Lynda La Plante - Bella Mafia

The statements went back as far as twenty years, to the death of Michael Luciano. Although he had listened to the man for days on end, the don's voice impressed him with its strength and clarity, his choice of words. He never rambled; he was concise, meticulous about dates and facts, and when he mentioned a name, he spelled it out carefully so there could never be any confusion. Rarely was there any hesitation, and then only when Luciano, aware of implications against himself, sidestepped issues that would entail naming names he did not wish to disclose.

Emanuel typed onto the screen: "Roberto Luciano, Statement 3, Tape 4. February 12, 1987." He worked solidly until after twelve, rewinding the tape when he wanted to confirm or query something Luciano had said, continually cross-referenc- ing and checking against statements he had already compiled from previous days. He tapped the "Execute" key, tapped again; the screen had locked out. He could neither execute nor exit from the program.

Suddenly the screen flashed: "Power failure." He sat in mute fury, refusing to believe the hated words, desperately wishing them away because against all instructions, he had not backed up his disks or saved the changes he had made. The only thing he could do was shut down the system to clear the hang-up; all the work he had just done would be lost.

Swearing at his own stupidity, he reached for the switch as the telephone rang. The bell cut through his anger, startling him. As he reached for it, he knocked over a mug of cold coffee from the night before. In trying to save it from falling to the floor, he dropped the telephone receiver. It smashed against the side of his desk.

He could hear his wife's voice from the dangling phone, asking if he was all right. Yelling for her to hold on, he picked up the mug, then grasped the telephone cord to pull the receiver up. The curly flex hooked on the edge of his desk, and he swore yet again as he ran his fingers along the desk to release it. Suddenly he reacted as if he had been given an electric shock. He pulled his hand back.

His wife was shouting, "Hello? You there? Hello?"

Emanuel quickly picked up the receiver. "I'll call you back… No, I'm fine, nothing's wrong. I'll call you later."

Nothing wrong? Jesus Christ.. . He slammed the phone down and felt along the side of the desk, heart thudding. He trembled as he touched it again; he knew exactly what it was. He ran to the door and yanked it open.

The guards were at the far end of the corridor, holding a whispered conversation.

"Get in here! Move it!" Emanuel yelled.

His office was bugged. How it had been done was immaterial; the most important thing was when. How much of the Luciano tapes, his own phone calls, had been recorded? His face white with fury, nerves on edge, he stared at the word processor. Could someone have tampered with it? Even worse, accessed his disks?

Sophia and Teresa were in the hall of the Villa Rivera, waiting for Graziella. They were going to do some last-minute shopping. Rosa, who had refused the invitation, was sitting in the garden with Emilio.

As the car left the villa, Teresa was close to tears. There was the ornate marquee, the drive bedecked with flowers, all given an air of fantasy in the brilliant sunshine.

Sophia felt it too, and clasped Teresa's hand, turning back to smile at Rosa. Only then did she see the car moving into position behind theirs. She didn't realize that they were being followed until they had left the villa and passed the guards on duty at the gates. All Graziella would say to their questions was that it was what Papa wanted, that the extra hands could be useful for carrying their purchases.

"They had a guard sitting up front with the driver, and then another car trailing them with two more guys. Okay, so Papa's uptight about the trial, but they're all around the place. It's like Fort Knox."

Constantino shrugged. Like Filippo, he had been very aware of the security measures.

They could not discuss it further as their father appeared. To his sons' astonishment he was wearing a pair of carpet slippers.

"Filippo's discovered that old motorbike of his," Constantino told his father. "Do you know, he's got that engine turning over! It was rusty, not been used for ten years, but he's fixed it."

The don sat down in the wicker bucket chair; his long legs stretched out. "I was never very good on the mechanical side. You remember that time I tried to repair your mama's spin dryer? Her best linen tablecloth was spun into shreds." He laughed, shaking his head.

Filippo nudged his brother to broach the subject of the guards. Constantino opened his mouth to ask.

Don Roberto leaned on the rail of the veranda and spoke as if talking to himself. "Strange, during the war I worked in the bomb disposal unit, yet I ruined Mama's tablecloth. They taught me to blow men apart, to destroy buildings, defuse bombs, but I couldn't fix a spin dryer…"

His voice trailed off. Neither of his sons remembered the incident, but he seemed almost unaware of their presence. The days spent recalling the past with Emanuel had made him remember things he had long forgotten. Now he could hear a child's voice calling him: Michael's voice, no older than his grandsons'.

"Papa, Papa…" The don could see the white blond hair, the brilliant blue eyes peering at him over the veranda. "Papa, Papa, come for a ride with me, ride with me! Look, it's my very own bicycle!"

"You want a ride on my bike, Papa?"

Filippo didn't dream that his father would agree but asked as if it were a dare, not really caring one way or the other. When the don did agree, he became protective, suggesting that perhaps his father should just watch. But nothing would dissuade the don. Lifting his leg, he positioned himself awkwardly on the pillion. "You think I'm too old? I ever tell you about the time Michael and I rode into town on his Lambretta?"

He saw the way Filippo's face changed as he turned away and snapped, "I am not Michael, Papa, and this is a motorbike. You want a ride or not?"

Gently the don put his arms around his son's waist. "You take care for me, now…"

Around and around the garden went the old Harley. Theirpapa, his hair standing on end, clung to Filippo, yelling \ sheer enjoyment, waving as they passed the veranda for third time. "This is wonderful! It's wonderful!"

At four-thirty in the afternoon the women returned fi the town to find Constantino sitting on the veranda while lippo played tennis on the lawn with the two little boys i their grandfather. Graziella noticed that one of her beribboi floral arrangements looked very bedraggled, with telltale lo soil around the base, but she said nothing.

Nunzio saw his grandmother and ran to the veranda ste "Grandpa's been on the motorbike, Grandmama-and fell off!"

Graziella gasped, and Constantino laughed. "F fine, Mama…"

Don Roberto called the boy back and demonstrated a s vice, scattering balls all over the lawn. It was all so relaxed tl one of the guards had been cajoled into acting as ball boy. 1 don tapped Filippo on the head with his racket and called Graziella, "You know, this boy is a brilliant mechanic. He paired that old motorbike!"

Filippo twisted his racket, tossed it in the air, then cau£ it by the handle. He saw the name on the side, "Michael L ciano," just as his father put an arm around his shoulder.

"You don't tell Mama about racing those bikes, that a dei But the next race you get me a seat, okay?" He looked clost into his son's face and pinched his cheek. "Is it a deal?"

They shook hands. Then Don Roberto pulled his son in his arms. "I love you… Maybe I've been too hard on yo but we'll work it out. You are my son."

Filippo could not remember ever feeling happier.

It was almost six o'clock. The men were dressing to go o to dinner. The women, who were staying home, sat togeth sorting out the wedding gifts. They had decided to display the on the dining-room table.