BELLA MAFIA Read online

  "Keep your arm steady. Remember the muzzle of the gun is where the bullet will come from. Hold it steady on the target. Your eyes are the gun." Luciano's voice was like a whispered encouragement in her head. . . . Another fifteen minutes passed, shells littering the ground, before she heard a dull thwack as the bullet found its mark. Elated, she delved into her pocket for the next cartridge.

  Enrico Dante turned the shower on and started to strip off his clothes. His trousers were halfway down his legs when he became aware that someone was in his bedroom. He froze, listening, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

  The curtains moved. He yanked them apart so hard they almost came off the rail. The window was open; he slammed it shut, trying to remember if he had left it like thit. He heard something, listened again, then relaxed; it was the water running. Hissing with relief, he took off his trousers, which he held underneath his chin by the cuffs while he straightened the creases. He opened the wardrobe door and started to scream. . . .

  Luka's hand shot out and gripped Dante by the throat, forcing him backward at arm's length. Dante didn't recognize him. His throttled scream gurgled in his throat as he backed helplessly toward his bed. The backs of his knees struck the mattress, and he fell as Luka released his hold.

  Luka jerked his arm, and the knife slid into his palm. With one flick he had it open, revealing the razor-sharp blade. He knelt over Dante, held the knife to his throat, and saw Dante's eyes register recognition.

  "I guess I missed the plane." He sprang back, clicked the knife closed, and smiled. "I could have slit your throat."

  Dante eased himself up onto his elbows. "If Carolla knew you were here . . . You crazy son of a bitch."

  Luka opened the knife again. "You gonna tell him?"

  Dante shook his head, staring at Luka. With the dyed hair the boy looked crazier than ever. "What do you want?"

  "I'm not sure yet. Money maybe."

  Dante inched himself further into a sitting position. "Look, I was just following orders, understand? You can't stay here. They'll tie you in with Carolla. They'll make the connection."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "Okay . . . Whatever you say. You want dough, I'll get it. I don't keep anything here. I got no cash here."

  Dante was sitting upright. He moved a fraction toward the bedside table, never taking his eyes off Luka. "We go to my club, and I'll get your cash, okay?"

  Luka pursed his lips and nodded, put the knife away.

  With relief, Dante said, "Gimme my pants, kid, I'll get dressed."

  As Luka turned to reach for the trousers, Dante lurched for the cabinet and dragged frantically at the drawer, where he kept a gun. Luka seemed to fly through the air, landed on Dante, sat astride him, and punched his face.

  He twirled his arm, and the knife flew open. This time he pressed it into Dante's neck, the blade so sharp that it drew blood. Luka sprang back, opened the drawer, took out the gun, and tucked it in his trousers.

  Dante was blubbering with fear. "Look, it was a mistake, okay? I won't try anything again, please, don't cut me, please—"

  He touched his neck and brought his hand away, covered in blood. "Oh, sweet Jesus . . . You're makin' a mistake. I'm tellin' you, if this deal doesn't come off, he's gonna finger you, son or not. He's gonna use you to bargain with the prosecution; he knows you hit that kid. You're gonna need me; you'll never get out of Sicily. They'll have every airport, every station checked. I can get you passports, tickets. . . . You need me."

  Dante drove to the Armadillo Club with the gun pressed into his bloodstained collar. They went in by a back entrance and along a corridor. Music was playing so loud that even if Dante had screamed, he doubted he would have been heard.

  Once in the office, Luka locked the door and pocketed the key. Dante fumbled with the safe and started taking out bundles of dollars and lire. Luka looked at it.

  "Where's the rest of it?"

  Dante explained that he had paid the staff that evening, that this was all that was left.

  Luka sat on the corner of the desk and tilted his head to one side. "If this deal doesn't come off, how long you reckon he'll be put away for? You think maybe he could be inside for life?"

  "Who knows? Look, I can get more cash out of the till."

  "Sit down. You think I'm gonna let you walk out to the bar?"

  Dante reached for the phone. "Lemme call, I'll call the bar, and they can bring it in. This is all the dough I got in the place, I swear on my life."

  Luka suddenly tucked the gun away. "With my father dead, you'd be in a good position, huh? Means the same for me, too."

  Dante stared, and Luka smiled. "I'm his son. Everything

  he has is mine. Whatever you've got I guess is yours."

  Dante said nothing, watching Luka carefully.

  Luka sat kicking his heels against the desk. "He's been inside, what, seventeen months? You've been handling the business all that time? He never trusted you; he was always sure you were ripping him off. So, if he does get out, where does that leave you?"

  Still, Dante didn't reply, but he watched this kid, who was so close to the truth.

  Luka continued. "So what I'm saying is either way we both could be hurt, understand? I mean, there's no love lost between us. You said he wanted me out of the way; that's what you said, isn't it?"

  Dante nodded.

  "If he was dead, we'd both benefit, right?"

  Dante found his voice at last. "You'd never get away with it, you'd never—" He shut up fast. What did he care if Luka got away with it or not? If he got caught, with Carolla dead, Dante would be even better off. He changed his tack. "How would you do it?"

  Luka pursed his lips. "Maybe in the courtroom, but I'll need your help."

  "Look, the law knows I work for him. Do you think they'd even let me in the courthouse? It takes all my time to get visiting rights for the jail."

  Luka sprang off the table. "I don't mean help with the hit. I work alone. I am a professional, understand? We always work alone."

  Dante nodded. "Sure, Luka." He straightened fast as Luka dived toward him.

  "No! Not Luka, never call me Luka! I am Johnny Moreno. My name is Johnny Moreno, remember that, okay?"

  "Sure, Johnny, I'll remember."

  Dante watched as Luka picked up bundles of lire, totally ignoring the dollars. He stuffed the money in his pockets. "Okay, I'll come by tomorrow, tell you what I need."

  Luka gave him a wink and walked out. Dante sat transfixed, his desk littered with dollars. "Christ, he almost killed me!" The proof, the dark, dried blood on his shirt, was facing him in the mirror.

  Dante had no idea what to do. The kid was obviously a maniac, but why should he tell Carolla that Luka was going to attempt to kill him? He had been the bagman for too long; with Carolla dead, he could hold the reins. The kid would get himself either arrested or killed. In the meantime, he'd make no more visits to the prison, would play along with whatever Luka wanted and wait for the outcome.

  Sophia Luciano pulled up at the gates of the Villa Rivera. There was no guard. She opened the gates to allow the car through, and then she heard the shots.

  She ran back to the car and drove to the house. As she ran up the front steps, two more shots rang out. She shouted for Graziella, pounding on the door, but there was no reply. She ran toward the back of the house as another shot rang out. She screamed Graziella's name.

  Graziella's head appeared over the fence. She waved, and Sophia stood panting with fear. "Are you all right? I heard gunshots."

  Graziella had tucked the gun out of sight in her robe pocket. "Oh, it's all right. It's the guard. We are having trouble with some wild cats; they are chasing the pigeons. I didn't expect you until this afternoon. Go to the front, and I'll let you in."

  Graziella opened the door, kissed her daughter-in-law warmly, and insisted on taking her suitcase.

  "Mama, where are the gate guards and Adina? Are you here alone?"

  "Oh, no, there's one ou
t back. He'll have frightened the cats away by now."

  The villa was dark with all the shutters closed. Sophia followed Graziella into the kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the stove, and Graziella poured two cups.

  "Adina will be back shortly. She is getting some groceries. I have to go to the trial, so you'll be left on your own."

  Sophia sipped her coffee and asked when the others were expected. With a shrug, Graziella told her they would arrive sometime that afternoon. She seemed agitated, constantly looking at the big kitchen clock. "They sent a cable to say they were on the way, so we all shall dine together this evening. You don't mind my leaving, do you?"

  Sophia shook her head and apologized; she should have called. She could see that Graziella had lost weight and was about to remark on it when Graziella moved to her side and pinched her cheek. "You have lost weight. Adina will fatten you up."

  "Is the will final, Mama?"

  "I think so, but we have had problems. Poor Mario—"

  Sophia interrupted. "I have to speak with him. I'll come into Palermo with you."

  "Oh, you don't know? I should have called you, but I have had so much to do. Mario's dead, Sophia."

  Sophia dropped her cup. "No . . . No . . ."

  Graziella got a dishcloth to clear up the damage. "I'm sorry . . . Sophia, are you all right?"

  Sophia was trembling. "No, Mama, he can't be, he can't be . . ."

  "He had a heart attack."

  Sophia ran from the room. Graziella was about to follow when she heard the tooting of a taxi horn.

  Adina had arrived, laden with groceries. The driver had to make four trips to the back door with all the bags. The kitchen table was stacked high.

  "Are you going to the trial this morning, signora? If so, I can ask the taxi to wait."

  "No, I shall drive. Sophia is here, take her some coffee, she's very upset. I just told her about Mario Domino. I had no idea she was so fond of him."

  Adina began unpacking the bags. "Maybe she has had too much death, signora."

  Graziella nodded. "Maybe."

  "The taxi can wait. Signora, please, for me, take the taxi."

  "No, I am taking the other car."

  "The Rolls-Royce, signora? Oh, no, please, why not the Mercedes?"

  "It's out of gas."

  Adina hurried to the waiting taxi driver and paid his fare, then went around to the back of the house. She passed the stables and the greenhouse and saw all the shattered glass. Then she opened the garage doors. The Mercedes was in terrible condition, the front bumper mangled, both fenders dented and scraped. She searched for the keys to the dusty Corniche. Unable to find them, she returned to the house, stepping over jagged pieces of glass.

  Graziella was in her room changing when Adina called to ask what had happened to the greenhouse during the night. Graziella told her that a cat had been chasing a bird, nothing to worry about. Adina shook her head and brewed some fresh coffee for Sophia.

  She paused on her way upstairs with the coffee and watched from the window as the Corniche made its way down the drive. She winced as it glanced against the gate, which was open wide enough to let a truck through.

  Adina tapped on Sophia's door, then eased it open. Sophia was sitting on the bed, holding her head in her hands.

  "May I speak with you, Signora Sophia? She is driving the Rolls-Royce, the don's car; she is unsafe, I am so worried. She must not drive, she has no license, and she doesn't know how to reverse. We went to Mondello, no more than nine miles, it was terrible. We hit a tree and a post, we could have been killed—signora? You must stop her, please."

  Sophia had not taken in a word. "What do you think has happened to Mario Domino's papers, his personal papers? Would they still be in his apartment?"

  "I don't know, signora. There are boxes and boxes of documents from his firm in the study. We have only one man, and he comes and goes as he pleases; we have no driver, no gardeners. . . . She needs someone here; she should not have been alone. Every day she goes to the trials. It is all she thinks of."

  Sophia rose slowly to her feet. "We'll all be here now, Adina. The others are arriving sometime today."

  Sophia tried the study door. It was locked, so she went into the living room. She stood in the center of the room, looking around.

  Adina followed, wringing her hands. "All the photographs, you see, she has taken them away."

  "Open the shutters, Adina, and take the dust covers off. This place feels like a tomb."

  Adina began to pull at the white cloths, talking all the while, telling Sophia it was too much for her to care for. With her

  arms full of sheets she paused at the dining-room doors.

  Sophia said, almost to herself, "I needed to speak to Mario Domino."

  "I am sorry, signora."

  Sophia gave a soft laugh, almost a cry. "So am I. You'll never know how sorry I am. Nobody will." She gave Adina a sweet, gentle smile, and the dimple, a tiny shadow, appeared in her right cheek. "I'll help you get the rooms ready."

  "Oh, no, signora, please . . ."

  "Please, Adina, I need to do something."

  Dante handed the student's identity card, in the name of Johnny Moreno, to Luka. It had been simple to acquire.

  Luka looked it over, then tapped it against his cheek. "This should help me get into the trial. I'll see you later, but I want a passport in the same name. Can you get me one?"

  It would take a little longer, but Dante agreed. Luka paused at the half-open door. "I'll also need a weapon, but I won't know what until I've been to the trial."

  As soon as Luka left, Dante called his man Dario and told him to stick to Luka's heels, but to keep his distance. Luka must not suspect.

  Luka stood in line, waiting for the guards to search the spectators as they slowly filed into the courthouse. The line was long, and Luka had paid a man halfway along to allow him to take his place. He would have to be much earlier next time if he wanted a good seat, close enough to the cages. But for now the farther away from Carolla, the better. Even with his hair dyed, there was a chance his father would recognize him.

  It was the same procedure morning and afternoon; always Paul Carolla was the last prisoner brought in. Luka had noticed the delay before Carolla was brought up the steps from the cells below, noted the delay while the cage door was opened.

  Carolla stared around the court. He appeared confident, even waving and talking to the other prisoners.

  The guards stepped back to allow Carolla to enter the cage. For just a few moments no one was near him.

  Luka asked the man sitting next to him if he had been to many of the sessions, and he nodded. Luka asked if it was always the same routine, and again the man nodded, jerking his head toward Carolla. "That arrogant bastard always does that. He behaves as if this were some kind of theater. If he's on the stand, you'll see one hell of a performance."

  Luka sat down in his seat, paying no attention to the proceedings, sizing up the best possible position for the next day. He noticed the elderly woman dressed all in black and concentrated on her for a few moments, then let his eyes drift down the aisle. The end seat, that was the best one. He spent the rest of the afternoon deciding exactly what weapon he would need and how to get it into court. He had no further conversation with the man next to him.

  Graziella did not have to wait in line; her seat was reserved. She had sat in the same seat since the opening of the trial and continued to pay highly for the privilege.

  She was holding a crucifix. Her hands rested on her handbag, in which she had brought a large stone. The guard had not searched it.

  She twisted her crucifix, her eyes constantly straying to the hunched figure of Carolla. She found a strange satisfaction in knowing there was so little time left; she would kill him the next morning.

  Pirelli had received a fax from the States. Paul Carolla had married one Eva Gamberno in New York on April 19, 1955, but there was no record of a child. Eva Carolla had died in May 1959, yet the priso
n records stated that Paul's son Giorgio Carolla had visited him in January and in February 1987. The records stated that he had produced a passport for identification, but it did not give its number.

  Pirelli's second fax drew a blank; there was no record of Giorgio Carolla's existence; he was not an American citizen. The third yielded a glimmer of light; Eva Carolla was buried in Sicily. Pirelli consulted the records for 1959.

  Sure enough, there was Carolla's wife. But there was still no record of a child. So who had visited Paul Carolla, using a false passport? Who had received the order from Paul Carolla to murder the Paluso child?

  Pirelli demanded another meeting with Carolla, only to be told by his chief that Carolla would be on the stand for the entire day and probably the following day, too. His evenings were taken up with his lawyers, that was his right, and unless Pirelli had some new evidence involving Carolla directly, he would not be given permission to question him.

  Pirelli snapped that he had evidence that someone had used a false passport to gain access to Carolla just two days before the Paluso child was killed. He had to know who that someone was. He presented his proof that Giorgio Carolla did not exist. He was finally granted leave to see Carolla after the court session the next day.

  Disgruntled, he returned to his office to find his assistant sitting in his chair again. But this time he did not jump up; he held out a piece of paper.

  "Have a look at this. It's unbelievable. I was in C-four when it came through; that's how we got the copy. It's a ballistics report. You know the Luciano children were shot, two of them. . . . Look at the description of the bullets."

  Pirelli snatched the paper; his eyes flew over the page; then he let it drop. "Holy shit, what the fuck is going on in this place? Who's on the Luciano case?"

  Detective Sergeant Francesco Ancora looked up from the latest football results when Pirelli walked in, waving the ballistics report.

  "Have you seen this? The same gun that killed the Paluso kid was used on the Luciano children."

  Ancora laid the paper down carefully. "They think it was; it's not a hundred percent. They're still doing tests; they got only fragments from your boy."