Lynda La Plante - Bella Mafia

Teresa watched, stunned, as her daughter pulled open one drawer after another. Then, shouting, "What are you going to do? Rosa!" she rushed forward, but Rosa had torn the diamond from around her neck and was hacking at it with a meat cleaver, trying to smash it on the wooden chopping board.

Luka stirred, but he could barely lift his head. He moaned softly, then slipped back into his drugged sleep. They both heard him.

Rosa whispered, "We have to kill him, Mama, for what he's done. I want to."

Sophia had come to the kitchen door. They spun around as she spoke. "That's right, Rosa. Now, come into the living room. I think the notebook we took from Barzini is important."

Mother and daughter hurried past Sophia, who was about to follow them when she saw the chain, the diamond teardrop, and the cleaver. She gave a slight nod of her head as if in confirmation and picked up the diamond.

She returned to the living room and bent to lay a gentle hand on Rosa's shoulder, whispering, "Diamonds are hard to destroy, Rosa. Keep it; it is valuable; we may need it."

Rosa looked up into her aunt's beautiful face. "Grandma had a pearl for every good memory of her life. Do I get a diamond for the bad? I don't want it!"

Sophia slipped the diamond into her pocket. "You will have pearls, Rosa, I promise you." She crossed to Teresa, who was flicking through Barzini's notebook.

Teresa muttered, "I don't understand this. It could be some kind of code for keeping cash records. If Barzini handled the payout to us, then maybe he used to pay off others… I don't know…"

Sophia took the notebook and turned to the last page. "You see this? It's just a list of names. You heard of any of them?"

Teresa shook her head, and Sophia passed the book to Graziella. "Mama, these names in Barzini's book, have you ever heard of any of them? They have to be important. Remember his face when we took the book?"

Graziella held it at arm's length to read. "I've got to get some glasses… Ah! You remember, I told you Mario Domino was in Papa's study, all his papers were gone? You remember, Sophia? Three men, and two of them are listed here: E. Lorenzi and G. Carboni. These men were in papa's study-"

As Sophia moved to Graziella's side, they all heard the awful sound, half cry, half howl, like that of a crazed dog.

Sophia was out first, running across the hall to the dimly lit dining room. She heard, mingled with the screams, the frantic banging of the chair as Luka tried to free himself, his body twisting and jerking the chair almost off the floor. His head thrashed from side to side, and it looked as if at any moment the chair would fall over backward.

Luka's terror cut through his throbbing head, his hazy, drugged mind. His screams were interspersed with crazed curses, some in Sicilian, some in English, crude, foul gutter language that a child might use.

Sophia walked calmly into the kitchen and returned with a large pan of cold water. "Throw this over him; he's hysterical."

The cold water made him gasp. He stopped thrashing and sat, head down, his chest heaving as he panted.

They sat around the table, confronting his pitiful figure, not sure how to begin. They looked to Sophia for guidance.

She opened the large manila envelope and placed on the table the photographs of her children, of Constantino, Filippo, and Don Roberto Luciano. Then she returned to her seat. The pictures were not for Luka but for the women, a reminder.

The other women waited for Sophia to speak. Finally she said, "We want to know the truth, we have to know, and we do not care how long it takes us to find out, how many days, how many nights. We will wait for you to tell us what we need to know."

Unable to see her through the scarf, he turned his head as if to hear better. It was her voice; it was Sophia… He moaned her name pitifully, asking why she was doing this to him…

"Sophia is not alone. We are all here, all of us."

That was Graziella, or was it Teresa? His chest began to heave again, and panic-stricken, he started to wail. Graziella whispered to Rosa, and she slipped out of the room. Another pot of ice-cold water was thrown over him. It hit him with such force that it jerked his head back. As before, his howling stopped.

"Why don't you tell us who you are? We know you are not Johnny Moreno."

He went still and gave a shuddering sigh. The scarf, soaked, clung to his face like a second skin.

Teresa looked at Sophia and bit her lip, then cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, "Remember how he always hated being locked in his room at the top of the house. Maybe we should lock him in now?"

Sophia nodded and gestured for Teresa to lock the door.

His head jerked as he tried to hear what was going on: first the sound of chairs scraping, the echo of footsteps. His body twisted toward the sounds. They were taking over, growing louder… His nails scratched at the arms of the chair, and he stiffened as if in preparation for the sound that terrified him the most: the sound of a key turning in a lock.

The fear eclipsed all rationality. He fought it, rubbing harder against the back of his chair, trying to loosen his blindfold. But the memory swept over him; he was back in the suffocating, dark, airless cupboard, his face pressed against the door, his small body hunched as he tried to find a tiny crack of light, a small aperture he could see through, breathe through. But in that chink of light he had seen the men brought into the room, seen them pay over their money; then came the sickness in his stomach, knowing that the door would open and he would be dragged out…

His bound feet pressed harder against the floor, his fingers clawed at the chair, but he was so small, so tiny, nothing he did could stop them. No one ever came to help him; no one stopped them; there was no one but himself. The wringing, twisting motion of his body ceased, and he sighed as he listened to the rhythm of his breathing, concentrating on hearing only that sound. He could float away from the pain; he didn't feel the whippings; the lacerations crisscrossing his back hurt him only momentarily. He could be suspended in a sanctuary of his own making, a place where he was free from the darkness.

Giorgio Carolla had been the only one who had understood Luka's darkness, who knew Luka's suffering, because he himself had suffered. The two boys had needed each other, been entwined with one another. The night Giorgio died, the night he had held Luka in his arms, his gentle hands tracing the white scars across his back, the dying child had comforted his sweet, tortured friend. As his heart weakened, he had thought not of himself but of encouraging Luka to talk, to release the darkness he was so terrified of. In whispering sobs Luka had put into words the nightmare, and when at last he had slept and the nightmare returned, he had screamed himself awake, the terror as vivid as always. But then came relief because his beloved friend was beside him. Smiling, he had reached out for comfort, but Giorgio was cold…

The death of Giorgio had taken from Luka the only love he had ever known, and try as he would, he could not breathe through the overpowering darkness that had descended. It

swallowed him, swamped him, and he gave way to it.

The women had unknowingly locked Luka into his past, and now he was experiencing again the pain he had hidden inside him for so long. They watched in sickened fascination as Luka's body relaxed, momentarily, as he gasped for breath. Then the chair banged, his body twisted, and a blubbering, infantile voice shrieked ceaselessly as his head rolled from side to side, the mouth hanging open… If he was speaking, the words were unintelligible.

Graziella was unable to stand another moment; her body strained as if to go to him, comfort him. Sophia gripped her hand tightly. Rosa covered her face, whispering, "Oh, God, stop him! What's the matter with him?"