Rosa interrupted. "You never finished?"
"No, I always promised myself I would go back and get my law degree, but ... I had you to think of, and Filippo. He needed me; some of the licenses were so complicated, the export and import paper work was spaghetti to him."
"I thought you were a lawyer."
"You thought wrong. You think you know everything, but you don't."
Teresa took off her glasses and began to clean them on a towel. Rosa noticed the red mark on her mother's nose, the slight rings beneath her eyes—small eyes, watery with tears. The thin, sharp nose and small mouth were so different from her own. She felt moved by her mother's plainness and continued to stare, blushing as Teresa suddenly looked up and gave a weak smile. The smile accentuated the sharp features, stretching the skin over her high cheekbones.
"You look so like him. I see his face every time I look at you. You were conceived on our honeymoon. Did you know that?"
Rosa nodded. She eased the lid of the toilet seat down and sat, elbows on knees, chin cupped in her hands. There was no escape; she had to listen. Teresa continued. "I came home one afternoon, I used to walk in through the bakery and down the back stairs . . . this day Mama was waiting, wearing her best dress. I thought, Oh, God no, not another suitor ... not someone else's reject. 'Quick, quick,' Mama said. 'Go and change, put something pretty on; we have company.' Of course, I refused— in some ways you are very like me—but then Papa rushed up to me, his face bright red. He whispered to me that I had to do my hair, wash my face, he spoke to me as if I were a child, and he repeated, 'We have company, we have company, hurry.' "
"Did you change?" Rosa asked, genuinely interested; this was a part of her mother's life she had not heard about before.
Teresa gave a small laugh. "No, I walked into the best room, the room that was polished and cleaned but rarely used. That was the first time I saw Don Roberto Luciano. Until that moment I wasn't even aware he existed. He was so tall his head seemed to touch the ceiling. He had gray hair, and he wore a dark pin-striped suit with a carnation in his buttonhole. . . . And you know, if I concentrate, I can smell it now—limes; he wore some kind of cologne that smelled of fresh limes. You could smell it in the room hours after he had left. But he stayed only a short while. He was very charming, so elegant, so . . . kind . . . yes, that is the word to describe him. Kind, more attentive to my mother than to me. As he left, he kissed my hand. I knew something was happening, but I hadn't the slightest idea what on earth it could be . . . Papa would not say a word until he was sure Don Roberto was halfway down the street. I don't think my parents ever knew why, but Don Roberto
Luciano had come to meet me, wanting me to marry his son Filippo."
Rosa leaned forward, fascinated. "Go on."
Teresa smiled, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I was furious, I was so humiliated. My father seemed furtive, even apologetic, but Mama was beside herself. They had had to go without so much for me to be able to continue my studies, not that I gave that too much thought, I guess I was pretty selfish. I didn't even want to meet Filippo, and we argued and shouted, and Mama cried. My father said he could not insult Don Roberto, but still, I refused. I said I didn't care who he was; I accused them of living in the Dark Ages. My father shouted at me, said I was his daughter, his only daughter, he had not been blessed with a son to provide for him in his old age, he had only a daughter, a selfish daughter who drained him of every cent he earned. . . . He acted in a way I had never seen before, threatening to disown me."
"So what made you change your mind?" asked Rosa.
"Fear. You could feel it, my father was terrified. He was a simple man; he couldn't understand why Don Roberto had come to him in the first place, asking for me, for the daughter they had already begun to think they would never find a husband for. So I agreed to meet him.
"The following day Filippo came around, by himself. He was already waiting in the best room when I arrived home from college. Mama sat with him, and Papa made the introductions. Rosa, it was just so awful, the way he gestured frantically for Mama to leave us alone. I don't know what I had expected, maybe some retard. It was all kind of crazy. . . ."
"Go on."
"I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, and he was probably even more embarrassed by the situation than I was. I suggested that we go out for a coffee, you know, get out of the house—Mama and Papa were hanging around right outside the door—and he agreed. He took my hand like it was the most natural thing to do, and we walked out. I loved him from the first moment, Rosa. Then I was scared he would turn me down, so scared that I agreed to everything. I agreed to the wedding taking place within the month and agreed to allow the Lucianos to arrange the guest list, the reception, everything. When I met Graziella Luciano, I was even more afraid Filippo would not go through with the wedding. I knew she didn't think I was good enough. She made the mistake of speaking in Sicilian to Filippo; she didn't realize I understood every word. She was tearful, telling him he should wait, he was too young."
"And he was a Luciano."
"That meant nothing to me then. It was only Filippo that I was interested in. I had never had a boyfriend, and suddenly I had the handsomest man I had ever known."
"Did he love you?" Rosa could not help the disbelief in her voice.
"Yes, Rosa, he loved me. I asked him if he was having second thoughts. . . . Part of me was so afraid that he would admit that he was, but he seemed afraid that I had changed my mind, so we got married."
"Why did they choose you? Did you ever find out?"
Teresa stared at the tiled floor. "Don Roberto wanted to find someone steady for Filippo, sensible, and I guess I fitted the bill. He had never left Sicily before he met me, and Don Roberto had decided it was time for him to work in America. ..."
Teresa suddenly didn't want to talk anymore. She dropped the towel into the laundry basket. "My parents were given the bakery, Rosa, and the apartment, and every day Mama said a Hail Mary for Don Roberto Luciano. She died blessing him, still thanking him. . . ."
"Didn't you ever ask Papa why you?"
Teresa's eyes brimmed with tears. Years later, when Filippo had started playing around, when she knew he no longer loved her, she had asked. All he had said to her was he had married her because it was what his father had wanted. He had said it with such cruelty, such disregard for her feelings, that even now she could not bring herself to tell her daughter.
"Mom? Did you ever find out why?"
"No."
"Maybe he saw you someplace, met you—"
"Yeah, maybe . . ."
Rosa followed her mother into the corridor. "Emilio said he fell in love with me when he first saw me. You remember that time at the Villa Rivera last summer, Mom?"
Teresa's head was throbbing; she pressed her fingers to her temples.
"You think he would have married me anyway? Even if Grandpa hadn't wanted it? Mom? I mean, he gave your parents the bakery. Did he ever say what he was going to give you?"
"I've got a headache, Rosa. I need to lie down."
"I need to know. . . . Mom, I have to know."
"Does it matter now, Rosa? The boy is dead."
"I know Papa was being squeezed out of the business. Was Emilio going to take over? Was that why he was going to marry me?"
Teresa was stunned that Rosa had guessed so much. She snapped, "Rosa, you talk of things you know nothing about."
"I'll go call Grandma. . . . I'll ask her."
"You won't."
"Why not? You scared I might say something to upset her? She might cut you out of the will. Are you scared of that—?"
Teresa had taken enough. "Yes, maybe I am. Graziella holds the reins, and until I get what is due to me, you don't even speak to her. You are her granddaughter, but she'll cut you out like that." She snapped her fingers. "And that was all he ever had to do, Rosa, that's all Don Roberto ever had to do to get people exactly where he wanted them. If it was for his son to marry m
e, his nephew to marry you. . . . Grow up, Rosa! He manipulated everyone, and Graziella was right at his side. You upset her, and we'll get nothing. Right now that may not be important to you, but it is to me; it's all I have left."
Rosa shut herself in her bedroom and opened her photograph album. Beneath each one was the name of the person in her neat, childish print. She tore every picture of Emilio into shreds. Then she came across an old photo she had forgotten she had. About to toss it aside, she changed her mind.
"Mom? Mom!" she called.
"I'm in the study," Teresa answered.
Teresa was looking over stacks of papers and documents, searching through Filippo's desk.
"Mom, who's this?" Rosa interrupted her.Teresa squinted at the photograph in her daughter's hand. The picture was of the three sons of Roberto Luciano, but Michael Luciano's face had been obliterated by some scribbling. Teresa pointed. "That would have been Michael Luciano, the eldest son."
"Who scribbled over it?"
"Probably your father. That must have been taken . . . twenty-odd years ago, maybe even more. You know this is weird, I got all those old files from the company, the import licenses."
Rosa was still looking at the photograph. "Trying to assess how much we're gonna be worth, huh?"
"I was just interested. I got a bus to the docks. The Luciano warehouses are all boarded up, the gates to the yards covered in barbed wire. ... I know I had the files right here."
Teresa was banging open the drawers, slamming them shut. Suddenly she sat back. "Someone's been here. There's not one file left with the Luciano name on it, not one letter. Filippo's diaries, his address book, they were all here because I put them on the desk myself."
"You going to call the cops?" asked Rosa.
Teresa shook her head. "What's the point? Nothing of value's been taken."
"Must have been of value to someone. Otherwise they wouldn't have bothered breaking in and taking whatever they took, right?"
"Unless they thought there might be something . . . I'll call Sophia."
The ringing of the telephone seemed to be part of Sophia's dream. She struggled awake.
"Sophia? It's Teresa. Did I wake you? I never checked the time."
"That's okay, Teresa. How are you?"
"Broke and waiting. You seen Graziella?"
"No."
"You've not been to see her?"
"No . . . I've had things to do, the new season starts soon, and the sale of last season's dresses. I have to get the stock ready for the boutiques, and I haven't even been near the warehouse—"Sophia realized she was making one excuse after another for not contacting Graziella. She closed her eyes and sighed; she had done nothing, seemed incapable of doing anything.
"We had a breakin here. . . . Hello? You still there? Can you hear me?"
Sophia closed her eyes. "Yes, I can hear you."
"I said we had a breakin. They took all of Filippo's papers, photographs, some of the files I had from the trucking company and the gasoline—"
Sophia interrupted. "Constantino's desk was cleared out weeks ago. Same thing, just papers."
"Why? You don't think it was Graziella or someone working for that lawyer guy?"
Sophia yawned. "Graziella? Of course not. It could be the police; it could be any number of people. Probably someone who used to work for Don Roberto. It's just a precaution; don't let it worry you."
"Worry? Someone's been inside our apartment."
Sophia threw back the duvet. Naked, she eased her legs over the side of the bed, feeling for her slippers with her bare feet. She held the phone loosely. "Don Roberto had a lot of connections, Teresa, people who don't like anyone outside their circle knowing what they're involved in. They were probably just checking there was nothing incriminating, no names, no unfinished business."
Teresa let the phone fall back onto the hook. "Sophia sounded drunk, slurred, but unlike us, she's not hurting for cash. But then she never did."
"You don't like Sophia, do you?" Rosa asked.
Teresa was still checking the desk for the missing items. She sighed. "Sophia said someone had searched her apartment, and she just seemed to accept it. Well, I don't. I'm having the locks changed."
Rosa perched on the end of the desk. "I wouldn't bother. As soon as we get the money, we can move. I want to live near Central Park."
"You'll have enough, sweetheart, to live wherever you want."
Teresa stared at the old family photograph. The three young boys all looked so innocent, but the deep scratches obliterating Michael Luciano's face made the snapshot eerie. She traced the deep lines that almost cut through the paper. "It's strange to think, if it weren't for this faceless boy, Don Roberto wouldn't have offered to be a witness for the prosecution. If it weren't for Michael Luciano, they all would still be alive."
Rosa studied her mother's face. Teresa's mouth was drawn into a thin, tight line as she stared at the snapshot. Rosa watched as she tore it into shreds, letting the pieces fall into a wastebasket one by one. . . ."If we haven't heard by the end of the month, we are going to Sicily, whether Graziella likes it or not. We've waited long enough."
CHAPTER 6
Graziella rewound the tape. She had played the same section over and over and knew it almost by heart, but today she had a notebook and pen ready to make notes of the names her husband had dictated only weeks ago. The deep voice filled the large book-lined room, and she sat, pen poised. "My firstborn son, Michael, returned from America in the summer of 1963 . . ."
Graziella pressed the fast forward button. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . Her husband's voice continued. ". . . and it was Lenny Cavataio, acting under Paul Carolla's instructions, who was waiting for Michael when he returned to Sicily. Lenny Cavataio knew that the heroin he was to sell my son would undoubtedly kill him." Again Graziella wound the tape forward, listened as Roberto Luciano explained how he had traced the heroin and obtained proof that it had been made at Carolla's refineries.
Emanuel's voice began speaking on the tape, asking why, if Luciano had such direct evidence of Paul Carolla's involvement in narcotics, he had never even informed the police. Graziella only half listened as her husband replied that at the time Lenny Cavataio could not be traced. "Besides," he added, "I am a man who settles my own scores. That is my law, a law within a law." There was a brief pause on the tape. Then Don Roberto went on. "Nevertheless, I intended to gain enough evidence to convict Paul Carolla if necessary. But it became exceptionally difficult. Witnesses disappeared, and I had to wait a considerable time until my son recovered enough to be questioned. You must understand he was an addict; he was very sick.
" Graziella groaned softly. Until she had first heard the tape, she had been unaware of her son's heroin addiction. Roberto's voice continued. "Two months later my son had made a good recovery. He was well enough for me to bring him home for a visit. But he was still not secure enough in himself to be entirely trustworthy. He needed more time to adjust, to regain his health, mentally and physically." Graziella couldn't resist the memory of her son, standing beneath her bedroom window with his arms full of flowers, calling up to her "Mama, eh, Mama, I'm home! Mama, I'm well." Her husband's voice was still without a sign of emotion. "Michael returned to the mountains, staying in a small shepherd's cottage. Four of my men guarded him day and night, only my trusted driver knowing the precariousness of his condition. That was Ettore Callea, who died on the second of August, 1963. There is, I believe, a police file on his assassination. August the second, 1963, was the day I found my son's body.
Three of his guards had also died: Marco Baranza, Giulio Nev-arro, and Silvio Braganza. They had been shot with a Biretta, but my son had been beaten to death. He had fought to stay alive, fought with his bare hands. His nails were torn out by the roots. A hypodermic syringe, containing enough heroin to kill four men, had been forced into his arm. One guard, the only one to survive, was found with bullet wounds to his chest and groin. Gennaro Baranza was able to describe my son's killers. Th
ey were not Sicilian but American. I did not discover their identities until many years later, when Lenny Cavataio made his statement. He knew my son's killers. They had worked for Paul Carolla. . . ." There was a slight pause on the tape, a rustle of papers. Then Emanuel spoke. "These Americans, I need their names. I will need to question them."
Don Roberto answered, "I'm afraid that will be impossible. Paul Carolla made sure they could never be traced; even their bodies have never been found."
Emanuel asked if it would be possible to question Gennaro Baranza. Luciano replied that Baranza had recently suffered a stroke. His speech was badly impaired, and he had been, since the shooting, wheelchair-bound.
Graziella switched off the tape. The palms of her hands were sweating, leaving an imprint where she had pressed them against the polished surface of the desk. How many lies had her husband told her? Too many even to assimilate. She knew now why the boy brought home in the velvet-lined coffin wore the cotton gloves on his hands, why his face was that of a stranger. He had not been shot, as Graziella had been told. He had died not quickly but fighting for his last breath, clawing at his killers like a pitiful animal.
Graziella's face twisted into part smile, part grimace. She knew she would have to listen to all the tapes.
As Graziella prepared to play the second tape, Adina brought her breakfast tray. She put it down wordlessly and removed the untouched tray from the previous evening. She received only a impatient grazie from her mistress, who was wearing the same clothes she'd worn the day before.
The second tape started with a short introduction by Emanuel stating the day and time of the recording. Don Roberto's voice began immediately, saying that he was aware of the obvious repercussions to himself of the information he was about to divulge and that he took complete responsibility. No one else was involved. He made no excuses for his membership in the Mafia but described how, at a meeting of the commission, he had been refused justice for his son's murder. The members had implied that his son's addiction was self-inflicted, that no one but Michael was to blame. They had not dealt with the manner of his death. Paul Carolla's power within the organization was, at that time, reaping vast financial rewards for the members; no one wished to go against him. And no one wanted a vendetta, a war on his own doorstep.
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