BELLA MAFIA (6 page)

Lwanted him more than anything else in her life, except to conceive a son. Rosa was her only child, but with the forthcoming marriage she was confident that she and Filippo would no longer have to feel like poor relations.

"We are on the top floor," Teresa complained. "It's inconvenient what with having to help Rosa dress. I would have thought we'd have the room below yours, the big guest room."

"Mama put the boys in there. We can keep an eye on them, hear them if they wake in the night."

"Yes, she told me. Well, I'll unpack, not that it'll take me long. I see you have brought a veritable wardrobe. Perhaps if my suit is not good enough, you could lend me something?"

"You are welcome to choose anything—"

Teresa interrupted her curtly. "Thank you, but I'm sure what I've brought will suffice." She left the room.

Next to arrive was Emilio Luciano, the groom, his young face bright pink with nerves. Constantino leaped down the stairs two at a time and clasped his nephew-to-be in his arms. Filippo, with shaving cream on his face and wearing only his trousers, appeared at the top of the stairs and then, amazingly, glided down the banisters to land in the hall. The children attempted to emulate him by sliding, belly down, on the polished wooden rail.

Amid the congratulations, the backslapping, the shouting and teasing, Graziella stood bursting with happiness. These were her boys, her sons, her grandsons. She seemed unaware of the mayhem, of the fact that Filippo wore only his trousers; she just clapped her hands, hunching her shoulders coyly when one or another of her boys paid her an outrageous compliment.

"Who is this young woman? Where's our mama, eh? You telling me this beauty is our mama? How come you don't age, huh?"

As Graziella gestured ineffectually for them all to go into the living room, Rosa hurtled into Emilio's arms. They kissed, to a round of applause. In mock desperation Graziella brought out a gong, as she had done when the boys were little. She banged it, hughing, and one by one they drifted in.

Graziella served espresso, and once they all were settled and the initial excitement was over, she made an excuse to get more coffee.

"I'll do that, Grandmama."

"No, no, Rosa, I have to check on supper."

Graziella crossed the hall, but instead of going toward the kitchen, she entered the dining room. Alone, she let out a long, deep sigh; the tension of having to hide her feelings had exhausted her. She pushed the shutters open slightly and checked her watch. He should have been home by now. He had said no later than five, and it was already past that. The florists, the builders and decorators had all gone, the family had arrived, and still, there was no sign of him. He always phoned if he was even fifteen minutes late. Why hadn't he called today of all days?

The telephone rang shrilly, and Graziella gasped with shock. She hurried into the hall as Adina replaced the phone.

"It was a message for you, signora. Don Roberto should be home in a few moments. He tried to get through earlier, but someone must have been using the telephone."

Graziella crossed herself. "Thank you, Adina. Make some fresh coffee, and check that all the extensions are unplugged. Leave only the phones in the hall and the study connected."

Adina nodded. Something was very wrong. She had felt it in her mistress days before the arrival of the family. But she dared not ask; she could only pretend she was unaware of it.

Graziella joined her family, sitting together in the cozy living room. Smiling, she passed around cakes and pastries.

"This is the first time we are all at home together, so that is what we celebrate tonight, the family."

Constantino became aware of his mother's frequent glances at the gold carriage clock on the big mantel. She kept a small smile on her face, but her eyes betrayed her nervousness.

"Are you worried about something?" he whispered, kissing her hand.

"Your papa is late. Next thing I know, dinner will be ruined."

Filippo, eating a slice of cake, asked loudly, "Mama, what's with the army of guards out front of the house?"

Graziella ignored the question. "If you all wish to change, bathe, then we must come to some arrangement about the hot water. Sophia, you want to go first, see to the boys?"

Don Roberto Luciano's two sons looked at each other.

Something was definitely wrong. Constantino gave Sophia a small nod of his head to take the boys out; putting her half-full cup down, she called them and immediately left the room.

Filippo looked hard at Teresa. She frowned, not understanding.

"Take Rosa up to finish unpacking, will you?"

It was not a request. Teresa put her cup down and beckoned to Rosa to go with her. Filippo closed the doors behind them while Graziella fussed with the tea tray.

"Papa w-w-worried about this trial, Mama?" asked Constantino.

Graziella nodded.

"The papers in New York were full of it," Filippo said. "Mama, you okay?"

Graziella was close to tears. She wanted to tell them there and then but could not bring herself to go against her husband's wishes. Constantino placed his hand on his brother's shoulder as a signal not to question her further.

"Maybe we should talk about this with Papa. Mama must have a lot of things to do before dinner."

With a grateful look, Graziella excused herself and left her sons together. Constantino walked slowly to the great stone fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

Filippo shrugged. "So what was all that about? The way she acted I thought she wanted to talk to us—"

Constantino gave his brother a guarded look. "Emilio, you wanna do me a favor? My cigars, I left 'em in my room. Get 'em for me, would you?"

The young groom knew he was being asked to leave the brothers alone, and he obeyed without question.

Constantino stood up and drew the curtains aside, looked out at the drive, the guards on duty at the gate. "What's going on? You think this trial business's getting to the old man? There're more guards out there than at the National Bank."

"They get any of our guys?" asked Filippo.

Constantino snorted. "They got the rubbish, small-timers. Cages are filled to breaking point with every bum in Sicily. Nice way of cleaning up the garbage."

"Paul Carolla's no small fish."

Constantino dropped his easy manner. "Eh, you think I don't know that? Word's out the bastard hired someone to hit the prison cleaner's nine-year-old kid. He put pressure on the guy, wanted him to take messages out; when he refused, his son's head was shot off. Did you read about it?"

Filippo shook his head no.

Constantino stared from the window, apparently in deep thought. "Papa organized this wedding in one hell of a hurry. Is there some reason? Rosa's not having a kid, is she?"

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.