Omerta - Mario Puzo [64]
“I’m twenty-one years old,” she said. “My beauty is my capital. When I’m thirty I can be a housewife with a bunch of kids or be independently wealthy with my own little shop. Sure, we have good times, but you will return to America, where I have no wish to go—and where you have no wish to take me. Let’s just enjoy ourselves as free human beings. And despite everything, you will get the best of me before I get tired of you. So stop this nonsense. I have my own living to make.” Then she added slyly, “And besides, you have too dangerous a trade for me to count on you.”
Nello owned an enormous villa outside Palermo, on the seashore. With ten bedrooms, it easily accommodated their parties. On the grounds was a swimming pool shaped like the island of Sicily and two clay tennis courts, which were rarely used.
On weekends the villa would fill up with Nello’s extended family, who came to visit from the countryside. The children who did not swim were penned into the tennis courts with their toys and old racquets to play with the small yellow tennis balls, which they kicked around like soccer balls until they were strewn on the clay like small yellow birds.
Astorre was included in this family life and accepted as a darling nephew. Nello became like a brother to him. At night Nello even invited him up to the club bandstand and they sang Italian love ballads to the audience, which cheered them enthusiastically and to the delight of the hostesses.
The Lion of Palermo, that eminently corruptible judge, again offered his house and his presence for a meeting between Bianco and Limona. Again, they were each allowed to bring four bodyguards. Bianco was even willing to give up a small piece of his Palermo construction empire to secure peace.
Astorre was taking no chances. He and his three guards were heavily armed for the meeting.
Limona and his entourage were waiting at the magistrate’s home when Bianco, Astorre, and the guards arrived. A multicourse dinner had been prepared. None of the bodyguards sat down to the meal, only the magistrate—his full white mane tied out of the way with a pink ribbon—and Bianco and Limona. Limona ate very little but was extremely amiable and receptive to Bianco’s expressions of affection. He promised that there would be no more assassination of officials, especially the ones in Bianco’s pocket.
At the end of the dinner, as they prepared to go into the living room for a final discussion, the Lion excused himself and said he would be back in five minutes. He did so with a deprecatory smile that made them understand he was answering a call of nature.
Limona opened another bottle of wine and filled Bianco’s glass. Astorre went to a window and glanced down into the huge driveway. A lone car was waiting, and as he watched, the great white head of the Lion of Palermo appeared in the driveway. The magistrate got into the car, which quickly sped away.
Astorre did not hesitate one moment. His mind instantly pieced things together. His gun was in his hand without his even thinking. Limona and Bianco had their arms entwined, drinking from their glasses. Astorre stepped close to them, brought up his gun, and fired into Limona’s face. The bullet hit the glass first before entering Limona’s mouth, and shards of glass flew like diamonds over the table. Astorre immediately turned his gun on Limona’s four bodyguards and started firing. His own men had their guns out shooting. The bodies fell to the floor.
Bianco looked at him dumbfounded.
Astorre said, “The Lion has left the villa,” and Bianco immediately understood that it had been a trap.
“You must be careful,” Bianco told Astorre, gesturing at Limona’s corpse. “His friends will be after you.”
It is possible for a headstrong man to be loyal, but it is not so easy for him to keep himself out of trouble. And so it proved with Pietro Fissolini. Following Don Raymonde’s rare show of mercy toward him, Fissolini never betrayed the Don, but he betrayed his own family.