They lived in a large, storybook villa filled with more servants than the fifteen-year-old Lucia could count. A bodyguard drove her to school each morning in an armored limousine. She grew up with the prettiest dresses and the most expensive toys in all of Sicily, and was the envy of her schoolmates.
But it was her father around whom Lucia’s life centered. In her eyes, he was the most handsome man in the world. He was short and heavyset, with a strong face and stormy brown eyes that radiated power. He had two sons, Arnaldo and Victor, but it was his daughter whom Angelo Carmine adored. And Lucia worshiped him. In church when the priest spoke of God, Lucia always thought of her father.
He would come to her bedside in the morning and say, “Time to get up for school, faccia d’angelo.” Angel face.
It was not true, of course. Lucia knew she was not really beautiful. I’m attractive, she thought, studying herself objectively in the mirror. Yes. Striking, rather than beautiful. Her reflection showed a young girl with an oval face, creamy skin, even, white teeth, a strong chin—too strong?—voluptuous, full lips—too full?—and dark, knowing eyes. But if her face fell just short of being beautiful, her body more than made up for it. At fifteen, Lucia had the body of a woman, with round, firm breasts, a narrow waist, and hips that moved with sensuous promise.
“We’re going to have to marry you off early,” her father would tease her. “Soon you will drive the young men pazzo, my little virgin.”
“I want to marry someone like you, Papa, but there is no one like you.”
He laughed. “Never mind. We’ll find you a prince. You were born under a lucky star, and one day you will know what it is like to have a man hold you in his arms and make love to you.”
Lucia blushed. “Yes, Papa.”
It was true that no one had made love to her—not for the past twelve hours. Benito Patas, one of her bodyguards, always came to her bed when her father was out of town. Having Benito make love to her in her house added to the thrill because Lucia knew that her father would kill them both if he ever discovered what was going on.
Benito was in his thirties, and it flattered him that the beautiful young virgin daughter of the great Angelo Carmine had chosen him to deflower her.
“Was it as you expected?” he had asked the first time he bedded her.
“Oh, yes,” Lucia breathed. “Better.”
She thought: While he’s not as good as Mario, Tony, or Enrico, he’s certainly better than Roberto and Leo. She could not remember the names of all the others.
At thirteen, Lucia had felt that she had been a virgin long enough. She had looked around and decided that the lucky boy would be Paolo Costello, the son of Angelo Carmine’s doctor. Paolo was seventeen, tall and husky, and the star soccer player at his school. Lucia had fallen madly in love with Paolo the first time she had seen him. She managed to run into him as often as possible. It never occurred to Paolo that their constant meetings had been carefully contrived. He regarded the attractive young daughter of Angelo Carmine as a child. But on a hot summer day in August, Lucia decided she could wait no longer. She telephoned Paolo.
“Paolo—this is Lucia Carmine. My father has something he would like to discuss with you, and he wondered whether you could meet him this afternoon at our pool house?”
Paolo was both surprised and flattered. He was in awe of Angelo Carmine, but he had not known that the powerful Mafioso was even aware of his existence. “I would be delighted,” Paolo said. “What time would he like me to be there?”
“Three o’clock.”
Siesta time, when the world would be asleep. The pool house was isolated, at the far end of their widespread property, and her father was out of town. There would be no chance of their being interrupted.
Paolo arrived promptly at the appointed hour. The gate leading to the garden was open, and he walked directly to the pool house. He stopped at the closed door and knocked. “Signore Carmine? Pronto…?”