. "I had a choice, Teresa. Don't think I did not. That house died, may it rest in peace."
Ter
esa threw her hands up in the air. "What do you want us to do, Mama, weep for the house now?"
"No, just remember I gave you my home." She walked to the door, then paused. "Where's the bathroom?"
Sophia roared with laughter as she led Graziella down the small, obstacle-strewn hallway.
"Well," said Rosa, "Aunt Sophia seems in better spirits than when we last saw her. I wonder if the pills are working overtime."
"You show respect, Rosa, or you'll feel the back of my hand."
Rosa looked at her mother and continued to pour the wine. As she filled her own glass, she said, "Johnny seems to be a part of the family now. Seems very friendly with Sophia."
Teresa collected the dirty plates, saying nothing, but she did bring up the subject of Johnny when Sophia returned.
"So, how did our Mr. Moreno work out?"
Sophia accepted a glass of wine and smiled.
Teresa leaned closer to Sophia.
"Did anything happen with Johnny? Sophia?"
"He worked out just fine. He drove the Rolls—oh, we left it at a long-term garage, Teresa. We can pick it up anytime, although it is a ridiculous car for Rome, the streets are so narrow."
Teresa was still not satisfied. "Did you find out anything more about him? Like who he worked for?"
Sophia shook her head. "No, but he took care of us. So what's the next move, now that we're all here? What do we do now?" "I've made contact with Barzini," Teresa said. "He was more than eager to see us. I said we would meet with him as soon as you arrived, so if you and Mama get to bed early, I'll call him and we can go to see him first thing in the morning. The sooner we have this settled, the sooner we can get on with our lives."
Luka was still acting as the widows' chauffeur. He had polished Filippo Luciano's Lincoln in the garage below the apartment building. He watched as the women headed toward him and held the door open for Graziella.
Teresa stared hard at Luka. As he reached to help her into the car, she cringed away.
He flushed slightly, wary that Teresa's reaction would be noticed, and remained silent throughout the journey to Barzini's, taking surreptitious glances at her through the mirror as she gave them each their instructions.
Barzini occupied a residential suite at the Plaza Hotel. As the car drew up, a uniformed doorman moved toward it, but Luka was out fast, barring the man's way. He made a great show of ushering the women from the car.
They all were wearing black, and Graziella was veiled. They looked rich; they looked like old money, their clothes obviously designer quality. People turned to stare as, one by one, they stepped out of the limo and crossed the sidewalk. Then, in their now well-rehearsed group with Graziella leading, they entered the Plaza Hotel. Ignoring the front desk, they walked sedately to the elevators and rode up to the sixteenth floor.
A man in a light gray suit and pink-tinted gold-rimmed glasses was waiting for their arrival at suite 6. He moved toward Graziella.
"Welcome, Signora Luciano. We met in '79, but you will have no reason to remember me. My name is Peter Salerno."
Graziella nodded, and he gestured for them to follow him through the open door of the suite. He guided them into a very large, sun-filled room.
Pink silks lined the walls, and there was a profusion of pale oyster-colored sofas and matching chairs. The air was sweet with the scent of large, ornate flower displays on white marble pedestals. Small glass-topped coffee tables were placed conveniently around the living-room area, and in the center of the room was a low white marble table with dishes of candy and glasses for the champagne, which waited in silver ice buckets. A white-coated waiter stood by, ready to serve them.
The man they had come to meet, Michele Barzini, was talking on the phone. He was in his late fifties, a small man, no more than five feet five. His hair was sandy gray above a pinched face on which he wore rimless tinted glasses. His suit was a light, shiny gray, and his black shoes were so highly polished that light glinted off them. His rose-colored tie sported a large diamond pin in its perfect folds.
Within a moment he had put the phone down and hurried with open arms to greet his guests.
"Forgive me, forgive me . . . Welcome, Signora Luciano."
He kissed Graziella's hand, then turned to do the same to each of the other women as they were introduced. He patted their hands in condolence, then invited them to sit down. Graziella, about to accept the offered champagne, was immediately silenced by Teresa.
"Thank you, nothing."
The waiter was dismissed, and no one spoke until he had drawn the carved white doors across the archway. Peter Salerno sat in a high-backed chair while Barzini chose a soft one, facing the women. He addressed himself to Graziella.
"Your husband was my dear friend for many years. If you have a problem, I am honored that you come to me."
His small eyes flickered from one to another. He noted how very pretty Rosa was and looked twice at Sophia, with her shining black hair and high cheekbones. The bowed head was almost nunlike, but the curvaceous legs in sheer black stockings were tantalizing.
The white Art Deco phone rang shrilly, and Barzini leaned toward Salerno and told him quietly not to put any calls through. Salerno moved quickly from the room, to return a few moments later, unobtrusively.
Barzini smiled. "Ladies, you have my undivided attention. . . ."
Teresa had opened her briefcase and unloaded a thick folder of documents. Her face was drawn, a little haggard, and when she lifted her eyes, he was surprised at how unflinching the contact was. He knew instinctively that this woman was not afraid of him. But when she spoke, her voice was totally submissive.
"My mother-in-law used an old family friend, Mario Domino, to arrange our affairs. He was very elderly and,. sadly, incompetent. ..."
She went on to give Barzini a detailed and concise history of the women's predicament and financial situation. She gave very clear estimates of the worth of the main Luciano company. Salerno made notes of everything she said.
Sophia kept her head down, staring at the ghastly pink carpet. She found the ornate suite distasteful, cloying, and she did not like Barzini at all. She could feel his mole eyes undressing her and making her skin crawl.
Rosa was fascinated by the way Barzini's eyes rolled back in his head. She, too, had felt his scrutiny but became transfixed with the way his small but cruel hands smoothed the creases of his trousers and fingered his diamond pin.
For her part, Graziella was in a world of her own, trying to recall where she had met this small, ugly little man. She was sure her husband had never spoken of him. But there was something familiar about him.
Teresa was explaining their treatment at the hands of the Corleones, who had offered nothing more than an insult. She told him that she was sure that every family in Palermo would have wanted to lease their properties if she had been allowed to do what she had intended.
The polished black shoe twitched, and Barzini flicked a small look toward Salerno. Then he removed his glasses. "Have you ever had a hand in running an import or export company, Teresa? I hope you don't mind my asking you this. It's just that without experience you could have been mistaken about the financial worth of the Luciano holdings. . . ."
Teresa gave him a wonderfully innocent gaze, hesitated, then sighed. "Facts are facts. There have been, over the past twenty years, many offers, and they did not decrease. The company was very profitable and continued to expand until the death of Don Roberto. The Luciano company was a highly regarded legitimate business, and I suspect that the families wish- g to buy us out needed the cloak of legitimacy to enable them to export narcotics. . . ."
Barzini leaned forward. "Believe me, I have no wish to offend any of you. Pray God I don't. But Roberto Luciano was a witness for the prosecution. . . . No matter what vendettas have come between brothers, that was an act of madness."
Teresa's mouth turned down, and she dropped her act of innocence a fraction. "Believe me, we know more than anyone what that madness led to. But w
e come to you for help, because you loved Roberto Luciano as a brother. He stood against Paul Carolla, a man who, for more than twenty years, tried to force him into the narcotics trade. Carolla wanted our warehouse space, our cold storage facilities, our factories. . . ."
She rattled them off, one after the other, and Salerno wrote them all down. Not so much as a look passed between him and Barzini. The only hint of Barzini's interest in what Teresa was saying was that his hands became still. He appeared totally relaxed, but Teresa was sure he had taken the bait.
Sophia sat half turned toward Teresa, alert to everything she was saying.
Teresa continued. "All we ask is a fair price, what the company is worth. We have come to you, a man beloved of our dear papa, for your help in this matter."
Barzini's hands began to move again as he replied, "I am touched, my dear, that you chose to come to me. In honor of my long-standing friendship with Don Roberto, I will try to help. I will speak to some of my friends, put a proposition to them."
With that, he sprang to his feet and helped Graziella rise, as if she had instigated their departure. He kissed their gloved hands in turn, leaving Teresa until last.
As they walked to the door, he asked her casually if she had brought with her all the documents necessary for a sale. She smiled and said yes, everything, proof of ownership, land leases; only the widows' signatures were required.
She handed the file to Barzini, and he ushered them out, pressing the button impatiently for the elevator.
His small hands clutched the folder triumphantly, and it was not until the elevator was about to close that she mentioned to him that the folder contained only copies of the original documents. The doors closed before she could see his reaction.
Barzini turned to Salerno and smiled. "I think the little blackbird just handed us a gold mine."
Luka was ready and waiting for them outside j:he hotel, eager to know how the meeting had gone. He had no opportunity to ask because as soon as they all were in the car, Sophia snapped angrily, "How could you do that, Teresa? You never actually said it, but it was clear enough. If Barzini hasn't anything to do with narcotics, he soon will have. If they buy us out, they'll use the company for the very thing that Papa fought against his whole life."
BELLA MAFIA Page 42
