Omerta - Mario Puzo [44]
“But how long does this go on?” Nicole asked.
“Give me another few months,” Astorre told her. “I promise that we will all be in agreement by then.”
Valerius gave him a disdainful look. “Astorre, you were always an optimist. If you were an intelligence officer under my command, I’d transfer you to the infantry just to wake you up.”
It was not a happy dinner. Nicole kept studying Astorre as if she were trying to learn some secret. Valerius obviously had no confidence in Astorre, and Marcantonio was reserved. Finally Astorre raised a glass of wine and said cheerfully, “You are a gloomy crew, but I don’t care. This is going to be a lot of fun. Here’s to your father.”
“The great Don Aprile,” Nicole said sourly.
Astorre smiled at her and said, “Yes, to the great Don.”
Astorre always rode in the late afternoon. It relaxed him, gave him a good appetite for dinner. If he was courting a woman, he always made her ride with him. If the woman couldn’t ride, he gave her lessons. And if she didn’t like horses, he would cease to pursue her.
He had built a special riding trail on his estate that led through the forest. He enjoyed the chattering of the birds, the rustle of small animals, the occasional siting of a deer. But most of all he enjoyed dressing up for riding. The bright red jacket, the brown riding boots, the whip in his hand that he never used. The black suede hunting cap. He smiled at himself in the mirror, fancying himself an English lord of the manor.
He went down to the stables, where he kept six horses, and was pleased to see that the trainer, Aldo Monza, had already fitted out one of his stallions. He mounted and slowly cantered onto the forest trail. Picking up speed, he rode through a tattered canopy of red and gold leaves that made a lace curtain against the sinking sun. Only slender sheaves of gold lit the trail. The horse’s hooves kicked up the smell of decaying leaves. He saw the fragrant pile of wheaty manure and spurred his horse past it, then rode onto a split in the trail, which gave him a different route to circle home. The gold on the trail disappeared.
He reined in the horse. At that moment two men appeared before him. They were dressed in the floppy clothes of farm laborers. But they wore masks, and metal gleamed silver in their hands. Astorre spurred his horse and put his head down along its flank. The forest filled with light and the sound of exploding bullets. The men were very close, and Astorre felt the bullets hit him in the side and back. The horse panicked into a wild gallop as Astorre concentrated on keeping his seat. He galloped on down the trail, and then two other men appeared. They were not masked or armed. He lost consciousness and slid off the horse and into their arms.
Within an hour Kurt Cilke received a report from the surveillance team that had rescued Astorre Viola. What really surprised him was that Astorre, beneath all his foppish dress, wore a bulletproof vest that covered his torso the length of his red riding jacket. And not just your ordinary Kevlar, but one specially handmade. Now, what the hell was a guy like Astorre doing wearing armor? A macaroni importer, a club singer, a flaky horse rider. Sure, the impact of the bullets had stunned him, but they had not penetrated. Astorre was already out of the hospital.
Cilke started writing a memo to have Astorre’s life investigated from childhood on. The man might be the key to everything. But he was sure of one thing: He knew who had attempted to murder Astorre Viola.
Astorre met with his cousins at Valerius’s home. He told them of the attack, how he had been shot. “I’ve asked you for help,” he said. “And you refused and I understood. But now I think you should reconsider. There is some sort of a threat to all of you. I think it could be solved by