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  “He was my history professor,” Rosie said. “Really very sweet, very kind. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. This was only the second time. I was so lonely.” She paused for a moment and then, looking directly into his eyes, said, “You’ve got to help me.”

  “Does anyone know he was seeing you?” Astorre asked.

  “No.”

  “I still think we should call the police.”

  “No,” Rosie said. “If you’re afraid, I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Get dressed,” Astorre said with a stern look. He pulled the sheet back over the dead man.

  An hour later they were at Mr. Pryor’s house; he answered the door himself. Without a word, he took them to the den and listened to their story. He was very sympathetic to Rosie and patted her hand in consolation, at which point Rosie burst into tears. Mr. Pryor took off his cap and actually clucked with sympathy.

  “Give me the keys to your apartment,” he said to Rosie. “Stay the night here. Tomorrow you can return to your home and everything will be in order. Your friend will have disappeared. You will then stay here a week before you go back to America.”

  Mr. Pryor showed them to their bedroom as if he assumed that nothing had happened to spoil their love affair. And then he took leave of them to take care of business.

  Astorre always remembered that night. He lay on the bed with Rosie, comforting her, wiping her tears. “It was only the second time,” she whispered to him. “It didn’t mean anything, and we were such close friends. I missed you. I admired him for his mind, and then one night it just happened. He couldn’t climax, and I hate to say this about him, but he couldn’t even keep an erection. So he asked to use the nitrate.”

  She seemed so vulnerable, so hurt, so broken by her tragedy that all Astorre could do was comfort her. But one thing stuck in his mind. She had stayed in her home with a dead body for over twenty-four hours until he arrived. That was a mystery, and if there was one mystery, there could be others. But he wiped away her tears and kissed her cheeks to comfort her.

  “Will you ever see me again?” she asked him, digging her face into his shoulder, making him feel the softness of her body.

  “Of course I will,” Astorre said. But in his heart he wasn’t so sure.

  The next morning Mr. Pryor reappeared and told Rosie she could return to her flat. Rosie gave him a grateful hug, which he accepted warmly. He had a car waiting for her.

  After she left, Mr. Pryor, correct in bowler hat and umbrella, took Astorre to the airport. “Don’t worry about her,” Mr. Pryor said. “We will take care of everything.”

  “Let me know,” Astorre said.

  “Of course. She is a marvelous girl, a Mafioso woman. You must forgive her little trespass.”

  CHAPTER 8

  DURING THOSE YEARS in Sicily, Astorre was trained to be a Qualified Man. He even led a squad of six of Bianco’s cosca men into Corleone itself to execute their premier bombardier, a man who had blown up an Italian Army general and two of the most able anti-Mafia magistrates in Sicily. It was a daring raid that established his reputation in the upper levels of the Palermo cosca led by Bianco.

  Astorre also led an active social life and frequented the cafés and nightclubs of Palermo—mostly to meet beautiful women. Palermo was full of the young Mafia picciotti, or foot soldiers, of different coscas, all insistent on their manhood, all careful to cut a fine figure with their tailored suits, their manicured nails, and hair slicked back like skin. All looking to make their mark—to be feared and to be loved. The youngest of them were in their teens, sporting finely groomed mustaches, their lips red as coral. They never gave an inch to another male, and Astorre avoided them. They were reckless, killing even those of high rank in their world and thus ensuring their own almost immediate death. For the killing of a fellow Mafia member was like the seduction of his wife, punished by murder. To assuage their pride, Astorre always showed these picciotti an amiable deference. And he was popular with them. It helped that he fell half in love with a club dancer called Buji and so avoided their ill will in matters of the heart.

  Astorre spent several years as Bianco’s right-hand man against the Corleonesi cosca. Periodically he received instructions from Don Aprile, who no longer made his annual visit to Sicily.

  The great bone of contention between the Corleonesi and Bianco’s cosca was a matter of long-term strategy. The Corleonesi cosca had decided on a reign of terror against the authorities. They assassinated investigating magistrates and blew up generals sent to suppress the Mafia in Sicily. Bianco believed that this was harmful in the long run despite some immediate benefits. But his objections led to his own friends being killed. Bianco retaliated, and the carnage became so pervasive that both sides again sought a truce.

  During his years in Sicily, Astorre made one close friend. Nello Sparra was five years older than Astorre and played with a band in a Palermo nightclub where the hostesses were very pretty and some did duty as high-class prostitutes.

  Nello did not lack for money—he seemed to have various sources of income. He dressed beautifully in the Palermo Mafioso style. He was always high-spirited and ready for adventure, and the girls in the club loved him because he gave them small presents on their birthday and holidays. And also because they suspected he was one of the secret owners of the club, which was a nice safe place to work thanks to the strict protection of the Palermo cosca that controlled all the entertainment in the province. The girls were only too glad to accompany Nello and Astorre to private parties and excursions into the countryside.

  Buji was a tall, striking, and voluptuous brunette who danced at Nello Sparra’s nightclub. She was famous for her temper and her independence in taking lovers. She never encouraged a picciotto: The men who courted her had to have money and power. She had a reputation for being mercenary in a frank and open way that was considered Mafioso. She required expensive gifts, but her beauty and ardor made the rich men of Palermo eager to satisfy her needs.

  Over the years Buji and Astorre established a liaison on the hazardous brink of true love. Astorre was Buji’s favorite, though she did not hesitate to abandon him for an especially remunerative weekend with a rich Palermo businessman. When she first did this Astorre tried to reproach her, but she overwhelmed him with her common sense.

  “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 chanc
es. 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. He seduced the wife of his nephew Aldo Monza. And this was many years after his promise to the Don, when he was sixty years old.

  This was extraordinarily foolhardy. When Fissolini seduced his nephew’s wife, he destroyed his leadership of the cosca. Because in the Mafia’s separate clusters, to maintain power, one must put family above all. What made the situation even more dangerous was that the wife was the niece of Bianco. Bianco would not tolerate any vengeance on his niece by the husband. The husband inevitably had to kill Fissolini, his favorite uncle and the leader of the cosca. Two provinces would engage in bloody strife, and it would decimate the countryside. Astorre sent word to the Don asking for his instructions.

  The reply came: “You saved him once; you must decide again.”

  Aldo Monza was one of the most valued members of the cosca and the extended family. He had been one of the men spared death by the Don years earlier. So when Astorre summoned him to the Don’s village, he came willingly. Astorre barred Bianco from the conference with assurances that he would protect the daughter.

  Monza was tall for a Sicilian, nearly six feet. He was magnificently built, his body molded by hard labor since he was a child. But his eyes were cavernous and his face barely covered with flesh pulled so tight his head looked like a skull. It made him seem particularly unattractive and dangerous—and, in some sense, tragic. Monza was the most intelligent and most educated of Fissolini’s cosca. He had studied in Palermo to be a veterinarian, and he always carried his professional bag. He had a natural sympathy for animals and was always much in demand. Yet he was as fiercely dedicated to the Sicilian code of honor as any peasant. Next to Fissolini, he was the most powerful man in the cosca.

  Astorre had made his decision. “I am not here to plead for Fissolini’s life. I understand that your cosca has agreed to your vengeance. I understand your grief. But I am here to plead for the mother of your children.”

  Monza stared at him. “She was a traitor, to me and my children. I cannot let her live.”

  “Listen to me,” Astorre said. “No one will seek vengeance for Fissolini. But the woman is Bianco’s niece. He will seek vengeance for her death. His cosca is stronger than yours. It will be a bloody war. Think of your children.”

  Monza gave a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Who knows even if they are mine? She is a whore.” He paused. “And she will die a whore’s death.” His face became illumined with death. He was beyond rage. He was willing to destroy the world.

  Astorre tried to imagine the man’s life in his village, his wife lost, his dignity betrayed by his uncle and his wife.

  “Listen very carefully,” Astorre said. “Years ago Don Aprile spared your life. Now he asks this favor. Take your revenge on Fissolini as we know you must. But spare your wife, and Bianco will arrange to have her and the children go to relatives in Brazil. As for you personally, I make this offer with approval from the Don. Come with me as my personal assistant, my friend. You will live a rich and interesting life. And you will be spared the shame of living in your village. You will also be safe from the vengeance of Fissolini’s friends.”

  It pleased Astorre that Aldo Monza made no gesture of anger or surprise. For five minutes he remained silent, thinking carefully. Then Monza said, “Will you continue payment to my family cosca? My brother will lead them.”

  “Certainly,” Astorre said. “They are valuable to us.”

  “Then after I kill Fissolini, I will come with you. Neither you nor Bianco can interfere in any way. My wife does not go to Brazil until she sees the dead body of my uncle.”

  “Agreed,” Astorre said. And remembering Fissolini’s joyful, jolly face and roguish smile, he felt a pang of regret. “When will it happen?”

  “On Sunday,” Monza said. “I will be with you on Monday. And may God burn Sicily and my wife in a thousand eternal hells.”

  “I will go with you back to your village,” Astorre said. “I will take your wife under my protection. I’m afraid you may be carried away.”

  Monza shrugged. “I cannot let my fate be decided by what a woman puts in her vagina.”

  The Fissolini cosca met early that Sunday morning. The nephews and sons-in-law had to decide whether or not to kill Fissolini’s younger brother also, to avoid his vengeance. Certainly, the brother must have known of the seduction and, by not speaking, condoned it. Astorre did not take any part in that discussion. He simply made clear that the wife and children could not be harmed. But his blood chilled at the ferocity of these men over what seemed to him not so grave an offense. He realized now how merciful the Don had been with him.

  He understood it was not only a sexual matter. When a wife betrays her husband with a lover, she lets a possible Trojan horse into the political structure of the cosca. She can leak secrets and weaken defenses; she gives her lover power over her husband’s Family. She is a spy in a war. Love is no excuse for such treachery.

  So the cosca assembled Sunday morning for breakfast in the home of Aldo Monza, and then the women went to mass with the children. Three men of the cosca took Fissolini’s brother out to the fields—and to his death. The others listened to Fissolini hold court with the rest of his cosca gathered around him. Only Aldo Monza didn’t laugh at his jokes. Astorre, as an honored guest, sat next to Fissolini.

  “Aldo,” Fissolini said to his nephew with a raffish smile, “you’ve become as sour as you look.”

  Monza stared back at his uncle. “I can’t be as cheerful as you, Uncle. After all, I’m not sharing your wife, am I?”

  At the same time, three men of the cosca grabbed Fissolini and held him to his chair. Monza went into the kitchen and came back with his bag of veterinary tools. “Uncle,” he said, “I am teaching what you have forgotten.”

  Astorre turned his head away.

  In the bright Sunday-morning sunlight, on the dirt road leading to the famous Church of the
Blessed Virgin Mary, a huge white horse cantered slowly. On that horse was Fissolini. He was fastened to the saddle with wire, and his back was supported by a huge wooden crucifix. He almost looked alive. But on his head, like a crown of thorns, was a nest of twigs filled with green grass to form a mound, and mounted on that nest were his penis and testicles. From them, running down his forehead were tiny spiders of blood.

  Aldo Monza and his beautiful young wife watched from the steps of the church. She started to cross herself, but Monza struck down her arm and held her head straight to see. Then he shoved her out into the road to follow the corpse.

  Astorre followed her and guided her to his car to take her to Palermo and safety.

  Monza made a move toward him and the woman, his face masked with hate. Astorre gazed at him quietly and raised a warning finger. Monza let them go.

  . . .

  Six months after the killing of Limona, Nello invited Astorre for a weekend at his villa. They would play tennis and bathe in the sea. They would feast on the fantastic local fish, and they would have the company of two of the prettiest dancers at the club, Buji and Stella. And the villa would be clear of relatives, who would be attending a huge family wedding in the countryside.

  It was beautiful Sicilian weather, with that particular shadow to the sunlight that kept the heat from being unbearable and made the sky a startling canopy overhead. Astorre and Nello played tennis with the girls, who had never seen a racquet before but hit out lustily and sent balls flying over the fence. Finally Nello suggested they go for a walk on the beach and a swim.

  The five bodyguards were enjoying themselves in the shade of the verandah, the servants bringing them drinks and food. But this did not relax their vigilance. For one thing, they enjoyed watching the lithe bodies of the two women in their bathing suits, speculating about which of them was better in bed, and all agreeing on Buji, whose vivacious speech and laughter gave evidence of a higher potential for arousal. Now they prepared for the walk on the beach in good humor, even rolling up their trouser legs.