Lynda La Plante - Bella Mafia

Sophia could hear Graziella saying how much Johnny reminded her of Michael. Could this insane boy be her son? Michael's son?

He watched as she came closer; he could see the small beads of sweat on her brow, her upper lip, the sheen of her cheeks. He looked into her eyes, preparing himself, but it wasn't the same. There wasn't that look on her face, the one he remembered, the look in their eyes just before they hurt him.

"Please, tell me, where did you get this?"

"It's mine."

He could see the outline of her body through the thin cotton gown. She was naked underneath; strange, it was all he could think of: She is naked. There was something in her voice. Was it fear? What was she afraid of?

"Where did you find this, please tell me?"

"It's mine."

She moved closer to the table. "It is very important. You must tell me. Please…"

She reached out and touched his face, then withdrew her hand. Still frightened, he pressed his body back against the chair.

Sophia scrutinized his face, then suddenly spun around, her eyes darting about the room, looking for the envelope she had brought the pictures in. Graziella had taken the pictures that had been on the table, but Sophia knew there was one more. She saw the envelope on the floor and ran toward it, snatched it up, and withdrew the last photograph.

Luka watched, fascinated. Why was she behaving so strangely? He saw her take the photograph out inch by inch, then turn her back to hide what she was doing. A soft moan escaped her.

Standing directly in front of him now, she looked into blue eyes that registered only confusion and fear.

"Tell me the names of those who wanted the Luciano family destroyed, and in return… in return I will tell you the name of your father."

He gave her nothing but an angelic smile of disbelief. She moved closer "I swear on the Holy Virgin that I am telling the truth. I know, Luka, I know."

His whole body was poised in an unreal stillness. He did not believe her; his pale eyes were accusing, unwavering… He could not be tricked. He had no father, no mother. He had been born of the devil; that was why he had to be punished, why they had locked him away.

"You ran away, didn't you? From the holy sisters? They looked for you at the fairground."

His face became a mask; only his eyes registered the torment of confusion, one moment accusing, the next, fearful. How did she know about the fairground? And his refusal to answer made Sophia doubt. Could she be wrong?

She leaned closer. "Did you go to a fairground? Were you in Catania, Luka? Do you remember?" He looked upward; his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Tell me who ordered the deaths of my children. Give me that at least… Luka?"

Silence. His eyelids fluttered; he blinked rapidly; then he stared at her, through her, an unnerving, steady gaze. He seemed to be mocking her, forcing her to be the one to look away, and it made her angry-at last, angry again.

He is not my son, she told herself. Thank God. He is not my child. Somehow he had found the heart, stolen it. He was a thief, a killer, and she was wasting time.

"It was the slide, big, high slide. You came down headfirst, on a little rough mat… I wanted another turn on the slide."

Her breath caught in her throat. Dear God, was he lying to her? Why had she mentioned the fairground? He was clever; he always lied; he had to be lying.

She held out the gold heart in the palm of her hand. "Where did you get this?"

"I don't know," he said matter-of-factly.

"Did you steal it from another child? Find it? Why do you have it?"

"Because it belongs to me. I like to swing it in front of my eyes; it helps me sleep." He seemed to be playing a game; he showed no fear of her. Instead, he asked slyly, his head tilted to one side, "How do you know about the fairground?"

"I'll tell you, Luka, if you'll give me the names, tell me who ordered the deaths of the Lucianos."

He smiled. "Okay!"

Outside the room, Teresa, still wearing her overcoat, rested her head against the door, trying to hear what was happening. She whispered to Rosa that Luka was talking.

"What is he saying?"

Teresa put her hand up to silence her; then she straightened. "I can't hear."

Rosa sat by her side. "It's stopped snowing."

Teresa looked at her, not understanding.

"It means the grave will show clearly."

Sophia leaned on the table, about to write on the back of Michael's photograph. Luka, still bound to the chair by his arms and legs, strained forward.

"Barzini."

"You are giving me a dead man's name, Luka. I know Barzini is dead."

He continued quietly, as though he hadn't heard her. "Barzini carried the message to Sicily; that is why his was the first offer to buy out the Lucianos. He was nothing; Peter Salerno is more important, but three, maybe four families were involved. They were out to make sure that no man as high up in the organization as Don Roberto should be a witness."

"Just give me the names, Luka!"

"Okay, okay. I can give you the names I heard. But I was not important enough to be told anything. I only know what I know because I was Paul Carolla's son."

"Adopted son, Luka."

Luka snapped out three names, names that meant nothing to Sophia, and she wrote them down on the back of the photograph. She waited for the fourth, pen poised… She turned to him, and he sat back in the chair, looking directly at her.

This was the child she had abandoned, then searched for, and in her mind had given up again. He was Michael's son; he was her son, the rightful heir to the Luciano family. Now it was up to her to kill him. Yet she believed that he had just spoken the truth, that he had played no part in the murder of the Luciano men. But what about her children?

"Luka, you admitted you killed the jailer's child; the same gun killed Carlo and Nunzio-"

He snapped at her, "No! I have answered your questions. Now it is your turn."

She turned, refusing to give him the photograph. "Tell me, Luka, the two children."

His eyes blazed with impotent fury. Trapped helplessly in the chair, he rocked backward and forward, shaking the chair. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"You admit it?"

"Yes! Now, keep to the bargain. Did you lie to me? You know about the fairground." He clenched his teeth. "Who told?"

"You killed them?"

"Fuck you! Yes, yes, yes!"

She turned the photo of Michael Luciano over, leaving it directly in front of him on the table. He laughed, leaning forward to see it.

He shook his head in disgust, his eyes narrowed. "You lied to me. I spit on this kid."

"You spit on your father, Luka. He was Michael Luciano. The photograph was taken just before he died. He was twenty-two years old."

He hissed, spitting like a cat at the photograph, then looked at her as if for some reaction, smirking. She saw now the Luka who could kill innocent children, the man who could mutilate and violate his victims with such ferocity; madness had turned his eyes to glittering stones. He was shackled by his legs and arms, yet she had the terrifying feeling that he could, if he desired, break free.

His voice was mocking. "You always were cleverer than the others. I knew it, I always knew it. And I know you'll be the one to cut me loose." He laughed as she turned toward the knife.

"I know you are lying, Sophia, but I'll say I am Michael Luciano's son if that's what you want. I'll do anything for you. The rest of them mean nothing to me. You will have everything I promised you, remember?"

Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the knife, her body shielding her actions. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

"I didn't lie to you, Luka."

She had to force herself to turn back to him. She had to do it now, now while she could still hear that hideous, sneering voice.