The Sicilian Read Online Free PDF

immediately that his flinching might give mortal offense. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored gray pin-striped suit, and a wide, rich-looking silver-toned tie rode down his creamy white shirt. His hair was thick and almost white; he could be no more than fifty years of age. He was elegant. Or as elegant as a very short man could be. He had a craggy, handsome face with a generous but sensitively curved mouth.
    He recognized Michael’s discomfort and greeted him with an ironic but kindly smile. He was introduced as Professor Hector Adonis.
    Maria Lombardo Guiliano had dinner set out on the table in the kitchen. They ate by a window near the balcony where they could see the red-streaked sky, the darkness of night snuffing out the surrounding mountains. Michael ate slowly, aware they were all watching him, judging him. The food was very plain but good, spaghetti with the black inky sauce of squid and rabbit stew, hot with red pepper tomato sauce. Finally Gaspare Pisciotta spoke in the local Sicilian dialect. “So, you are the son of Vito Corleone who is greater even than our own Don Croce, they tell me. And it is you who will save our Turi.”
    His voice had a cool mocking tone, a tone that invited you to take offense if you dared. His smile seemed to question the motive behind every action, as if to say, “Yes, it’s true you are doing a good deed, but for what purpose of your own?” Yet it was not at all disrespectful, he knew Michael’s history, they were fellow murderers.
    Michael said, “I follow my father’s orders. I am to wait in Trapani until Guiliano comes to me. Then I will take him to America.”
    Pisciotta said more seriously, “And once Turi is in your hands, you guarantee his safety? You can protect him against Rome?”
    Michael was aware of Guiliano’s mother watching him intently, her face strained with anxiety. He said carefully, “As much as a man can guarantee anything against fate. Yes, I’m confident.”
    He saw the mother’s face relax, but Pisciotta said harshly, “I am not. You put your trust in Don Croce this afternoon. You told him your plan of escape.”
    “Why should I not?” Michael fired back. How the hell did Pisciotta know the details of his lunch with Don Croce so quickly? “My father’s briefing said that Don Croce would arrange Guiliano’s delivery to me. In any case I told him only one escape plan.”
    “And the others?” Pisciotta asked. He saw Michael hesitate. “Speak freely. If the people in this room cannot be trusted then there is no hope for Turi.”
    The little man, Hector Adonis, spoke for the first time. He had an extraordinarily rich voice, the voice of a born orator, a natural persuader of men. “My dear Michael, you must understand that Don Croce is Turi Guiliano’s enemy. Your father’s information is behind the times. Obviously we can’t deliver Turi to you without taking precautions.” He spoke the elegant Italian of Rome, not the Sicilian dialect.
    Guiliano’s father broke in. “I trust Don Corleone’s promise to help my son. Of that there can be no question.”
    Hector Adonis said, “I insist, we must know your plans.”
    “I can tell you what I told Don Croce,” Michael said. “But why should I tell anyone my other plans? If I asked you where Turi Guiliano was hiding now, would you tell me?”
    Michael saw Pisciotta smile with genuine approval of his answer. But Hector Adonis said, “It’s not the same thing. You have no reason for knowing where Turi hides. We must know your plans to help.”
    Michael said quietly, “I know nothing about you.”
    A brilliant smile broke across the handsome face of Hector Adonis. Then the little man stood up and bowed. “Forgive me,” he said with the utmost sincerity. “I was Turi’s schoolteacher when he was a little boy and his parents honored me by making me his godfather. I am now a Professor of History and Literature at the University of Palermo. However, my best credentials can be vouched