Omerta - Mario Puzo [121]
“Yes,” Georgette said, closing her eyes. “You should defend her.”
Nicole was amazed. “I don’t have to do this. Everyone will understand.”
“That would be hypocritical,” Georgette said. “A life is sacred or it isn’t. We can’t adjust what we believe just because it causes us pain.”
Georgette became silent and extended her hand to Nicole to say good-bye. There was no hug this time.
After replaying that conversation in her mind all day, Nicole finally phoned Aspinella and, with reluctance, accepted the case. In one hour Nicole would be leaving for Sicily.
The following week Georgette sent a note to the coordinator of the Campaign Against the Death Penalty. She wrote that she and her daughter were moving to another city to start a new life and that she wished everyone well. She did not leave a forwarding address.
Astorre had kept his vow to Don Aprile, to save the banks and ensure the well-being of his family. He had avenged the death of his uncle and brought honor to Don Zeno’s name. In his own mind he was now free of any obligations.
The week after he had been cleared of all wrongdoing in the warehouse murders, he met with Don Craxxi and Octavius Bianco in his warehouse office and told them about his desire to return to Sicily. He explained that he felt a longing for the land itself, that it had insinuated itself into his dreams for many years. He had many happy memories of his childhood at Villa Grazia, the country retreat of Don Aprile, and he had always hoped to return. It was a simpler life but a richer one in many ways.
It was then that Bianco told him, “You do not have to return to Villa Grazia. There is a vast property that belongs to you in Sicily. The entire village of Castellammare del Golfo.”
Astorre was puzzled. “How can that be?”
Benito Craxxi told him of the day the great Mafia chief, Don Zeno, had called his three friends to his bedside as he lay dying. “You are the young boy of his heart and soul,” he said. “And now you are his only surviving heir. The village has been bequeathed to you by your natural father. It is your birthright.”
“When Don Aprile took you to America, Don Zeno left provisions for all those in his village, until the day you would come to claim it. We provided protection for the village after your father’s death, according to his wishes. When the farmers suffered a bad season, we offered the means to purchase fruits and grains to plant—a helping hand,” Bianco said.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Astorre asked.
“Don Aprile swore us to secrecy,” Bianco said. “Your father wanted your safety and Don Aprile wanted you as part of his family. He also needed you to protect his children. In truth, you had two fathers. You are blessed.”
Astorre landed in Sicily on a beautiful sun-filled day. Two of Michael Grazziella’s bodyguards met him at the airport and escorted him to a dark blue Mercedes.
As they drove through Palermo, Astorre marveled at the beauty of the city: Marble columns and ornate carvings of mythic figures made some buildings Greek temples, others Spanish cathedrals with saints and angels carved deep into the gray stone. The trip from Palermo into Castellammare del Golfo took over two hours on a rocky, single-lane road. To Astorre as always, the most striking thing about Sicily was the beauty of the countryside, with its breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea.
The village, in a deep valley surrounded by mountains, was a labyrinth of cobblestone, lined with small, two-story stucco houses. Astorre noticed several people peeking through the cracks of the painted white shutters pulled shut against the scorching midday sun.
He was greeted by the mayor of the village, a short man in gray baggy pants held up by black suspenders who introduced himself as Leo DiMarco and bowed with respect. “Il Padrone,” he said. “Welcome.”
Astorre, uncomfortable, smiled and asked in Sicilian,