"No, it's the name and address of the chauffeur."
Two cars behind in the traffic, Luka Carolla had his hand on the horn, urging the cab to move on. He swore at the delay.
Pirelli climbed into the cab and slammed the door shut. Gennaro banged on the window. "Hey, what about me?"
Pirelli yelled, "I've got to see the attorney general."
The taxi moved on, almost causing an accident with the car behind. The cabdriver yelled abuse while Gennaro shouted to Pirelli, "I thought you'd already seen him?"
Pirelli opened the window and stuck his head out. "I lied! I was making passionate love to Sophia Luciano! See you back at the hotel."
Gennaro, his newspaper disintegrating on his head, gave him the finger. "Lying bastard," he muttered, getting his feet soaked as a stretch limo passed him.
The limo took a left turn into the underground garage beside Teresa Luciano's apartment block, passing Gennaro by inches.
If Pirelli had looked out of the back of the cab, he would have seen him. It was as close as he had come to finding Luka Carolla. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his face dry.
"You have a good Christmas?" the cabdriver adjusted his mirror. "Gonna be freezing tonight."
Pirelli nodded but made no reply. He didn't want to get drawn into conversation, and the lump in his throat wouldn't nave made it any easier. ... He sat back and closed his eyes. Maybe she had no feelings for him; maybe she had been hurt much; maybe she was simply out of his reach, beyond him. e knew he would never forget her. Perhaps when he was an man, he would dream of her, remember the passion, her Wondrous hair across the pillow, her sweet smile when she ched up to him. But he knew it would not happen again; he d make no attempt to see her; it was over.
Sophia ..." He said her name just once, without emotion, and there was none left. It felt as though a missing part of him were being compressed back into shape. As soon as he returned to Milan, he would take the vacation that was owed him, and he would make it up to Lisa. Just thinking of his family gave him a sense of security, a sense of how much he had almost lost. Sophia had lived her life with secrets, weaving lies so that her past would not catch up with her. It was therefore not difficult to lie to Luka; it was easier than she had anticipated because she no longer felt any guilt. At her suggestion Luka returned the rented limo, and they drove to Long Island in the Lincoln. The more lies she wove into her report of her interview with Pirelli, the more she saw Johnny, or Luka, relax. As the snow continued to fall, she felt wrapped in a cocoon, a private world she alone controlled.
CHAPTER 22
The snow was thicker than ever as Sophia and Luka drove up to the Groves. She looked back to the gates to see them ease shut electronically.
Luka deposited her at the front porch and drove around the back to park. She hardly had time to shake the snow from her coat before Graziella threw open the door. She clasped Sophia to her, drawing her into the impressive hallway.
Rose hurried down the wide, sweeping staircase, wrapped in a bath towel. "There's an indoor swimming pool. I've been swimming," she said delightedly.
Sophia was pulled this way and that, and all the while Luka hung back slightly, blushing and smiling with pleasure. Sophia said all the right words.
They all seemed to have had great weights lifted from them, and nothing in Sophia's manner gave even a hint of what was to come.
As soon as Luka drove off to shop with Graziella's extensive grocery list, Sophia called to Teresa and stopped Rosa on her way back to the swimming pool.
"Go and get Mama. I want to talk to all of you, and hurry, we don't have much time."
They converged on the hallway from various parts of the house. Sophia stood at the door of the living room and gestured frantically for them to come inside. She then shut the doors as if to keep them all in the room.
"Is this about Pirelli, Sophia?" Teresa demanded.
"Yes, and you'd better sit down, all of you because I don't know how to make what I have to say any easier."
Her husky voice held them all. "You must keep calm. We have to work out exactly what we are going to do and how we are going to do it."
They waited expectantly as she paused a moment, then plunged straight in: "Johnny Moreno is not who he says he is. He is Paul Carolla's adopted son. His real name is Luka. He is Luka Carolla."
Luka loaded two more bags of groceries into the Lincoln. He could hardly close the trunk; there was enough food and wine to keep them for months. He checked the list to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Then, satisfied, he drove to a gas station. He had been out nearly two hours.
Sophia stood with her arms folded, her fingers gripping her upper arms so tightly she could feel the nails cutting into the flesh. The atmosphere was tense now; she was surrounded by panic-stricken faces.
She continued. "He must not have any idea that we know. Mama will begin cooking, and we will prepare dinner as if nothing has happened. Keep him occupied; keep him out of the way. Teresa and I will make sure every exit from the house is locked. There must be no way out, no escape. As soon as we know he can't move out of the house, we eat. We all sit down together as planned. He may not seem dangerous, but remember, Pirelli said he must be exceptionally strong to cut his victims so viciously. ... If you waver, if at any time you feel afraid, you, Teresa, remember Filippo, Rosa, your Emilio, and you, Mama, think of Papa, my babies, Constantino. . . . All of you keep remembering what he has done and know we will, as we have prayed, at last get justice. And
we all want it, we do all want this? Don't we?"
Her face was like a beautiful mask as she looked from one woman to the next. Rosa wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, afraid to meet Sophia's penetrating gaze.
"Rosa? Rosa?"
Rosa swallowed and half rose from her seat as Sophia loomed over her. "Do you want to leave? Rosa, if you want to leave, you had better say so."
"No . . . No!"
"Fine. Then dry your eyes. Are you all right?"
"No, of course I'm not, because you could be wrong about him. You don't know for sure."
"Then he can prove it. We'll give him that chance. Now go get dressed. You all were expecting to dine in your best, so dress—and act—as if nothing has been said."
Graziella remained seated, her hands on her knees, her eyes closed as if in prayer.
Teresa whispered sliakily, "Maybe you shouldn't have told Mama?"
But Sophia shook her head. "We need her; she'll have to slip the stuff into his dinner; she always serves."
Graziella spoke, and there was not even a tremor to her voice. "I pray to God you are not wrong, and I thank God if you are right. Then I can die in peace."
Sophia knelt by Graziella, held her hands. "Mama, he'll have the chance to answer all our questions. We won't do it until we are sure, and we will be sure when we do it."
Teresa was afraid, she knew it. For all her bravado, everything seemed to pale against Sophia's cold, calculating demeanor.
Sophia was still bending close to her mother-in-law. "I'll bring you the pills, Mama. Maybe if we crush them into powder. . . . You always have a handkerchief up your sleeve; you can empty it like so. ..."
Sophia slipped a lace-trimmed handkerchief from Graziella's sleeve to demonstrate how Graziella could empty the powder into Luka's dinner.
Teresa asked, "Sophia, how are we going to do it?"
The beautiful, mask like face turned in Teresa's direction. "He is guilty, Teresa, I know it. In some way I have always had this feeling about him, but I never knew what it was, why he made me feel the way he did. He has to die slowly, painfully."
"Which one of us will do it?"
"All of us, we'll all do it. . . ."
They heard the tooting of the car horn, and Teresa crossed to the window. Her whole body was shaking as she said, "He's here. It's him. . . . He's driven around to the back of the house."
Sophia looked at Rosa. "Get the keys as soon as he leaves the car, and you, Teresa, use the electronic lock
for the main gates."
The tire tracks could still be seen, although the snow was still falling. Rosa waited, trembling, in the stables. Luka passed her three times, unloading the groceries. She heard the lid of the trunk slam down; then he passed her a fourth time, whistling. She peered over the stable door in time to see him going into the kitchen.
She hurried down the long gravel drive to the big iron gates and slipped a padlock and chain around them. Then she ran back to the car, took the keys from the ignition, and went into the kitchen, her heart pounding. She quickly removed her coat and shook the snow from her hair.
Graziella had already covered the kitchen table with the provisions from the brown grocery bags. As Rosa slipped the car keys into a kitchen drawer, Graziella asked her to put a pan of water on the stove to boil for the rice and then to chop mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes.
The knife was sharp as a razor, and the pattering of Graziella's feet on the tiled floor as she bustled about seemed unreal. The old lady was behaving as if nothing untoward were about to take place. She was simply cooking dinner, their first dinner in their new home. The tears streamed down Rosa's face, and suddenly she felt her grandmother's soft hand on her neck.
"Onions always make such tears. . . . You know, if you place a bowl of hot water at your side, you won't cry. Did you know that, my little one?"
Rosa nodded and wiped her cheeks. Graziella put a steaming bowl of water beside her, and her soft voice calmed Rosa. "Remember that night, when you were all dressed up in your wedding gown that Sophia had made especially. ... It was so beautiful, and you were so happy. . . . Remember, Rosa, remember?"
Graziella's eyes held her granddaughter's, and it was not until Rosa nodded that Graziella turned back to her cooking.
Graziella began to sing an old Sicilian ballad. It was eerie: the soft voice singing, the bubble of food on the stove, and the onion tears that continued to stream down Rosa's face. Rosa started to remember, to see again the night she danced for them in her white wedding gown, and the quick chopping of her knife became firmer as her sweet young mouth set into a thin, hard line.
Teresa was wearing the black dress Sophia had given her for their dinner party in Rome. She came out of her bedroom just as Sophia was passing.
"I think that's a good idea, Teresa."
He appeared from nowhere, his blond head resting on his forearms as he leaned on the banister rail. Teresa watched as Sophia went to stand close to him.
"Johnny, don't you think Teresa looks lovely?"
"You look beautiful, Teresa. Turn around and let me see. . . . What a dress! Is this one of Nino Fabio's creations, Sophia?"
"Yes. . ."
Luka laughed, giving Sophia an intimate look, and started up the stairs. Teresa couldn't stop shaking; she hurried down the stairs, leaving Sophia alone on the landing. Luka paused and turned back, looking down at Sophia, as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. His gold heart caught in the cloth, and he twisted his head to free himself from the chain. When he looked at her again, she was staring at his body, and he flushed, wanting to cover his chest.
She could see how tight and muscular he was. How strong he must be; Nino Fabio's wound had been so deep the muscles °f his back had been cut through. ... He turned and ran on P the stairs, thankful that she could not see the effect she had °n him. His body seemed to be on fire for her.
Sophia could see the welts on his back as he disappeared from view. Pirelli had forgotten nothing; he had repeated the description of Luka given him by Father Angelo. It was yet further proof of his identity.
Rosa met her mother on the landing. Teresa looked furtively toward the floor above and whispered, "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Did you get the keys?"
"Yes . . . Mama, I can't bear it. I can't—"
Out of the corner of her eye Teresa saw him, wrapped in a bath towel and peering down at them. Teresa's dress was still creased from the suitcase, and she tried to smooth it with nervous hands.
Rosa's voice wavered as she tried to make conversation. "Why don't you play the piano, Mama? It's a Steinway. Go and play the piano, I'll go change . . . Mama?"
Teresa looked upward, but Luka had disappeared. "I'll wait with you, Rosa."
Rosa whispered, "No, go downstairs and play for us."
Obediently Teresa entered the living room.
Graziella could hear the piano in the kitchen, but she did not recognize the melody. She stood with her head slightly cocked to one side. . . . She could remember Roberto's voice, laughing when he said there was never any time for him to have his bath because the bathroom was always full; she could remember the children's voices as they played on the landing. . . . She moved to Sophia's side as if for comfort.
Sophia was squashing tablets, a mixture of Valium and Seconal sleeping tablets with the garlic press. "Where's your handkerchief, Mama?"
Graziella took the clean lace square from her pocket and handed it to Sophia. The piano stopped abruptly as they heard a scream.
Sophia ran from the kitchen, snatching up the knife Rosa had been using.
Luka, wearing a strange frock coat and an old top hat, was swinging a cane and laughing as Sophia entered.
Teresa was still sitting at the piano, trying to cover her nervousness by leafing through old sheet music. "He gave me such a shock!"
Luka laughed. "I crept up behind her. I was going to break into song. ... I couldn't remember the words."
Sophia hid the knife behind her. Fixing a smile on her face, she asked Luka where on earth he had got the clothes from. Luka said they must have belonged to the previous owner; they were in an old trunk in his room.
Sophia backed to the sofa and slipped the knife between the cushions. "Why don't you play something that Johnny could dance to for us, Teresa?"
Sophia stared hard at Teresa, who fumbled frantically through the sheets of music. "I can't play by ear. I have to have music. ..."
Luka did a quick imitation of Charlie Chaplin, shrugging his shoulders and twirling the cane, scuttling around the room with his feet splayed out. He seemed in very high spirits, and Teresa couldn't stand it. She slammed down the lid of the Steinway.
"I'll go help Mama. I'm not in the mood."
Luka tossed his hat and cane onto the sofa and looked at Sophia.
"Aren't you going to change for dinner, too, Sophia?"
"Yes, as soon as I have a moment."
Sophia was relieved when Rosa came in, carrying a tray of champagne.
"Where is Mama?" she asked, the glasses rattling as she put the tray down. When she offered a glass to Sophia, her hand shook visibly.
"Helping Graziella in the kitchen." A look passed between them as Sophia took her glass, her dark eyes urging Rosa to offer Luka a glass.
He refused a drink and picked up his hat and cane, saying he wouldn't be a moment; there was something he had forgot- n. As he left the room, he gave Sophia a strange, unfathomable stare.
Sophia barged into the kitchen and spoke loudly in case Luka was listening. "Is everything all right in here, Mama?"
Graziella nodded as she put some serving dishes in the Warming oven. The door opened suddenly behind Sophia and Pushed her forward. She froze, then looked around fearfully. " sighed with relief when she saw it was Rosa.
Luka knew something was going on. He sat on his bed and gripped the sides of it with his hands. It was Sophia; she was different. . . .
Had Pirelli told her more than she admitted? Could it be that she knew how Nino Fabio had died? Was that it? He moved to his bedside table and looked through one drawer after another. He had left his knife there. ... If she were to tell the others . . . Would she tell on him? Someone had been in his room, searching his belongings.
The door handle was beginning to turn, and his eyes were transfixed in a wide stare. . . .
"Didn't you hear me calling you?" Sophia demanded.
She could see the sweat on his forehead and the stains in the armpits of
his shirt.
"Are you all right?"
He backed away, a single, small step.
Sophia turned and he could see that the back of her dress was open. "Would you zip me?"
He edged toward her, and she felt how cold his hands were as he eased the zipper upward.
"You look very beautiful."
She turned to face him. "Thank you. . . . Don't you think you should change? Dinner's almost ready. Everyone else is downstairs, waiting."
He seemed so unsure that she moved closer. "What is it? Don't you feel good? Don't you want to eat?"
His hand was wet with sweat. His fingers tightened on her hand. "I—I got all sweaty dancing. I need to wash."
"Well, don't be long. This is a special occasion."
Suddenly he confronted her. "You've changed. Something has happened. You're different."
"It's just your imagination."
Sophia closed the dining room door behind her. "He knows something is wrong, and that's your fault." She nodded to Teresa. "He's very strange, and his room stinks. He's sweating like an animal."
Teresa put her fingers to her lips to silence Sophia; she had heard something. Sophia pulled her chair out, saying loudly, "Well, Mama, this looks wonderful. Can I help you?"
They all listened; then Rosa asked if everyone wanted wine. Teresa held out her glass, and their hands shook so much that between them they spilled a fair bit. Behind them the door creaked, and Luka, having changed his shirt, came into the room.
"Now, Johnny, you sit at the head of the table there, in the carving chair, as you are the man of the house." Graziella smiled at him as she set down the warm soup plates, then opened the serving hatch to bring a tureen to the table. She began to serve the steaming vegetable soup with a large silver ladle. Luka was silent, his eyes guarded; he sat like a naughty child forced by an adult to behave at table.
After the soup was served, Graziella folded her hands in prayer: "For what we are about to receive, we thank the good Lord. Amen."
Sophia raised her glass and smiled. "To Johnny, for providing us with this wonderful house; for this dinner, too."
They toasted him, and he seemed slowly to relax. He sipped his wine, and now his behavior was more like that of a young boy allowed to dine with the grown-ups. Somehow they managed to talk about everyday things.
BELLA MAFIA Page 52