BELLA MAFIA (23 page)

The coolness was as Sophia remembered. The stone walls, the floors, the heavy oak doors had not changed. In a whisper the sister had asked her to wait in the corridor. After a short while she returned.

Sophia followed the sister down a narrow passage. The nun paused at a small bishop's door, where she knocked. Without waiting, she opened the door and ushered Sophia inside.

The mother superior was seated behind a large, ornately carved desk. She wore small, rimless glasses.

"Signora Visconti, please sit down." She watched with interest as Sophia's delicate lace veil was slowly lifted.

"Sister Matilda? Do you remember me? It's Sophia."

They talked of the time when the mother superior had been simply Sister Matilda. There had been many changes since then; sadly the orphanage no longer existed, but there was a new school and a new wing for poor and needy girls like Sophia. It was hard for the mother superior to recall Sophia as a young girl—so many had come and gone—but when Sophia told her the reason for her visit, she remembered very clearly. Sophia wished to trace her son, the child born in the convent.

"I am sorry, but all our adoption records from 1950 up until 1974 were destroyed in a fire, almost thirteen years ago."

"Is there no other record? What about the church register?"

The mother superior apologized; the boy would be impossible to trace. She offered to show Sophia the new buildings, and almost without realizing she had agreed, Sophia followed her.

The sun streamed in through the main doors as the mother superior opened them. She shaded her eyes. "Come, let me show you our new school."

In a trance Sophia followed. She stood and smiled at the rows of little children, and all she could think of was her baby, the little heart-shaped gold locket. . . . During her labor she had caught the locket in her mouth, had bitten on it until her teeth had left small indentations. When she left her baby, she had put the chain and heart around his neck.

She caught the sleeve of the mother superior's gown. "He had a locket, a small gold locket. He used to like me to swing it back and forth and would reach for it with his little hands. . . . I'd swing it for him until he slept—"

"I'm sorry, Sophia. If you recall, you left the baby at the orphanage to enable you to go to work." The mother's eyes glinted behind her eyeglasses, and Sophia could hear the coldness in her voice. "There were many children at the orphanage; their mothers all promised to return. I believe when you left Cefalu, you must have signed papers giving permission, if you did not return for your child, for him to be adopted. Did you sign such documents?"

Sophia nodded. "Is there no one I can speak to, no one who would possibly remember? There must have been more than one set of records. The doctor?"

"He died more than ten years ago, God rest his soul."

Sophia wanted to scream but forced herself to follow the black-clad figure, who was now proudly showing her the gymnasium.

"Our benefactor was a very generous man. All this he donated and, of course, the new chapel. We are dependent on charity, as you must be aware."

They walked across the small courtyard and back to the main building for coffee. The mother superior asked calmly if Sophia took cream, sugar. . . .

Sophia stood up. "Sister Flavia, the sister at the orphanage. I remember when I called to see if my son was still there, I spoke to her; she knew of my baby's adoption. It was Sister Flavia."

The mother superior dabbed at Sophia's spilled coffee with a tissue, then tossed it into the wastebasket. "Why now, Sophia? Why now? You released him, and may God forgive you, but would trying to trace your son now be fair to him? Unless there is a particular reason to find him?"

Sophia's voice broke. "He is my son."

"He was your son when you left him. I know you were just a child yourself, but you made the decision." She folded her white, smooth hands as if in prayer. A gold wedding ring was her only adornment. She glanced at Sophia's wedding finger.

"Please, Mother, I beg you to help me. If I could just speak with Sister Flavia . . ."

"I am afraid that will not be possible. Sister Flavia took a vow of silence more than five years ago. She is with the Sisters of the Holy Spirit. . . . Whatever changes have occurred in your life—"

Sophia had to get out; she couldn't stand the pious woman's cold voice another second. "Thank you for your time," she said, searching frantically in her handbag for her checkbook. She wrote a check and handed it over the desk. "Please accept this as a gift."

The mother superior smiled her gratitude as she drew the check closer, trying not to look directly at the amount. But suddenly she stared at the name printed on it.

"Luciano? Sophia Luciano?"

Sophia cursed herself for being so foolish.

"Ah, perhaps I understand."

Sophia was puzzled. The mother superior probably knew of the murders, but . . .

The cold, aloof face broke into a grimace that was meant to be a smile. "Our benefactor, Sophia, was Don Roberto Luciano."

Sophia tried to speak, but no words, nothing could clear the scream inside her head.

"Are you all right?"

Sophia was given a glass of water. Her teeth felt the cold glass, but she could not swallow. The scream would not stop, and the water trickled down her chin.

The sound of the door opening, of a whispered conversation between the mother superior and whoever was behind the door cut through Sophia's dulled senses. Terrified that she would lose the opportunity to ask what she was so desperate to know, she found her voice.

"Please stay . . . Please, I am all right now."

The mother superior returned to her chair and the door closed.

"Did Don Roberto come to you himself?"

"No, he did not. He sent a representative."

Sophia looked up, directly into the flintlike eyes. They slid away, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Do you recall the name?"

Sophia watched the white hands, one moment relaxed, the next tense. "I believe it was his son."

There was a light tap on the door. Slowly the mother superior rose. There was a swish of her gown on the stone floor and a light creaking of hinges, then again a whispered conversation. When the mother superior returned to her desk, she was carrying a diary. She opened it, flicked through the pages.

Sophia watched as the eyes behind the glasses kept looking up, then returning to page after page of the diary.

She's frightened,
thought Sophia.
What is she afraid
of}

The mother superior coughed and straightened the spine of the diary. "First a gentleman by the name of Mario Domino came to speak with the then mother superior. He was accompanied by the don's son. They requested to see all the records of the orphanage."

There was strength in Sophia now, and she asked angrily, "Who took my child?"

"Please, Sophia, there were many children. Yours was not the only baby, and it was not until I saw the name that I realized your connection with our benefactor. No child has ever been released to any party without the signed consent of the mother. You must have signed papers pertaining to adoption."

"Did Mario Domino take my baby?"

"Arrangements were made for the child to be adopted. There would have been a record of this event, but as I have told you, our records were lost in a fire."

Sophia rose, leaned over the desk, and snatched the diary. Then she sat back. The page was nearly blank, apart from a formal note of the generous gift made to the convent by Don Roberto Luciano. It was dated two weeks before Sophia's marriage to Constantino Luciano.

Sophia ran across the courtyard, her stomach churning. She didn't turn back, didn't see the pinched face of the mother superior watching her, making the sign of the cross at the stumbling figure. The door closed on the sight of Sophia, her body pressed against the rough stone wall, sobbing to the darkness, "He knew. . . . Oh, God, he always knew. . . ."

Pacing her hotel room, Sophia went over and over in her mind what had happened when she traveled to Palermo after the birth of her son. She had planned the visit for months, saving every penny she could from what she earned washing clothes.

Arriving at the Villa Rivera in her hand-sewn dress and the shoes given to her by the mission, she had been determined to see Michael. If he refused to see her, she would demand to see Don Roberto himself. If Michael would not marry her, he must at least contribute financially to the child's care. She had every intention of returning to the orphanage for her child.

The guard told her to go away, that the house was in mourning, but she had clung to the wrought-iron gates. Pressing her face against the bars, she had shouted that she had to speak to Michael Luciano. The guard finally pushed her from the gate, warning her to stay away, telling her that Michael Luciano was dead and buried.

For hours she had sat at the roadside, unable to move, so dazed that even now she could not recollect what happened next. She was told later that Filippo Luciano had taken a curve too fast in his car and had hit her.

Sophia had woken up in a bed at the Villa Rivera, confused and suffering from a concussion. She had been taken care of by none other than Michael Luciano's mother, Graziella. Sophia had been so terrified and bewildered that she said nothing. At one point she even believed the family intended to kill her.

Sophia rinsed a facecloth, let the water run cold over her hands. Everything that followed was clear; she could remember it all. The Lucianos had cared for her; there had been no danger. Instead, Sophia had unwittingly brought Graziella out of deep mourning.

Graziella's gentle sweetness in caring for a stranger as if she were her own daughter had lulled Sophia into a fantasy that it was all a dream. When Sophia recovered, they had driven her to her cheap motel. They gave her money until she was well enough to work, and she discovered that her room had been paid for. That might have been the end of it, but during her time at the villa she had met Constantino.

She pressed her hands over her face. Constantino had known all along about her baby, had removed him from the orphanage. . . . She could not believe it, would not believe it.

She paced up and down, remembering a long-forgotten moment when Constantino had called to see her at the hotel.

"I wondered if you would care to dine with me one evening."

She had always intended to tell him about the baby and had nearly done so. But the time was never right. . . . Had it not been right because she knew he was falling in love with her? Sophia stared from the window, remembered seeing from her hotel window the guard who had been so cruel, who had pried her hands away from the Villa Rivera gates.

She had hurried down the street, searching for him. Finding him, she had smiled, unsure at first if he knew her or not.

"I am Sophia Visconti, remember? I came to give the family my condolences, but you turned me away, pushed me into the street. Do you remember me? Remember what you said, what you did to me?"

"I am sorry, signorina, I meant no disrespect. I know you have been staying at the villa."

"Don Roberto will not hear of it from me."

She saw the fear in his eyes. Then he gave a small bow.

"I thank you, signorina, for my wife and children. It was a misunderstanding. The family were in—"

She interrupted him, her chin up. "Si, a misunderstanding. The family were in mourning for Michael. I know that now."

Shaking, she had returned to her room but had then congratulated herself. She was sure the man would be too afraid to lose his job to repeat the incident, and she had been right. When Constantino began inviting her to the villa, the man who had turned her away always gave her a deferential bow. She soon realized that Don Roberto employed many men and that the gate guard was too low in the scale to be in close contact with him.

Graziella appeared to encourage the relationship between her son and the "little waif," as she used to call Sophia, but these meetings took place only when Don Roberto was not in residence. When he finally discovered that his son was courting Sophia, all hell broke loose.

Sophia sat down and began to brush her hair, thinking of how she had wanted Constantino, more than she loved him. She had wanted the fine things she had seen at the villa. Michael was dead, but his brother, the shy, stammering Constantino, was desperately in love. Ever since she had tasted their life, she had wanted to be a Luciano.

To attain her ambition, she had abandoned her son, believing that if the don were to find out about the child, he would never accept her. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, continued the slow, rhythmic brushstrokes. She knew the don had made inquiries about her when he found out about Constantino's intention to marry her, but she had believed her secret was safe. Michael's name was not on his child's birth certificate.

She remembered the day she discovered her room at the Palermo hotel had been searched, and that same day Don Roberto had visited her unexpectedly. The don had questioned her, interrogated her about her family and her mother in particular, implying that he knew all about her past.Sure he had found out about her baby, she had thrown caution to the wind then. She had faced him, eyes blazing, about to tell him that the child was his own son's bastard. But she didn't get the opportunity. The don had cupped her face in those strong hands and told her that she had fire inside her, that he liked it. He had made her sit down and told her casually that even if her mother had never married, she could be proud of her daughter. He was as enamored of her as was his son.

She opened the shutters and walked out onto the balcony, recalling the don's words that day: "Sophia, you must understand, I ask you these questions because I must take care for my son. You love him, no?"

Afraid to speak, of saying something that would change his good mood, she nodded. And he gave his blessing for the wedding. He had approved of an illegitimate seventeen-year-old marrying his elder son.

Her fingers tensed on the balcony railing. In the years that had followed she had become the don's favorite. She had been a good wife to Constantino, had brought the introverted boy out of his shell. The two grandsons she had produced had further ingratiated her with
Papa.

She knew now that the don had found out about the baby. What he could not know was that his beloved Michael was the child's father. All the lies, Don Roberto's carefully orchestrated cover-up of his precious daughter-in-law's past, was for what reason? Why hadn't he used it to refuse them permission for the marriage? Unless Constantino had discovered the truth himself and, with Mario Domino's assistance, made sure Don Roberto would never know. But then, why would he be named the benefactor?

Sophia gave a strange little laugh. So much had happened, so much had bruised her, battered her, that the laugh was an empty, hollow sound. There was nothing left that could be destroyed. Beneath all the hurt was the sense of betrayal. She felt like a puppet, but who had really pulled the strings? Who was the one person strong enough to have instigated such a Machiavellian plot? Graziella? Sophia was sure that the austere and deeply religious Graziella was innocent; it could only be Don Roberto himself—couldn't it? Yet Constantino had used her business. There was a side to her husband that she had never known. There was no one Sophia could turn to for confirmation or comfort, and the betrayal swamped her, added to the suffocating weight that hung on her.

Returning to her room, she forced herself to bed. The Valium didn't help; it made her feel she should give way to the dragging sensation, take it a step farther and sink into complete oblivion. Her eyelids drooped, and then a burning sensation made her gasp, as if her heart were about to explode. She heaved for breath, because it was not over. At last she had found anger, dredged it up from her belly. She had lost everything because she was a Luciano, but they had not beaten her.

Her son was the only Luciano left alive. Graziella would have to accept him. It was incongruous and tragic, but Michael Luciano's bastard son was the only male left of the line. One person would know the truth, the one person she was sure would help her. If necessary, she would force him. Mario Domino.