BELLA MAFIA (9 page)

It was after nine that evening when Emanuel received a detailed list of the men allocated to protecting Roberto Luciano. They all were trusted men, but the extra guards brought in by the don could not be vouched for. Emanuel had already emphasized the dangers of discussing the situation with anyone but the don. He would speak to Luciano personally, and together, they would come to some decision about the protection of him and his family.

Three times he called the villa and spoke to Graziella, who at first refused to tell him the name of the restaurant the men had gone to, even though she knew who he was. He kept his voice as calm as he could, while he told her that it was a matter of grave urgency that he contact the don personally.

When he finally obtained the number of the San Lorenzo restaurant, the line was constantly busy. Frustrated, he decided that the safest, to his mind the only, choice left to him was to go speak to Luciano in person. By this time it was ten-fifteen.The don had chosen his favorite restaurant for two reasons. He was, in fact, the owner and knew the staff; he also knew that the private upstairs room was easy to guard. Tf main part of the restaurant was closed for the night, and tf doors would be locked after their arrival.

Don Luciano had ordered that only a skeleton staff be o duty. The bodyguards would eat downstairs, and the drivei were to return for them at twelve-fifteen. They were not 1 wait outside because the cars were well known.

The men did not enter the private dining room until tf bodyguards had searched it carefully. They sat down to dine ; nine o'clock.

Emanuel had a long drive ahead of him, but after only te miles one of his back tires blew out. The car careened out < control, and Emanuel fought it onto the hard shoulder. H hands shook, and he had to sit and calm himself. He was coi vinced someone had taken a shot at him.

His heart beating fast, he eased the door open. His mout was dry, his breathing heavy. Then he sighed with relief, was just a tire.

Graziella carried the tray into the living room and said sh would go up to see the children, but Sophia told her it was n< necessary. If they were still awake, the women would certainl have heard them.

Graziella sat down and sipped her coffee, but she coul not join in the banter about who was wearing what for th wedding. She went over and over her conversation with Emai uel. Why was it so urgent? Then she pushed it from her mine She was tired; it had been a full day, and tomorrow would b even busier. The caterers were due at seven in the morning She wanted to be there to greet them and oversee all that ha to be done.

The clock on the landing chimed again and Graziella checke her watch, then collected the coffee cups and stacked them o the tray. Sophia told her to sit down and relax, offering to cle: up, but Graziella insisted.It was past eleven. Adina took the tray from her mistre: and told her that the don's driver had left, so the men woul be returning shortly. She offered to put a fresh pot of coffee o the stove, but Graziella shook her head. She doubted if the would want to stay up late. She told Adina to go to bed after she had tidied the kitchen, then gave a little smile and put her finger to her lips. She was just going to peek in on the children.

At fifteen minutes past eleven a truck driver stopped to help Emanuel. They eased the ruined tire off the car and examined the spare by flashlight. It looked very flat.

Quietly Graziella opened the door of the children's bedroom. The boys lay facing each other, Nunzio's arm resting protectively across his brother. They looked so tiny in the big double bed, so peaceful and innocent that she couldn't help smiling.

She was about to close the door again when she heard a sound as if a slate were falling from the roof. She crept to the window and found that the shutter was open wider than she had left it. She glanced across the lawn toward the main gate.

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 need 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."