Gino Morelli looked up in surprise at the sound of a woman’s voice. It was unusual for women to visit the precinct, except for old Pepina who came weekly to clean.

“Yes, Signorina, can I help you?”

“I have something important to tell you.” Delicate hands gripped a red pocketbook of cheap imitation leather.

“Please, sit down,” Morelli invited with professional calm. He watched closely as she cautiously settled into the armchair opposite him. The loose fit of her dress could not hide the young, slender body. Although not a beauty, she had an elfin charm. The fair skin and hazel eyes belied her native dialect. She looked like a northerner.

“Signorina, I will need your name and address for our records.”

“Lola Albanese . . .” She hesitated. Then quickly . . . “445 East 12th Street.”

Morelli wrote the information, then leaned back in his chair. “Please, continue. You say you have something important to tell me?”

“Yes . . . it’s about Vito Simone’s murder,” she answered with visible agitation.

Careful, careful, Morelli told himself. This could be the break I’m looking for. One careless word or move may silence her.

Pretending faint interest, he quietly urged, “Before you go on, I’d like you to know that our talk will be kept in strictest confidence.”

She looked relieved. Then eyes flashing anger, she said, “I did everything for him! Everything! For years I loved him . . . took care of him . . . happy at his promise of marriage in the future. Two months ago he left me for that daughter of a whore, Franca D’Amato.” Envy deformed her face. Fingers grasping the edge of the desk, she stood up, leaned over, and screamed at Morelli. “I want revenge! I want him punished!”

“Calm yourself, Signorina.” He cautioned that others in the room were watching and listening.

Taking control of her anger, she sat down and continued her statement. “You know that Vito Simone was found murdered in New Jersey.”

“I’m in charge of the case.”

“Marco Belmonte killed him.” Despair replaced her anger.

Morelli had heard his fellow detectives speak of Belmonte and his connection with the Mafia. But of Lola Albanese, he asked, “Who is he?”

“Vito’s best friend. They were always together . . . like twins. It’s so strange . . .” Her voice softened.

“Maybe they had a fight.”

“It wasn’t that.”

“Forgive me, Signorina, how do you know that Marco killed Vito?” Morelli was beginning to think her story untrue. The rantings of a woman scorned.

“Marco came to see me a few days ago, seeking forgiveness for deserting me. He was distraught and fearful. I knew it was more than his asking for pardon. Later, unable to hold back his terrible secret, he told me.”

Posing her hands in prayer, she repeated Marco’s confession. “‘Lola, I killed him! He trusted me and I killed him! Oh God! I didn’t want to do it. It was him or me, do you understand? They came to my house one night and questioned me.’

“‘You know Vito Simone?’ I asked him.

“‘Know him? We grew up together, like brothers. You must kill him, they tell me. I ask, Why should I kill him? Because he killed Luca Navarro. The law of the vendetta must be carried out. You’re his best friend . . . as you say, his brother. He trusts you. He won’t suspect you.’”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued Marco’s confession. “‘Lola, what can I do? Vito haunts me . . . awake or sleeping, I see his face.’”

There was a long pause. Morelli waited patiently.

“It was late when Marco left with a promise to return the next day. I haven’t seen him since. This morning, a cousin told me that he was back with that whore.”

Her anger was starting to rise again. Morelli sought to soothe her. He needed to know more about Vito Simone’s murder.

“Did Marco tell you how he killed him?”

She shuddered. “Most every weekend Vito and Marco hunted together as they did in the mountains of Montelepre in the old country. Marco shot Vito and put . . . but you know the rest.”

Morelli nodded.

“Vito’s family will take vendetta now, and the killing will go on.”

She rose to leave. Morelli followed as she unsteadily made her way to the door.

“Santa Maria . . . what have I done!” she whispered.

“Permit me to accompany you home,” offered Morelli.

“Thank you, but I won’t be going home.”

“Where will you go?”

“To my sister Stella in Brooklyn.”

“And then?”

“And then?” she echoed. “I’ll stay until I can get passage back to Sicily. Perhaps there I can go on with what little remains of my life. I don’t know . . . I don’t know.”

Morelli slowly walked back to his desk. He picked up the piece of paper on which he had written in quick scrawl the information Lola Albanese had given him, and studied it. Franca D’Amato. That was a surprise. To his knowledge, she had returned to Sicily after her husband Alberto’s murder. A foul murder.

One of many soon to follow. He remembered the case well. Franca D’Amato opened the door in response to sharp knocks, and the lifeless body of her husband toppled into the foyer, narrowly missing her. His killers had forced a cork into his mouth, distorting D’Amato’s face into a grotesque mask of death. Morelli reflected a moment about the symbolism of the cork, and recalled it meant that D’Amato had broken the law of Omertà, bringing dishonor to himself, his family, and the Brotherhood. He talked to the police.

Morelli went to the files, and pulled out a folder on Alberto D’Amato. He was certain that D’Amato’s wife Franca, if she had not returned to Sicily, had lost little time in moving out of the 12th Street flat. He hoped her friend and neighbor, Serena Valenti, still lived there. He read Valenti’s statement to familiarize himself anew with the case.

I heard terrible screams. I opened the door and saw Franca. She was screaming and pulling at her hair. I ran quickly to her. It was dark in the hallway. I couldn’t see well. I stumbled over something. Santo Jesu! It was Alberto! I stepped over his legs, grabbed Franca by the arm and pulled her around the body into the hallway and took her to my flat. By this time other tenants came out to investigate. I asked someone to get the police.

Morelli stopped reading, jotted down Valenti’s address and flat number. He strapped on his shoulder holster with the .38, picked up a gray fedora from the hatrack, and left to make a call on Serena Valenti.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Morelli of the 14th Street precinct. I’d like to speak to Serena Valenti.”

For a long moment there was silence. Morelli tried again. “Is Signorina Valenti at home?”

Behind the closed door came a soft voice. “I’m Serena Valenti. What do you want?”

“Nothing to alarm yourself over,” he assured her. “I just wanted to inquire about your friend Franca D’Amato.”

The door open slightly. A pair of somber black eyes peered at Morelli. “Franca? What about her?”

“Can I come in?” Morelli motioned to an open door opposite. “I don’t think you’d like your neighbor to hear our conversation, do you?”

“We will talk here. Let them listen. I have nothing to hide.”

Morelli shrugged. He took out a pencil and memo pad from his side pocket. “When did you last see Franca?”

“Last March at her husband’s funeral.”

“You’re sure that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yes . . . I’m sure.”

“Do you know if she returned to Sicily after the funeral?”

“How should I know? I told you, I haven’t seen her since her husband’s funeral.”

Morelli was loosing patience. “Look, Signorina, it’s very important I speak with Franca. Her boyfriend is in serious trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There is evidence that Marco killed his friend, Vito Simone. I have to find where he’s hiding before his vendetta is carried out by Vito Simone’s family. Come on, Signorina, you don’t want him killed, do you? You know where Franca lives.”

Serena’s face paled. Her small body shook. “She lives in Flatbush . . . 824 Jay Street.”

Morelli made a note of the address. “Thank you, Signorina.” He tipped his hat as the door closed.

He hurried down the exit stairs of the elevated train, walked north 2 blocks, then turned east on Jay Street, slowing his pace as he checked the house numbers. The buildings were old and shabby, making it difficult to decipher numerals that time and weather had worn away. Except for 824. The three-storied brownstone was in good condition, still maintaining an aura of mid-Victorian elegance. He pressed the bell button under D’Amato, then pushed open the dark oak door that led to a large foyer, and waited.

“Who is it?”

Morelli looked up the circular staircase in the direction of the voice. He saw a young woman leaning over the first floor banister.

“Are you Franca D’Amato?”

“Who are you?”

“Detective Gino Morelli of the 14th Street precinct, Manhattan.” He reached her, smiled and offered a hand in greeting. She drew back, suspicious. “You are signora D’Amato?”

“Yes. You say you’re a detective? Do you have identification?”

Morelli took a badge from his pocket and showed it to her.

“What do you want from me?”

“Can we talk in your flat?”

For a brief moment she hesitated . . . then nodded. Morelli followed her into a large sunny kitchen. In stiff politeness she invited, “Please, sit down.”

Morelli settled his long, lean body in one of the kitchen chairs. Visibly disturbed, Franca sat opposite him.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where is Marco Belmonte?”

She stared at Morelli in silence, then abruptly got up and went to the stove. Lifting a small coffee pot, she offered, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. Signora, please sit down.” He waited until she was seated again before he continued the questioning. “Come tell me . . . where is Belmonte?”

“I don’t know.” Her large, dark eyes skipped around the room as if looking for some means of escape.

“Signora D’Amato, you know Marco killed his best friend, Vito Simone.

“No, no! That’s not true!” In panic she ran stumbling to the door. “Get out! Get out of my house!”

“Please, listen to me,” Morelli pleaded. “If I don’t get to Marco first, he’s a dead man. Vito Simone’s family will carry out the vendetta and avenge his murder. Marco has a better chance to live if he turns himself in. You know that. Had your husband gone to the police, he may well be alive today.”

Franca D’Amato laughed hysterically. “What an innocent you are Signore Morelli! Alberto alive today? You’re a northerner. You know nothing about the code of Omertà. One must be a Sicilian to understand its meaning. Omerta is a maladizione, an ancient curse on my people. Ah no! No law would have saved my husband.” With a voice expressing deep sorrow, she continued. “And no law will save Marco. He knows and he waits.”

Franca D’Amato wearily sat down. Without looking at Morelli, she said calmly. “No, Signore Morelli, I can’t tell you where Marco is hiding, because I don’t know. He wants it that way.”

She was crying softly now. With fierce pride she asked Morelli, “Do you know why Marco will never tell me where he is?” Quickly, she answered her own question. “Because he doesn’t want me to see him in death. Please go.”

Gino Morelli wanted to tell her he understood. It would have been a futile gesture. Franca D’Amato wasn’t listening.

New York, N. Y. - Marco Belmonte, a suspect in the murder of Vito Simone, was found shot to death in a loft on Houston street.