"Well, be here, you heard me. I can join you wherever you're all going for the weekend. Right now I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
Teresa watched her leave the room. Sophia never ceased to amaze her; she appeared unruffled by the fact that the police were in New York. Teresa was relieved that she, for one, would have left by the time the police arrived.
Sophia tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally she crept from her room and went to make herself a cup of tea. Did they know about Johnny? She knew they couldn't suspect her . . . or could they? They? This was Joe, Joe Pirelli. . . . She thought of the comfort he had given her, the warmth of him, the gentle way he had made love to her. Was she the real reason he had come to New York? Did he really love her? Love . . . The very word seemed alien. Too much had happened in the past year to contemplate being loved.
The kettle boiled, and she was about to pour the water into the teapot when she heard a sound. Turning, she saw Rosa creeping down the hall, fully dressed.
"Rosa?"
Rosa was so startled she froze. When Sophia came out into the hall, she gasped, "You frightened me."
"I couldn't sleep. I'm making a cup of tea. Do you want one?"
Rosa whispered guiltily that she was just going for a walk and started toward the front door. Sophia caught her hand.
"No, Rosa, don't go to him."
Rosa jerked her hand free. "I don't know what you are talking about. I just wanted to go for a walk!"
"It's after twelve, you shouldn't be in the street alone."
Rosa's face hardened. "You want to tag along with me?"
"No, Rosa, but you are not leaving the apartment. If you try, I shall call Teresa."
Rosa sighed angrily. "It's like a goddamn prison in here, everyone watching every move you make."
"It won't be for long. Besides, you're all going on a trip tomorrow."
"And you're not coming?"
"No, I'm staying behind. I have to talk to this Detective Gennaro."
"What do the police want?"
Rosa followed Sophia into the kitchen.
"It's about Nino Fabio, you know, the designer I worked with. He was found murdered, and they have to question everyone who saw him the day it happened."
Rosa leaned against the wall. "It seems you're unlucky."
Sophia poured two cups of tea and opened the fridge for the milk. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Everyone near you gets bumped off."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
Rosa's eyes glittered. "I'm not laughing. I'd say it was unlucky that you had a scene with Nino."
Sophia banged the sugar bowl down on the table. "I was not having a scene, as you call it, with Nino, nor am I interested in Johnny. And if you had any sense, you wouldn't be either."
Sophia looked at the girl's moody face and could have slapped her. Instead, she sat down and began to drink the hot tea. Rosa joined her, grudgingly, but did not drink hers. For a time they sat in silence. Rosa twisted the chain with the diamond teardrop at her neck, then rubbed the cold stone across her lips.
"That's very pretty."
"Yes . . . Johnny gave it to me."
"I know." Sophia reached out to touch Rosa's arm, but the young woman moved away. Sophia sighed. "Rosa, maybe you feel something for Johnny, but—"
Rosa interrupted. "What business is it of yours?"
"None, but I do care for you, and . . . just listen to me."
Rosa pushed her chair back, but Sophia gripped her hand. "Maybe it's because we have been so trapped in this place, so closeted together, that you feel more for him than you would in normal circumstances."
Rosa's voice was a hoarse, bitter whisper. "Normal? You think it's normal for a girl my age to be a virgin? To have a marriage arranged for her? To know you were sold like a side of meat . . . And to know that as soon as all this is over, Grandma and Mama will try to marry me off to someone else they think suitable. Well, I am going to be free! I have my own money, and I can do what I like when I like. I can go with whoever I like, and nobody can tell me any different, not you, °not anyone. I just want someone, I want—"
Her face crumpled, and she bit her lip. She hugged herself, rocking slightly. "I thought Emilio loved me, the way he kissed me. . . . He said he loved me when all the time he was Just doing what Grandpa told him to. . . ."
Sophia slipped her arms around Rosa. "He did love you, you know it. I remember the day we went into Palermo, do you? The day before the wedding, the day before—"
Rosa turned her face away. "Am I likely to forget?"
Sophia shook her head, and her voice filled with pain. "No ... I mean, when we all were going shopping and you didn't want to come. As we drove out of the villa, we saw the two of you, sitting close together. ..."
Tears spilled down Rosa's cheeks, and she clung to her aunt. Her voice was choked with tears. "He touched me, he touched my breasts, he touched me, and I wanted to feel him. . . . I unbuttoned his shirt, and I slipped my hand inside. . . ."
Sophia kissed the top of Rosa's head, with soft, whispered sounds of comfort, then knelt beside her. "You are so beautiful. . . . Let me tell you, those feelings, that warmth running through your body, the heat, as if it were going to burst your heart—"
Rosa nodded. "Yes . . . Yes, he was so warm ..."
"I'll tell you a secret. I have never told anyone this before, and you must promise me never to tell anyone. Promise?"
Rosa nodded, and Sophia pulled her chair so close that their heads almost touched. "I used to be a waitress, did you know that? It was when I was even younger than you, fifteen. I had to work because my mother was an invalid. I was so skinny, my clothes were all hand-me-downs, and I don't think I had a new pair of shoes until I was eighteen. . . . Anyway, I worked in a coffee shop, and one day a group of young boys came in. They were teasing me, and one of them put out his foot to trip me when I was carrying a loaded tray of dishes. I fell, and all the plates and cups shattered. They laughed, it was so awful, because I couldn't help crying, as I crawled around on the floor picking up all the pieces. ... I knew the manager would make me pay for the damage."
"But it wasn't your fault!"
"I know, but that's the way it was. And after work, sure enough, he deducted the breakages from my pay. I was crying my heart out, leaning against the wall near the bus stop. . . Then this boy—I had seen him once or twice; but the customers were mostly rich kids with their flashy Lambrettas, and they never noticed me. But this boy did. He came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, asked if I was all right. I was embarrassed because I had really seen him, you understand? He was the handsomest boy and well known, his family very rich. . . . I used to dream about him, and there I was, all red-eyed from weeping. He was so caring, so understanding. The next day I discovered he had paid for the damage, so the manager had to repay me.
"He used to come every day after that and sit outside, and he'd always smile at me. He left me very big tips. . . . And then, one day, he asked if I would like to meet him when I was free."
Rosa realized that Sophia was no longer telling her the story; she was talking to herself, looking straight ahead.
"We used to meet in an orchard. I'd ride my bicycle, and he would be sitting on an old, tumble-down wall, waiting for me. He was my first love. I loved him. . . . Mama tried to persuade me to bring him home to meet her, but I was ashamed of the apartment, even ashamed of my mama. . . . But I wouldn't let him make love to me because in my dream he married me, in my dream I was accepted by his family."
Rosa waited. Sophia was still, her hands clasped, resting on the table in front of her.
"What happened?"
Sophia slowly flattened her hands on the tabletop. "One night he came to see me. He threw pebbles at my window, and I crept out to join him. I was wearing just my slip, and I was barefooted, but I went because I was afraid he would wake Mama and the neighbors."
Rosa leaned forward. "Did he sleep with you?"
> Sophia turned to her. Two tears, as clear as the diamond Luka had given Rosa, trickled down her cheeks. "Yes, yes, he did.. . He'd come to tell me he was going away, perhaps for two years. He promised to come back for me, promised to write to me. . . He gave me a keepsake; it was a little gold—"
She lifted her hand, and it was as if she were seeing the little gold heart on its fine chain.
Rosa touched Sophia's hand; it was ice cold.
In a soft, low whisper, Sophia continued. "He never came back, never wrote to me. I never saw him again." As if waking from sleep, she turned slowly to Rosa. "I loved him, I loved him so very much. His touch, his kisses are still inside my heart; they never fade. ..."
"But you loved Constantino; you married him. Was it the same?"
Sophia smiled and shook her head. "No, but it was a sweet love, a good love. And believe me, it was returned. . . ."
Rosa smiled. "He was rich, he was a Luciano, so in the end your dream did come true. You married and were accepted by the great Luciano family. . . . Was this boy's family as well known?"
Sophia didn't reply, and Rosa smiled and whispered, "Tell me how you met Constantino."
Sophia shook her head. "No, I think I have told you enough for one night. You must go to bed. Sleep tight. . . . Maybe you will have sweet dreams now."
Rosa kissed Sophia's cheek and yawned, but it was not until she was almost out of the room that she turned back and whispered, "Thank you. Shall I turn the light out?"
Sophia nodded, and the room went dark. She waited to hear Rosa's door close. Then she stretched her arms out across the table and rested her cheek against the cold surface. She could feel her heartbeat against the table. All the years in between vanished as she whispered, "Michael, we had a beautiful son, a perfect baby—"
She sat up suddenly, her hands pressed against the table. He would be a grown man now. What did she think she could do for him? Give him money, make him a Luciano? She said aloud to the dark room, "You are still dreaming, Sophia. Stop it, stop it right now. . . . The past is over. Forget it. Live your own life."
Her hands clenched into fists. Tomorrow, after Pirelli had been to see her, she would leave, leave them all. There was no possibility of her involvement in Fabio's murder. She had a perfect alibi: She had been in bed with Commissario Joseph Pirelli and would not hesitate to admit it if necessary. She no longer cared what anyone thought. She was no longer Signora Luciano; she was Sophia Visconti.
At eight the next morning Luka was there with the limo to take them to Long Island. He ran up the stairs two at a time.
All their bags were ready and waiting, and Luka began to carry them down to the car, shouting back that they should hurry because he was double-parked.
Rosa rushed to change when she decided she didn't like the dress she was wearing. Teresa helped Graziella into her new coat, then went into Sophia's bedroom. Sophia, still wearing her bathrobe, was creaming her neck.
"I don't like leaving you alone. Are you sure you'll be okay?"
"Yes, Teresa, I'll be fine. Now go on, they're all waiting. Johnny has some great surprise in store for you all. Call me when you get there, tell me where you're staying, and I'll join you."
Teresa hesitated, then suggested that Sophia could always get the train. Sophia marched her to the door, saying she could also rent a car and drive herself.
When Teresa had gone, Sophia leaned against the door and sighed. She had done it. It had been so easy, a simple promise that she would join them. Already the empty apartment, the silence felt good.
The doorbell rang, shrill and continuous.
It was Luka. He stood like a man possessed. As Sophia opened the door, he struck it hard with his fist.
"Why aren't you coming? Why?"
She backed away from him. "Because I have to stay here. Didn't Teresa tell you?"
"You have to come with us! I have it all arranged. You have to be there; you can't stay."
He tried to drag her to the door, but she pulled her arm away.
"I can't."
"You don't understand. I have something for all of you. You have to come."
"Johnny, I don't have to do anything." "Yes!"
"No!"
"Yesss . . ."He dragged her toward the door, and this time she pushed him forcibly away from her; but he still wouldn't let go. Finally she hit him, and he fell against the door; he kicked it in anger.
After a moment he controlled his tantrum. With his back
to her he muttered, "I have something for you."
"Johnny, I can't come. I have to wait here."
When he turned back to her, his eyes were vivid blue and crazy. "What'll you tell him?"
"Enough so he won't come back again. I burned the drawings."
He glared furiously at her. "You shouldn't have done that."
"I had to. If he found them here . . . Don't you understand? He's coming to question me about Nino. . . ."
"I'll come back for you. Wait for me."
"That won't be necessary."
"Why not?"
"Because I will find my own way to wherever you're going."
"You're not thinking of leaving us?" "No. . ."
"Remember, he is your enemy. Keep saying that to yourself. He's the enemy."
"I'll remember that."
She turned and walked into the kitchen, pausing a moment because she did not hear the door close behind him. She retraced her footsteps to the hall and found him just coming out of the study. He was holding a small gun.
He came to her side. "I bought this for Teresa. You see the small lever at the trigger? Lift it, and it's set for firing. There are only four rounds."
"I don't want it."
"Take it."
"Please, why don't you leave?"
He held out the gun again. "You must be protected. He is the enemy. Always remember that."
She finally took it and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be all right."
He seemed unable to drag himself away. Gently he lifted a stray curl from her face. Then he bent his head and swiftly kissed her lips. She averted her head.
"Don't, please don't. . . ."
Her thick terry-cloth robe was open in a deep V, and he could see the crease of her breasts. He pulled at the belt and stepped back as the robe opened. Slowly she turned to look at him, trying to stop him with her glance as he lifted the fabric from her breasts. His hand was cold, his touch light. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.
He got down on his knees, kissing her belly, moving the thick robe aside to rest his face against her stomach. "I love you, I love you. . . ."
She shivered, wary of his next move, but he clung to her like a child.
"They are waiting, Johnny. You have to go."
He got slowly to his feet, leaned toward her, kissing her as her sons had kissed her. "I'll come back for you. Wait for me. Promise you will wait for me?"
"Yes, I'll wait. . . ."
She sighed with relief when he left but made no attempt to cover herself. She let the heavy gown fall to the floor and stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. As Luka had done, she lifted a stray curl and patted it into place.
Sophia lay in the deep, soapy bath. The silence soothed her; the perfumed oils relaxed her. . . .
Her hair washed and wrapped in a towel, she returned to her bedroom. With studied concentration she chose each garment she would wear, laying it out on the bed.
She stared in the mirror at her nakedness, then picked up the little gun from the dressing table. She ran the cold metal over her skin, tracing her thigh, her belly, her breasts. Then she held the gun to her temple, drew the silver barrel slowly across the high bone of her right cheek until it rested against her lips. The soft, childish kiss from the crazy, foolish boy had felt as cold as the gun.
One bullet and it would be over. She was in control of her life; she could end it if she wanted.
Slowly she put the gun down. She began putting her makeup on, carefully smoothing the foundation over
her perfect skin. She brushed her cheeks with blusher and lightly powdered her face before outlining her eyes and applying mascara. Lastly she painted her lips. . . .
Joe Pirelli shaved, brushed his hair, and changed his shirt twice. He dabbed on some cologne, put on his thick, long leather coat, and was still surveying himself in the mirror when Genaro walked in. "You ready?"
Pirelli turned with a boyish smile. "Yeah, I'm ready." He locked his room, then said, "I'll see you outside the Luciano apartment at twelve, then, and don't be late."
Gennaro nodded, unaware that Pirelli had lied about the time of the meeting with Sophia. He wanted to be alone with her first.
Gennaro walked into the elevator. "How do we work it? I talk first? Hit her with the element of surprise et cetera?"
Pirelli nodded, pocketing his key, and they stood in silence while the elevator descended to the lobby. Gennaro watched as the commissario checked his appearance in the mirror.
"You're certainly making a great effort. What are you after, another night at the opera?"
Pirelli laughed. "Nah, I want to impress the law over here. I've got a meeting with the New York attorney general. He's supposed to be one hell of a guy, Italian. What are you gonna do?"
"Oh, I'll do a bit of shopping, get the wife something. I'll see you at twelve."
The pair of them walked silently past the reception desk and out into the street. It was thick with slush, and more snow was falling heavily.
Sophia checked her watch. It was still only ten-thirty, and Pirelli was not due until eleven. All she had to do was to get dressed. She had already packed her suitcase and arranged for a flight to Rome that afternoon.
The doorbell rang, dispelling her good mood. Was he back? Had Johnny changed his mind?
"Who is it?"
"It's Joe."
Sophia looked through the peephole and could see he was alone. She opened the door.
"You're early."
"Yes, and I've also lied. I told Gennaro to come at twelve. Is that all right?"
She hesitated, then gave a slight nod to confirm that it was. "Do you want coffee? I was just about to dress."
He stood leaning against the door. The snow had wet his hair, and it formed small curls on his forehead. His thick fur collar was turned up around his ears.
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