Omerta - Mario Puzo [118]
Cilke had been hit in the chest. But he fired once at Aspinella and saw her stagger backward, blood spurting from below her right shoulder. Neither had been shooting to kill. They were following their training to the very end, aiming for the widest part of the body. But as Aspinella felt the searing pain of the bullet and saw its damage, she knew it was time to forget procedure. She took aim between Cilke’s eyes. She fired four times. Each bullet hit its mark until Cilke’s nose was a flattened pulp of cartilage and she could see chunks of his brain splattered on what was left of his forehead.
Tulippa saw that Aspinella was wounded and reeling. He tackled her and elbowed her in the face, knocking her out cold. But before he had a chance to grab her gun, Astorre came out from behind the machine and kicked it across the room. Then he stood over Tulippa and gallantly offered his hand.
Tulippa accepted it and Astorre pulled him up. Meanwhile, Monza and the surviving members of his team rounded up the rest of Portella’s men and tied them to steel support beams of the warehouse. No one touched Cilke and Portella.
“So,” Astorre said, “I believe we have some business to finish.”
Tulippa was puzzled. Astorre was a mass of contradictions—a friendly adversary, a singing assassin. Could such a wild card ever be trusted?
Astorre walked to the center of the warehouse and signaled Tulippa to follow. When he reached an open space, he stopped and faced the South American. “You killed my uncle and you tried to steal our banks. I should not even waste my breath on you.” Then Astorre pulled out the stiletto, its silver blade flashing, and showed it to Tulippa. “I should just slice your throat and be done with it. But you are weak, and there is no honor in butchering a defenseless old man. So I’ll give you a fighting chance.”
With those words and an almost imperceptible nod toward Monza, Astorre raised both of his hands, as if in surrender, dropped his knife, and took several steps back. Tulippa was older and bulkier than Astorre, but he had carved rivers of blood in his lifetime. He was an extremely qualified man with a knife. Still, he was no match for Astorre.
Tulippa picked up the stiletto and began to move toward Astorre. “You are a stupid and reckless man,” he said. “I was ready to accept you as a partner.” He lunged at Astorre several times, but Astorre was quicker and evaded him. When Tulippa stopped momentarily to catch his breath, Astorre removed the gold medallion from his neck and threw it to the ground, exposing the purple scar in his throat. “I want this to be the last thing you see before you die.”
Tulippa was transfixed by the wound, a shade of purple he had never seen. And before he knew it, Astorre kicked the stiletto out of his hand and with rapid precision kneed Tulippa in the back, put him in a headlock, and snapped his neck. Everyone heard the crack.
Without pausing to look at his victim, Astorre picked up his medallion, placed it back on his throat, and left the building.
Five minutes later a squadron of FBI cars arrived at the Viola Macaroni Company. Aspinella Washington, still alive, was taken to the intensive care unit of the hospital.
When the FBI officers had completed their study of the silent videotape recorded by the cameras Monza had run, they determined that Astorre, who had raised his hands and dropped his knife, had acted in self-defense.
EPILOGUE
NICOLE SLAMMED down the phone and yelled to her secretary, “I am sick of hearing about how weak the damn Eurodollar is. See if you can track down Mr. Pryor. He’s probably on the ninth hole of some golf course.”
Two years had passed, and Nicole had taken over as head of the Aprile banks. When Mr. Pryor was ready to retire, he had insisted she was the best person for the job. She was a skilled corporate fighter who wouldn’t fold under pressure from bank regulators and demanding customers.
Today Nicole was