BELLA MAFIA (56 page)

"Signora Luciano, hello . . . What are you doing here?"

"Some business. I used to have a boutique."

"Do you have time for coffee?"

"No, thank you, I have to return to Graziella."

Pirelli paid no attention to the chauffeur in the gray peaked cap. "Please, I am catching a plane to Palermo at seven. Just a coffee."

Sophia looked at her watch. "No ..."

"There's a good coffee shop on the corner near the Piazza del Duomo. . . ."

There was a break in the traffic, and the car began to pick
^U
P speed.

"I'll be there. I'll wait for you—" He watched the car merge with a throng of vehicles and eventually disappear.

Sophia realized she had not had anything to eat since breakfast. She said to Luka, "Take me to the piazza."

"No, we've got to get back. It's late."

"Just take me there. You can get yourself something to

eat."

"No."

Surprised, Sophia laughed. "Do as I say, and don't argue."

"What about Graziella?"

"Graziella is perfectly all right. If you're worried, you can call her. And it's Signora Luciano to you."

Luka pulled out of the traffic and parked at the curb. "You don't want to see him. We'll go back now."

Sophia's hand was on the door. "Go get something to eat. Pick me up in an hour, is that understood?"

She was out of the car before he could argue. White with anger, he forced the car back into the stream of traffic, almost causing an accident with another motorist. They began shouting abuse at each other.

Pirelli was waiting inside the coffee shop. When she entered, his face creased into a smile.

He pulled out a chair for her and helped her off with her coat. He had no idea it was sable. He tossed it on a vacant chair.

"You look very beautiful."

She smiled and picked up the menu. "I didn't realize how hungry I was. I've not eaten since early this morning. It was a long drive."

"You drove from Rome today?"

"Yes, Well, my chauffeur did. He was furious that I made him stop."

Pirelli blushed. "I'm glad you did."

They ordered, and he told her he had been on a fruitless mission to Rome and had simply traveled to Milan to check out his apartment. He did not mention that his wife and son were in Palermo; Sophia assumed he was a bachelor.

"How long are you staying in Palermo?" she asked.

"I went there originally for one case, but it has escalated. Could be months, who knows?"

Luka ate a sandwich hurriedly, drank a cup of coffee, and returned to wait in the car. The hour was almost up when the car phone rang. It was Sophia, telling him to go back to Rome without her; she had decided to stay on. She had already called Graziella.

"How are you going to get back?"

"There are flights, trains, I don't know."

"I'll wait for you."

"No, just do as I say, go back to Rome."

Luka was beside himself. "I'll come to the cafe."

"Don't because I'm not there."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the opera. See you tonight."

The phone went dead. Luka sat there, unable to believe it. The opera? His knuckles whitened from gripping the steering wheel. Why had she gone with that man? Who was he? Was he her lover?

Thinking it over, he talked himself into an icy calm. He would prove to her that he was the most important being in her life. He reversed the car and headed back to Nino Fabio's warehouse.

Ancora tried to make contact with Pirelli, phoning first his Milan apartment and then the Milan police headquarters. They had not seen him since that morning and thought he was on his way back to Palermo.

Ancora replaced the phone and began to type out a short report on a body, now identified as that of Giuseppe Rocco, a known Mafioso, found in a multistory parking garage. He was a member of the Corleone family.

He had been dead for more than twenty-four hours, his death caused by a blow to the head. There were also deep lacerations to his neck. But what made the discovery of Rocco's body important was that the gun found with him was the weapon they had been searching for, the walking cane with the horse's head that divided into three separate sections, stolen from the Villa Palagonia. In fact, the dead man's trousers had been pulled down to his ankles and the gun rammed up his ass.

The opera was
Rigoletto,
and Pirelli seemed enraptured with it. Sophia sat in the darkness, wondering why on earth she had agreed to come, unable to comprehend why she had even had a cup of coffee with him. The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous she felt. Johnny would be halfway home by now. . . . She began to think of her best way to get back to Rome, and her head began to throb. She turned to Pirelli.

At that moment he turned to her and smiled. She felt strangely comforted by his shoulder touching hers.

"I have to leave. . . . Please, you stay."

He followed her along the row. When they reached the lobby, he asked if she was all right.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, but I must go home. It was stupid of me to stay. I'm sorry, you go back, please."

Crestfallen, he nevertheless took her arm, and they walked outside. She felt the comfort of him again; his hand on her elbow was firm. She eased her arm away, wrapping her coat around her.

"It's cold. . . ."

Tongue-tied, he answered, "Yes, er . . . My apartment is close by."

She gave him a look and turned away. He coughed. "Er, we could go back there, and I could check on the trains or see if there's a flight."

Before she could reply, he had flagged down a taxi and they were heading she had no idea where. Her confusion growing, she sat as far away from him as she could.

Pirelli said nothing, just stared out of the window. He was just as confused as she was, almost afraid to meet her eyes in case she could see the turmoil he was in.

They walked up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. There was no doorman in evidence.

Once inside, Sophia kept her coat on, standing in the middle of the neatly organized living room while he threw his coat off and checked timetables. Eventually she sat on the edge of the sofa and lit a cigarette.

"Do you have any brandy?"

He immediately brought her a glass of brandy. She seemed uninterested in the apartment, neither looking around nor remarking on the taste. She was simply there. . . .

She cupped the glass in both hands, sipping, not meeting his eyes. He had trouble catching what she said. "I think—I think I should call Mama. "He watched her cross the room to the phone, put her glass on the table. She turned to look at him, and their eyes met; she smiled and continued dialing. Pirelli lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply; his hand was shaking like a teenager's.

"Mama? It's Sophia. . . . No, Mama, I'm still in Milan." Again she turned to Pirelli, seemed to be searching his face for the answer to some unspoken question.

"Something has come up, and I'll be delayed. . . . You okay? . . . No, he's not; he should be back shortly. . . . No! No! Nothing to worry about. . . . Yes."

After another glance at Pirelli, she turned her back on him. "In the morning, Mama, I'll be home then. . . . Yes, plenty of time."

She replaced the phone slowly but did not turn. She began to ease the fur coat off.

Pirelli went to her to take the coat, and as it slipped down to her arms, he bent his head and kissed her neck. Her only response was a slight tilt to her head, as if offering him more of her bare neck. The coat fell to the floor. He stepped back, and she turned.

He was bereft of words. Slowly she cupped his face in her hands. She could feel him shaking. As she rested her cheek against his, all he could say, as if on a sigh, was her name. She opened her jacket and lifted his hand to her heart.

He could feel her heartbeat through his hand, feel the softness of her silk blouse, the curve of her breast. He was drowning in the heat of it. . . . Carefully he slipped her jacket and blouse off, his hands gently brushing her shoulders, then worked the zipper of her skirt down until it fell to the floor. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her softly, nestled in his embrace. He kissed the lobe of her ear.

"I love you, Sophia."

She seemed to collapse against him, and he picked her up and carried her into his bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, and she turned her face into the pillow. She felt as if her mind were not part of her body, not part of her craving. She wouldn't look at him.

Pirelli drew the curtains, unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and peeled his socks off. Then, still wearing his trousers, he moved soundlessly to sit on the bed beside her.

"You know, I never believed it possible to feel this way about someone. The first moment I saw you . . ."

She turned and touched his chest, tentatively at first; then her fingers dug into his flesh, into the thick, dark, wiry hair, and she clawed him, pulling him down. He felt her bite his lip, and he gripped her face, drawing her toward him. He kissed her more roughly than he believed himself capable of. . . . He tore the straps from her slip, pulling it away from her, and gasped at the beauty of her heavy breasts.

She unbuckled his trouser belt, and suddenly he felt her hands on his erect penis, pulling at him roughly, drawing him upward as she lowered her lips around it.

He pushed her away. "No . . . no . . ."

She flopped back on the bed. "What's the matter with you, Commissario? Don't you want me? Don't you want to fuck me?"

He gripped her wrists. "Look at me, look at me! Do you think I want you like this? You think I want this?"

He looked at her scornful face, a half-smile on her lips as if she were laughing at him. "No? You don't want me? What's the matter? Don't you like a woman to go down on you?"

"Jesus Christ!" He moved away from her; he had to because he wanted to slap her. He couldn't cope with the way she had changed. She was a stranger, a whore he had brought back instead of the beautiful dream he had fantasized loving. He snapped, "Get dressed! This was a mistake. I'm sorry."

She laughed. Was she laughing at him? He had never felt so inadequate in his entire adult life. The sneering smile on her face made him turn angrily back to her.

"I can pay for what you offer, Sophia. Get dressed."

Her eyes blazed with anger. "Maybe I can do the same. How much do you want, Commissario? What do you charge for a fuck because that is all I want? I thought that was why you brought me back here."

She reached out and caught his arm, drawing him toward her, but he pushed her away so roughly that she fell against the bedside cabinet. He heard the crack of her head against the wood, and it made him feel worse, even more inadequate. "I'm sorry, Sophia, I'm sorry." She wouldn't look at him, but all the sneering anger had gone. She seemed simply to give up.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked. He sat on the bed, at a Iose: for what to say. His whole body ached for her, wanted her yet he could not reach out and touch her. She turned slowly to face him.

His expression of concern brought the sweetest of smile from her, and she whispered, "No, you didn't hurt me. I wanta you because I felt nothing. I have nothing left."

He kept looking at her, feeling her loss, her emptiness, am her need. He felt an overpowering desire to be the one to fi that need; she drew from him a bewildering tenderness. Slowly he moved closer and closer. Like a father to a daughter, h opened his arms, willing her, wanting her to come to him, to take the offer of comfort freely, without fear.

The release when she reached out, when he encircled he in his arms, when he felt the warmth of her nakedness again; his own was like no emotion he had ever experienced. Never had he cradled such fragility. He tightened his hold, whispering that it was all right.

His was the first embrace, the first physical comfort Sophia had received since discovering her babies murdered, sine burying her dead. She had cried endless tears for her love ones; now she wept for herself. He encouraged the release rocking her backward and forward as shuddering sobs swept over her, until at last she was still, her body pressed again his, her heartbeat at one with his own. Then, at that last moment, he lifted her chin gently and kissed her.

He laid her down and began to take the pins out of her hair, loosening it. He smiled down at her. "I dreamed of seeing you like this, with your beautiful hair spread out. I love you Sophia. I love you."

She closed her eyes, and he stroked her belly, soft, brushing strokes. "I can make you feel loved, make you feel cared for. ..." Her skin beneath his fingers was like silk.

It was Sophia who placed his hand on her breast, let him feel the erect nipple, let him know that he had aroused her that she wanted him. They made love, and he came into her within moments. He smiled down into her beautiful face. "Thank God we got all night ... all night. . . ."And all night they made love. In the early morning he made breakfast and brought it to her, and they ate it, side by side in the bed. He ran her a bath and soaped her body, toweled her dry, then held her tightly.