BELLA MAFIA (12 page)

The first pew awaited the widows. The purple velvet hassocks had been embroidered with a gold
L
by nuns from the Lucianos' local church.

By ten-fifteen the motorcycles were in position outside the villa. The gates were opened wide, and they were given the signal to move on.

A black stallion, draped in purple and with a black-plumed headdress, was led out by a young farm boy to walk at the front of the procession. The stallion tossed his head nervously, and the boy held on to the wide black ribbons while he took a harmonica from his pocket. The horse calmed as the boy began to play, and they moved forward.

A murmur went through the crowd as the first hearse, pulled by six men in mourning dress, turned into the street. The hearse was more than a hundred years old and was carved in the ornate Sicilian fashion. White roses spelled out "II Papa" in letters eighteen inches high. The coffin was laden with white flowers and a single red rose. Black, billowing silk draperies were caught at the corners with white roses.

Following Don Roberto Luciano came the hearse of his elder son, Constantino. In third position came Filippo's hearse, followed by Emilio's, each smothered in white with one red bloom.

Twenty village children between the ages of six and eight, wearing white confirmation clothes, walked ahead of the two small white-flowered coffins. They carried roses, and the veils of the girls were crowned with white flowers. One small girl at the head of the little procession began to cry, her high-pitched sobbing making the sight of the small coffins even more poignant.

Moving very slowly to the mournful sound of the boy's harmonica, the procession wound along the silent streets. The streets were full of people, but it was the silence that everyone would remember.

To everyone's amazement, the widows walked. Led by Graziella, with Sophia and Teresa together four steps behind, Rosa another four slow steps behind them, they walked slowly, heads held high in their black mourning clothes and flowing black veils. Each held her black-gloved hands clasped as if in prayer. They seemed bound together, yet separate, facing directly ahead, and even when Graziella led them into the cathedral, no one turned.

A boy soprano rose from the choir and sang "Ave Maria," his clear voice soaring, as the women took their seats and knelt in prayer.

During the service, when the congregation filed up to take communion, a wizened old woman swathed in black inched past the children's coffins to lay a small, worn crucifix on the don's coffin. She sobbed loudly, and no one attempted to stop her; it was as though she wept for everyone there at the loss of this, their beloved don, his sons, and two innocent grandsons.

The ground was thick with floral displays, covering the small area outside the family mausoleum, hanging from the iron railings surrounding the white-pillared entrance and carpeting the lane leading up to the gates. The crowds remained standing; dark-suited men held them back, their arms linked to allow the four black-clad women privacy for their last good-bye.

As they entered the mausoleum, a flash went off. Graziella, the last to enter, turned, her expression hidden beneath her veil, and pointed at the press photographer responsible. One of the guards, without any apparent coercion, was immediately handed the offending roll of film. The doors closed behind the women.

In the gloomy interior of the tomb the coffins were already in their final resting places on the shelves, though they had not yet been cemented in. The highly polished wood glinted in the flickering light of a single torch.

The women prayed together until Graziella said, quietly, that it was time to leave. Rosa clutched her grandmother's hand, and Teresa inched the door open; but Sophia's body was rigid. She could not move. Unable to look at the coffins of her husband and children, she focused on the picture of Michael Luciano. The photograph had been there for more than twenty years, protected by the glass and the airtight tomb; it could have been placed there the day before. Michael's angelic face and soft, sweet smile made Sophia's dulled senses scream awake. Hands clenched, the scream surged through her, the single word "No!"

Graziella released her granddaughter's hand, and her voice was hoarse as she ordered the women out. She caught Sophia as she fell to her knees.

"Get up, Sophia. Up on your feet."

Her grip cut through Sophia's skin, pressing against the nerve in her elbow and making her whole body jerk, but Graziella held on. The others stood waiting at the half-open door. Graziella took Teresa's handkerchief, lifted Sophia's veil, and wiped her face.

"Let me go first." Satisfied that Sophia was all right, Graziella almost pushed past her daughters-in-law and led them out to face the watchful crowd.

There were further agonies for the widows to endure; they now had to greet and thank the many mourners who were invited to pay their respects at the villa. Rolls-Royces, Mercedeses, Maseratis, and Ferraris lined the route.

A row of gilded red velvet chairs had been placed in the living room, replacing the coffins. For five hours the women sat, still veiled, to receive the condolences of the mourners. When it finally ended, the villa seemed to die: no voices, no sound.

The women, exhausted, numbed by the day's events, retired to their rooms.

At nine o'clock they were to dine with Graziella. They entered the room one by one to find her sitting in her husband's chair; they noticed that she also wore his ring. They hardly touched the food that was placed in front of them by Adina, who had been in service with the Lucianos since she was a young girl. Her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, she moved silently and unobtrusively, serving and clearing.

They spoke little. Teresa held her daughter's hand, murmuring softly that she should eat just a little. But Rosa seemed drugged, stupefied, and stared vacantly ahead. From her handbag Sophia took another of the little yellow pills Graziella had given them all and swallowed it with a sip of ice water.

There was an air of expectancy, and at last Graziella spoke.

"Mario Domino will be executor of my sons' and husband's estate. He will let us know when he is ready to read the will. In the meantime, you might prefer to return to your homes until you hear from me, though you are welcome to stay. There is little more that can be done here. I have made arrangements to attend the trial every day. We will get our justice. The man responsible for our loved ones' deaths will be convicted." Graziella hesitated, now obviously nervous, and took a black-bordered handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes, although she did not appear to be weeping. They turned dull eyes to her.

Finally she said, "There is something you all should be made aware of, something I have not told you. . . . Papa had begun making statements for the prosecution." She looked at them, expecting a reaction, but received none. It was as if they had not heard. She continued. "Papa believed in his decision and trusted that we all would be protected."

Suddenly Teresa snapped, shaking with shocked rage, "Protected! Jesus Christ, protected! He must have been out of his mind! It was his fault then, his fault this happened!"

"Do you think I have not thought, every minute, every hour, every day since? You blame Papa, then you must blame me. I knew of this decision. I approved and believed what he was doing was right."

Teresa's face was tight, her mouth a thin, vicious line. "You knew, you
knew,
and you welcomed us with open arms? You brought us over here, and we saw the guards, we saw them. . . . Jesus Christ, Sophia even asked you why! Why was the car trailing us on a shopping expedition, and what did you say?
You said it was what Papa wanted!
You should have told us then. You think Sophia would have left her babies for a second if she had known? We were all in danger, and you never told us—"

Rosa's chair fell over as she stood up. "Is that why I was to be married? To get us all here? You arranged it, you arranged my wedding?" She turned ferociously on her grandmother, her hands clenched. "And you killed Emilio. ... I blame you, I hate you. Here, Papa bought this, put it on his grave . . .
take it!”
She flung her ring across the table and ran from the room.

Sophia slapped her hand down on the engagement ring.
"Stop this!
Rosa, come back in here. Rosa!"

Rosa stopped in the hall. She had no intention of rejoining them, but there was something in Sophia's black eyes . . . When she repeated a whispered "Rosa, come back and sit down," Rosa obeyed.

Graziella twisted her lace handkerchief in her hands as she turned to Teresa. "He wanted to tell you, wanted you all here. He didn't want you to be afraid."

"So you arranged my daughter's wedding, your granddaughter's wedding, as an excuse?" Teresa had to strain to hear Graziella's reply.

"I make no excuses. Yes, Papa chose the wedding. He chose it because if anything happened to him, we would have been together. He did what he felt was right. Paul Carolla murdered Michael—"

Sophia's deep voice was calm as she interrupted Graziella. "Michael died, Mama, more than twenty years ago. Are you saying that Papa jeopardized the entire family because of him? I have lost my husband and my babies because of
Michael?"

They all looked to Graziella for an answer. The tension in the room was heightened by Rosa's muffled weeping. Graziella's handkerchief twisted and twisted in her hands.

"Papa did what he felt was right. Who are we to say now that he should not have—"

Teresa screamed it, her face red with pent-up anger. "I'm saying it! I don't give a fuck what anyone else wants to say,
I’m saying it, my husband is dead!”

Graziella looked at Teresa with contempt. "Hate the men who did this, not Papa. All of you honored him to his face, took from him whatever he gave. All of you carried the name Luciano, carried it, benefited from being the wives of Lucianos."

Teresa interrupted, swiping at the table, hitting out in anger. "Rosa was never allowed the chance to become a wife. He used her. Listen to her. . . . You tell me who is to blame? Tell me!"

Graziella rose to her feet. "You have no right, here in this house, to abuse him. He will have provided for each of you, provided so that you may live well, live as Lucianos, live in the luxury none of you, not one of you, knew before you were welcomed into this family."

"This family doesn't exist anymore because of him. He, and he alone, is to blame, and you know it." Teresa's head jerked back as Graziella slapped her face.

"I wish you to leave. When the lawyer is ready, you may return, not before then. ..." They watched her walk from the room. Her slow footsteps crossed the marble hall.

Teresa rubbed her cheek, shocked, hardly able to believe what had happened. She asked no one in particular, "Michael? He did it for Michael? Justice for Michael? My daughter's, my life, destroyed because of a boy we never even knew! Well, I spit on his memory because if it weren't for Michael Luciano, our men would still be alive. I will be glad to leave this house, leave her to her justice. . . ."

Sophia folded her napkin carefully. She felt empty, drained, unable to argue. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed."

Teresa burst out. "Don't you have anything to say? Don't you think we should talk about this? I mean, she's asked us to leave. Are you going?"

"What is there to say, Teresa? No words can bring back my sons, my husband. I don't care about justice, about Paul Carolla. My babies, my beautiful babies, are dead."

The room was empty when Adina came in to clear the table.

Sophia moved silently down the stairs. In the darkness the house itself appeared to be mourning; strange creaks and groans emanated from the staircase and the shutters.

She inched open the door to the living room, crept to a cabinet, and poured herself almost a tumbler of whiskey. The pills she had already taken were making her feel woozy. As she turned to go back to her room, the fringe of the shawl that draped the piano brushed her arm. She gasped. There he was again, smiling at her. Michael's photograph always stood in front of the others.

She whispered, "I curse you. I curse the day I met you." The sound of her own voice frightened her, and she drank, wanting to escape into oblivion. But a small voice inside warned her to be careful.

Somewhere a shutter banged. She turned to see Graziella standing in the doorway, her long hair braided, a woolen shawl around her shoulders. She walked silently into the room and took the glass from Sophia's hand.

"You should not drink if you have taken sleeping pills. It is dangerous."

"You mean I could sleep and never wake up? Then give me the glass."

"I'll take you back to bed."

Sophia backed away, remembering that viselike grip at the mausoleum, but Graziella kept on coming.

"Stay away from me, leave me alone."

"Very well, if that is what you want."

"I want to leave this house."

As silently as she had arrived, Graziella turned to leave, but Sophia blurted, "Why didn't you warn me? Because you knew, you've always known."