Omerta - Mario Puzo [113]
Georgette betrayed no hint of the turmoil she was feeling. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” Nicole said, “your husband has a vendetta against my family. He’s going to allow his associates to murder my cousin Astorre and take over control of our family’s banking business. It’s going to happen tomorrow night at my cousin’s macaroni warehouse.”
At the mention of macaroni, Georgette laughed and said, “I don’t believe you.” Then she got up to leave. “I’m sorry, Nicole,” she said. “I know you’re upset, but we have nothing more to say to each other.”
That night, in the sparsely decorated bedroom of the furnished ranch house where his family had been moved, Cilke faced his nightmare. He and his wife had finished dinner and were sitting across from each other, both of them reading. Suddenly, Georgette put down her book and said, “I need to talk to you about Nicole Aprile.”
In all their years together, Georgette had never asked her husband to discuss his work. She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping federal secrets. And she knew this was a part of his life Cilke needed to keep to himself. Sometimes, lying in bed next to him at night, she would wonder how he did his job—the tactics he used to get information, the pressure he must have to put on suspects. But in her mind she always pictured him as the ultimate federal agent, in his neatly pressed suit, with his thumbed-over copy of the Constitution tucked into his back pocket. In her heart she was smart enough to know this was a fantasy. Her husband was a determined man. He would go far to defeat his enemies. But this was a reality she never chose to examine.
Cilke had been reading a mystery novel—the third book in a series about a serial killer who raises his son to become a priest. When Georgette asked her question, he immediately closed the book. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Nicole said some things today—about you and the investigation you’re conducting,” Georgette said. “I know you don’t like to talk about your work, but she made some strong accusations.”
Cilke felt the rage rising within him, until he was in a blind fury. First they had killed his dogs. Then they had destroyed his home. And now they had tarnished his purest relationship. Finally, when his heart stopped racing, he asked Georgette in the calmest voice he could manage to tell him exactly what had happened.
Georgette repeated her entire conversation with Nicole and watched her husband’s expression carefully as he absorbed the information. His face betrayed no hint of surprise or outrage. When she was finished, Cilke said, “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m sure it was very difficult for you to tell me. And I’m sorry you had to do it.” Then he rose from his chair and walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Georgette asked.
“I need some air,” Cilke said. “I need to think.”
“Kurt, honey?” Georgette’s voice was questioning; she needed reassurance.
Cilke had sworn he would never lie to his wife. If she insisted on the truth, he would have to tell her and suffer the consequences. He was hoping she would understand and decide it was better to pretend these secrets did not exist.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I need to know. For us and for our daughter.”
Cilke saw there was no escape. He realized she would never look at him the same way again if he told her the truth. At that moment, he wanted to crush Astorre Viola’s skull. He thought of what he could possibly say to his wife: I only accepted the bribes the FBI wanted me to? We overlooked the small crimes in order to focus on the big ones? We broke some laws to enforce more important ones? He knew these answers would only infuriate her, and he loved and respected her too much to do such a thing.
Cilke left the house without saying a word. When he returned, his wife pretended to be asleep. He made up his mind then. The following night he would confront Astorre Viola