BELLA MAFIA (55 page)

The gold heart at his throat glittered, and he touched it tenderly, lifted it, and kissed it, as if it were a crucifix.

Luka overslept and found Graziella sitting alone at the breakfast table, but before he could ask about Sophia, she walked in, already fully dressed. He quickly busied himself pouring coffee so she would not see that he had blushed. He could smell her perfume, a soft, powdery smell. He asked if she had already had coffee.

"Yes." She leaned over to kiss Graziella. Her gleaming hair, drawn back from her face and tightly coiled, made her look severe. She wore a smart charcoal gray suit and dark gray stockings; but her white silk shirt was open at the neck, and he could see, as she bent over Graziella, a minuscule portion of her white lace brassiere.

"Will you take care of Mama, Signor Moreno? I shouldn't be more than a few hours. Did you sleep well?"

Luka nodded.

Sophia walked into the lounge and began putting papers into a slim black leather briefcase. Luka pushed his chair back and followed her. He saw her close the case, then open a drawer and take out a bottle. She unscrewed the top.

"Would you like me to drive you?"

She turned with a guilty look, her eyes wide and startled. Three tiny yellow pills dropped to the floor and rolled. Immediately Luka was on his knees, picking them up, his hand close to her slim ankles, her fine kid shoes. He wanted to touch her. When he stood up, he was near enough to feel her warmth and smell again the soft, powdery perfume.

"I have a headache," she said guiltily. Her confusion gave him confidence.

"I'll bring the car around to the front entrance."

He hurried to his room before she could argue. Quickly he combed his hair, changed his shirt, and put on pne of the suits he had taken from the Villa Rivera. It had been one of Filippo's, left after the funeral. As he passed the reception area of the building, he noticed the doormen's office door was open and one gray uniform cap was lying on the desk. He took it.

Sophia appeared not to notice the effort he had made. She didn't smile when he doffed the cap, turning to face her in the backseat.

The hat was a little large, but he took it off and stuffed tissues in the inside band, then tried it on again.

"Could we go? I don't like to leave Mama for too long."

She sat to one side in the back of the car, her eyes closed, legs crossed. Luka tilted the rearview mirror a fraction in the hope that she would open her legs a little. Her elbow was propped on the armrest; her hand covered her brow. She sat like that for most of the journey, only occasionally dropping her hand to give him directions.

Sophia was in her lawyer's office for more than three quarters of an hour, and when she returned to the car, her mood was more distant than ever.

"I have to go to Milan. Nino Fabio is working there. You can either drive me there or go back to Mama, and I'll make other arrangements."

"No, I'll take you."

Sophia reached for the car phone and called Graziella to say she would be gone longer than she had anticipated. Graziella assured her she would be all right; she would go out and buy some groceries.

Luka drove out of the city and onto the highway, observing Sophia as she opened the small bar in the back of the car. She drank some vodka and took another of her little yellow "aspirin." Then she caught him watching her.

"I wish you would stop looking at me. It's very unnerving. I can see you doing it, you know. If you're spying on me, it's really not worth it. You can tell Teresa that I take about four Valium a day and a sleeping tablet now and then. ... I presume that is why she insisted you accompany us to Rome, isn't it?"

Luka pulled over, stopped the car, and leaned his arm along the back of the seat. "Not quite. I'm looking after you and Graziella until we get to New York."

Sophia laughed sarcastically. "Well, that really makes me feel secure. . . . Do you mind driving on? I don't want to be late."

They did not speak again for the rest of the journey. Sophia opened her briefcase and began reading some papers. Then she sighed, made a few notes, and leaned back on the seat, her eyes closed.

When they got to Milan, she directed Luka down the back streets to what had once been warehouses, now converted into luxury apartments and a few offices. They drew up beside a tall building, freshly painted.

Sophia instructed Luka to park and wait. They were in a courtyard where the space that had once been reserved for delivery trucks was chained off for private parking. The chains were painted white, and there were large tubs of flowers all around.

Luka watched her as she entered the building. He waited for half an hour, then left the car and entered the building. It was now past one o'clock in the afternoon.

Luka checked the company names on the door, then walked down the stone corridor and summoned the old freight elevator. At the third floor he pulled the lever to stop the elevator and stepped out into a white-painted cavernous space. A number of doors led off the entry, but there was no indication of which was Nino Fabio's workroom. Only the telltale potted plants gave away the fact that the building was no longer a goods warehouse.

He followed the murmur of voices through a room filled
^w
ith dummy models to a door at the opposite end. On the other side was a carpeted reception area with a shiny black desk and more potted plants. A flamboyantly lettered sign, in gold, told Luka that he had found "Nino Fabio."

To his left he could hear the low hum of machinery. The voices, louder and more distinct now, led him straight on to where the space had been divided into offices and showrooms painted in bright yellows and peaches. All the doors were glass-paneled, with signs:
design department, export department, showroom
. Luka paused until he heard Sophia's voice. She was in the room at the very end, with Nino's name on the closed door.

Nino threw the rolled-up drawings across the room. "If I let you have the '85 to '86 collection, my reputation will
suck.
All that frilled and swathed crushed fabric is
dreadful
hate those old designs. The answer is no. If you want to open a boutique, fine, go ahead, get another designer, if you can find one. But this one, sweetheart, is not yours to be had."

"You know I don't have the finances for that, Nino."

"Look, I'm sorry, but right now I have my own business to see to. I never expected any favors from you; I worked my butt off for you. Whatever happened has nothing to do with me. What is my business, and the only thing I care about right now, is me, my future, my breaks. You had it like a princess; now go away, play games elsewhere, and I'm warning you, if you go ahead and use those old designs, I'll sue you, my company will sue you. Get off my back, Sophia, you can't win, and if you want some advice, don't bother. You could never have made it without me to begin with."

"Please, just release a few of them, so I can start again. My lawyer's drawn up a very fair deal; you'll get a percentage."

"Sophia, please, we've said all there is to say. Everyone will be coming back from lunch. I don't really think you want this spread over every gossip column because you know that's what will happen if these boys get to hear. The walls have ears."

Sophia stubbed out her cigarette. "I don't have any record of the sales of the machines taken from my own premises and from the warehouse you used for your lingerie business. You may not be aware of the fact, but I own the entire warehouse. Where are my machines, Nino?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea. I haven't been there since the day I saw you there. Maybe the manager, Silvio, took them. I don't know. I can't help you."

"I see. So you won't mind if I look around? Just to see what kinds of machines your people are using? If I find one, just one, from my company, Nino, I'll be the one charging you with theft, okay?"

"You look wherever you like, be my guest. I don't have your machines, Sophia. I have nothing belonging to you, and I don't want anything, just as I don't want you trying to resurrect your business on my back. You use one of my designs, just one, and
'
/ be charging
you
with theft. Is that understood?"

Nino and Sophia turned in surprise as Luka walked in. He went straight to Sophia and took her elbow.

"Your car, Signora Luciano ..."

Sophia stood in silence as they descended in the elevator, her hands clenched at her sides, her face set. When Luka raised the iron bar, she ducked under it and hurried out to the car.

By the time Luka was in the driver's seat, Sophia was blazing.

"How dare you interrupt me like that? How dare you walk in like that!"

"You were about to grovel so low, you should thank me." His blue eyes were angry as he leaned over the seat and pointed at her. "You are a Luciano. . . . You and your mama are somebody, understand me? You want that dickhead to sign papers, there are ways of getting him to sign. But you never beg, never beg, not you. . . . You don't need him."

He watched her open her handbag, searching frantically.

"And you don't need those."

"Mind your own damned business! I don't need you or anyone else to tell me how to run my life, you hear me?"

She looked past Luka, and her expression altered. She cowered back in the seat because, no more than ten yards ahead of the car, was the man who had run the illegal sweatshop attached to her company. Silvio was deep in conversation with a small, oily-looking man in a fur-collared coat.

"Don't move the car. You see those two men? Can you see where they're going?"

Luka watched them enter a building farther down the courtyard, too close to Nino Fabio's workshops for there to be no connection. Sophia was tight-lipped with anger as she instructed Luka to drive along the yard and park outside the door Silvio had entered.

She got out, not even sure what she was going to do. But then Celeste Morvanno, the young woman who used to work as her receptionist, came out of the same building. She was wearing a blue print wool maternity dress, and she flushed with embarrassment when she saw Sophia.

"Signora Luciano, what are you doing here?"

Sophia smiled, and to the watching Luka, they appeared to be having a friendly conversation. Celeste leaned forward and kissed Sophia on both cheeks. Sophia remained standing there as Celeste walked toward Nino Fabio's.

When Sophia got back into the car, she was shaking. "Just get me out of here, hurry."

"You okay?"

She was white-faced, and as they turned out of the yard, she said, "Stop the car. I'm going to be sick."

She stumbled out of the car, lurched toward a wall, and bent over as she heaved and vomited. Luka waited beside her, then handed her his clean handkerchief.

"Sorry, I'm sorry . . . Will you help me back to the car?" She was very unsteady on her feet and struck her head as she bent to get into the car.

"You okay?" he asked again.

She nodded. "I must look like a mess."

Luka passed her handbag to her, then climbed into the driver's seat. He watched her through the rearview mirror as she freshened her face and carefully repainted her lips. Then she lit a cigarette and, sighing, told him to drive around for a while with the windows open because she needed some fresh air.

"You know what it makes me feel like? Used, I have been used, and what is worse, Nino knows I won't do anything about it."

"Why not?"

"How can I? You tell me, do you think I could go to the police now? As it was, the place was illegal. They couldn't have been paying the girls union wages, not to mention the taxes—"

"The business was important to you?"

She sighed and stared out of the window. "Yes, yes . . It was important."

"You want to start up here again?"

"Yes, of course. Why else do you think I went to see him?

But I need his designs. I don't have the money to find another designer, a good one. And in Milan everyone knows what everyone's doing; it's very hard to break into the fashion business and be taken seriously."

"But if he did them when he was working for you, then you own them. They must have been part of your company?"

"Yes ... I don't know anymore."

She sat with her head resting against the back of the seat, her eyes closed. There was a helplessness to her, a vulnerability that made him ache to hold her.

Joseph Pirelli wandered along the Via Brera and paused outside La Scala. He had decided to fly back to Palermo that evening and was simply killing time. He wondered if he could possibly catch half the opera and checked the time, then decided against it.

He was deep in thought, standing on the edge of the pavement. He saw the Rolls-Royce; it drew considerable attention. There were not that many around, and the narrow streets were unsuitable for such a big automobile.

Sophia saw him and gave a smile of recognition. Pirelli had only to walk to keep up with the car; the traffic was virtually at a standstill.