The Prince (66 page)

“Because he told me so himself.”

“And where is he?”

“I met him more than ten years ago in New York. Then I came back to Sicily, and I never heard anything more about him.”

“What did he tell you?” Sergeant Dickey asked.

“Salvatore had it in for the marquis because he had accused Salvatore of raping and killing a young shepherd, forcing Salvatore to go into hiding and join Gaetano Vassallo's band. Instead, it was the marquis himself who raped and killed the shepherd boy in a fit of rage. But Salvatore wasn't cut out to be an outlaw; he was a good campiere, that's what he was. One day Rosario Losurdo went to see the bandit Vassallo. Prince Licata's gabellotto asked Vassallo to steal the marquis's cattle. He just wanted to blackmail him: if Bellarato gave up the option on the Baucina estate, he would return the herd. Otherwise he would slaughter every head of cattle. That was when Salvatore Turrisi conceived the plan to murder the marquis. It would be easy to let the blame fall on Losurdo—and that's just what happened.

“But there was an unforeseen event, Salvatore told me: a fire accidentally broke out in the palazzo. He was about to make his escape, and when he opened the door, the blaze spread like wildfire, sending all the wood furnishings, and especially the heavy drapes, up in flames. It came as a real surprise to him to discover Nicola Geraci hiding behind one of the curtains. Geraci was the representative of the Socialist Party's cooperative, the Farm. That disgusting worm must have been playing a double game, because he was a socialist, and the marquis was notoriously allergic to any politicians of a red stripe. Evidently money makes all ideologies see eye to eye. So the two had agreed to get their hands on the Baucina estate and then divide it between them.

“To make a long story short, Geraci was engulfed in flames, and Salvatore told me that he was unable to help him. He saw him die in unspeakable agony. At that very moment, Turrisi thought that this might be a unique opportunity for his future: if he were to be identified as the charred corpse, unrecognizable as a result of the fire, no one would be looking for him anymore. Best of all, he could break away from Vassallo and his band. His action was quicker than his thought. He tore the aluminum Saint Christopher's medal off his neck and threw it onto the cadaver. Nicola Geraci, therefore, died accidentally. I felt it was my duty to tell the truth because two people were about to be unjustly accused, and Tosco Bellarato gave me the courage to speak up!”

Once again a great uproar broke out in the hall. Ciccio Vinciguerra's disclosure had literally shaken everyone's thoughts. Curzio Turrisi, bent over in his chair, his head in his hands, was crying like a baby. His wife tried to console him, but it was no use.

Amid the commotion, Vinciguerra turned to Jano and claimed his attention in a gravelly voice: “Jano! I have the truth for you too. Remember Michele Fardella? I was there when he was captured and executed by the antifascists along with Lorenzo Costa. Before he died, he wanted to get a load off his conscience that had been weighing on him for years. He confessed to me that the Borgo Guarine massacre was committed by the Royal Guard under Costa's command. For all those years, Jano, you were taking orders from the man who killed your family!”

That revelation had a resounding impact on the townspeople. Jano was stunned.

Saro took advantage of the great confusion to approach Mena.

“Mena, I have to talk to you,” he said, taking her hand.

“Not here, Saro—not now. You're crazy!” she replied, terrified, trying to break out of his grip.

“Here and now.” Saro gave Nennella a meaningful look. The nanny, unruffled as always, had picked up the child, as if to protect him from the agitated voices around them. “I'll leave. I'll wait for you outside with Saruzzo,” she said to Mena.

Saro led Mena by the hand to an office adjacent to the main chamber. He closed the door, shutting out the frantic shouting of Salemi's citizenry.

“I have to know the truth: Did you give my name to your child?” Saro asked softly.

Mena's magnificent green eyes filled with tears. For entire nights she'd dreamed of being able to embrace her true love, but she always chased away the thought so as not to dishonor her husband. But now there he was, asking her about Saruzzo. Mena finally gave way and burst into tears, letting it all out. Impulsively, she clung to Saro and kissed him on the mouth with all the pent-up passion from those four long years. She put aside her reserve; she had to tell him how much she'd loved him and still loved him.

When their mouths broke apart, Mena stared at him, lost in reverie. She had memorized every inch of his skin. She wanted to drink her fill of him, if only she could. “Saro . . . Saro . . . light of my eyes,” she said finally, fighting back more tears.

Holding him close, she brought her mouth to his ear and whispered softly, “Saruzzo, thanks be to God, is the fruit of our love.” Saro drew back and stared at her, shocked.

“It's true: Rosario is your son.” The big secret was revealed. Mena had sworn to herself that she would never divulge it, but once she saw Saro, deciding on the truth was inevitable.

“Rosario is my son!” Saro exclaimed, still incredulous.

“Things didn't happen with Jano the way I told you the first time. Jano raped me; he took me by force. But he didn't know I was already pregnant. I demanded that he marry me to make amends, and when Rosario was born, I arranged with the midwife to make him believe that the infant was premature. How I cried over you, Saro, so far away! So many times I prayed the door would open, and you would appear.

“Then I became resigned to him; to his violent ways. But I hate the man who destroyed our love and my life.”

Those last words left Saro grimly resolute. He had a score to settle now. The two kissed again, passionately. Meanwhile, the uproar in the chamber was subsiding, so they went back in.

In accordance with the two military judges, Dickey declared the case closed. He later sent a cable to New York requesting that they search for Salvatore Turrisi.

People began leaving town hall, chatting about what they had learned thanks to Vinciguerra. Everybody was congratulating him and thanking him for having restored the truth in their traumatized town.

When everyone had gone, Curzio Turrisi went up to Vinciguerra, his heart full of gratitude. The two men stared at each other for several long moments. Ciccio Vinciguerra's face was concealed by a bushy beard, and his long hair reached to his shoulders, but his eyes were bright as diamonds. Then Ciccio opened his mouth and showed Curzio a space where his incisor was missing. Smiles lit up both their faces; then they gripped each other in a passionate, trembling embrace, barely managing to choke back their tears. Curzio gave Ciccio a kiss on the cheek and whispered with a smile, “Finally, we meet again, you rotten son of a bitch—no offense to our mother, God rest her soul.”

S
aro Ragusa's mission had been a big success. New York's former governor, albeit briefly, Charles Poletti, had supported every move he and his friends made, never once getting in the way of their activities.

In his own interests, Poletti made the most of the advantages of his office and set up an import-export business in New York with Jimmy Hoffa, a big shot in the Teamsters union, who had been rumored to have ties to organized crime.

Saro, with his military uniform giving him license to come and go, was able to coordinate the entire black market with considerable skill: not only the market for foodstuffs, clothing, fabrics, and shoes but also drugs and narcotics in particular. But the real business, besides that of morphine, was arms trafficking, financed with money from the other lines of trade.

In those months, Sicily was an arsenal: there were weapons abandoned by Italian soldiers, by retreating German troops, and by the Americans themselves, who relegated them to the scrap heap the first time they misfired.

Don Calogero Vizzini, Villalba's boss, had a veritable army of campieri in his employ, among them Jano Vassallo and some of his former combat league buddies.

One evening Don Calò sent for him. Jano was expecting a recognition or some special assignment. He had demonstrated to the old boss that he was capable of any iniquity.

But Don Calò broached an unlikely subject for a mafioso to bring up to a subordinate. “It's none of my business,” he began after sending away everyone in the room, “but there are some nasty rumors going around about your wife and Saro Ragusa. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but I'm doing it for your own good. You know how much I care about you.”

“That
cornuto!
The bastard—for years he's been stuck in my craw,” Jano pointed to his gullet.

“Actually, you're the
cornuto—
the cuckold.”

The severity of Don Calò's words caught him off guard. No one had ever spoken to him that way.

“Don Calò, you shouldn't be so harsh toward me—”

“If you can't be the boss in your own home, how can you demand obedience from your men?”

“That bitch . . .” Jano muttered through clenched teeth.

“You see? You take it out on her, whereas it's her lover you should silence.”

“First I'll take care of him; then it will be her turn.” Jano was beside himself with rage.

“I want to help you, Jano Vassallo. I've learned that today, at sunset, they will see each other at the Chiarenza mill.”

“Has Saro Ragusa let you down?” Jano asked, aware of how close his longtime nemesis was to Calogero Vizzini.

“He put matters of the heart before business. He can't be trusted,”
zu
Calò pronounced.

Jano was delighted to hear those words. With Saro out of the way, only he would remain by Don Calò's side. The old Mafia boss wanted to get rid of Ragusa, and the excuse of a crime of honor would pacify even those who had high regard for Saro and saw him as
zu
Calò's right arm.

Jano was familiar with the Chiarenza mill. It was halfway between Salemi and Trapani, close to Lake Rubino. He figured the two lovers wanted a protected place, away from prying eyes. Jano left his horse about a half mile away from the mill and walked the rest of the way, careful not to be seen by anyone. Finally, he came in sight of the mill. It was a stone structure, on the bank of a stream fed by a nearby pond. The wooden wheel stood stationary because of a bomb that had damaged the mechanism. Evening was falling, and he recognized Mena's buggy near the door. What Don Calò had told him was true.

Jano was carrying his shotgun. He walked to the door. It was unhinged and leaning to one side. He bent under it and went in, taking care not to make any noise. He wanted to surprise the two while they were making love. But not a sound could be heard in the place. He walked down a corridor and reached the door leading to the machinery room.

From there too, not a sound.

He opened the door and entered the room, stepping over fallen beams and splintered wood on the ground. He looked around. The gear works, drive belts, and big wooden cogwheels were still covered by a thin film of flour, as if the workers had simply left for the day and would be back the next. Jano advanced to the center of the room, where the horizontal cogged axle of the big wheel that dipped into the waters of the stream stood.

A voice behind him, cold as ice, took him aback.

“Dui su' i putenti: cu avi assai e cu non avi nenti.”
“Only two have power: those who have a lot and those who have nothing.”

He spun around and saw Prince Ferdinando Licata emerge from the shadows.

At his side was Saro Ragusa and, behind them, three of Saro's men. Except the prince, all were armed with rifles. One of the three men went up to Jano and took the shotgun out of his hand.

The prince stepped forward and stopped a short distance from his adversary. “Surprised, Jano?”

Jano Vassallo realized that he had been sold out by Don Calò. He knew he was done for.

“It's the day of reckoning; time to settle accounts,” the prince spoke calmly as usual.

“I'm not afraid. Screw death, I don't give a damn about it,” Jano spat contemptuously.

The prince shook his head and smiled. “You see, you won't be the one screwing; the other lunatics who will be living with you starting tomorrow will be screwing you.”

“Get it over with, Prince Ferdinando Licata! Kill me! I'm not afraid,” Jano repeated.

“It would be too easy for us and too good for you. Sorry, Jano, but I have other plans for your future. For example, I'll stuff you with drugs, but not too much, because I want you to be fully conscious when I feed you to the sex maniacs. That's right, my friend, because I've decided to have you locked up in one of our worst lunatic asylums with a diagnosis that will give you little chance of recovery. You'll live for years and years steeped in your own excrement and that of your numerous lovers. And don't think you'll be able to kill yourself, because I'll see to it that you lack both the strength and the will to move. You'll live like a larva. It's what animals like you deserve.”

Hearing that chilling verdict, Jano dropped to his knees. He grabbed Ferdinando Licata's ankles, pleading with him: “
Patri
—have mercy on me!” He kissed his shoes, but Licata kicked him and broke his grip. He headed for the door, while Jano began banging his head on the bare ground, until two of the men forcibly pulled him up and gave him the first morphine injection.

The night following these events at the Chiarenza mill, a meeting was called between the heads of the Sicilian Mafia and those of the American Cosa Nostra. The United States was represented by Ferdinando Licata, while the bosses of the twelve major families spoke for Sicily. Various spheres of influence were established. In Sicily, Don Calò would still control the Commission while Saro Ragusa received the recognition of the
padrini
, who “kissed his hands” as a mark of respect and gratitude for all that he had done to restore them to the top levels of power in Sicily. In the United States, Ferdinando Licata was named, along with Vito Genovese, as the Commission's main point of contact, replacing Lucky Luciano, who two years later, consistent with the prince's strategic plan, would be freed and deported back to Italy, he too under the official pretext of being an undesirable.