Read Online BELLA MAFIA by Lynda La Plante - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynda La Plante
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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
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
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