Loyalty : 2023 bestseller, an action-packed epic of love and justice during the rise of the Mafia in Sicily. E-Book

Lisa Scottoline

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 517

Beschreibung

Loyalty can save a soul — or destroy one. Franco Fiorvante is a handsome lemon-grower who has toiled for years on the estate of boss Baron Zito. Franco dreams of owning his own lemon grove, but the rigid class system of Sicily thwarts his ambitions. Determined to secure a prosperous future, Franco will do anything to prove his loyalty to the Baron. But when Baron Zito asks him to arrange the kidnapping of a little boy, Franco crosses the point of no return, setting in motion the making of the world's first Mafia family. Gaetano Catalano is an idealistic young lawyer, whose devotion for justice is a calling. Gaetano is a member of the Beati Paoli, a real-life secret society of aristocrats who investigate crime. Gaetano and the Beati Paoli set out to find the boy, but for Gaetano, the mission turns to obsession. He risks everything to right the wrong. The kidnapped boy, Dante, grows up without even knowing his last name. He doubts his own sanity until he meets Lucia, a girl with a tragic past of her own. They fall in love, and set out to find his true identity.

Leseprobe

Praise for Loyalty

‘A beautifully written tale, wonderfully told by a master storyteller’ – Nelson DeMille, bestselling author of The Maze

‘Rich with intrigue and secrets, tension and tenderness (not to mention the intoxicating scent of lemon groves!), this is Lisa Scottoline at her best’ – Jennifer Rosner,award-winning author of The Yellow Bird Sings and Once We Were Home

‘This is an earthy novel, the vivid details of which make you smell the sweet lemon groves, feel the salty sea spray on your cheeks, and taste the pasta, pistachios and rich cheeses of Sicily’ – Stephanie Dray, author of The Women of Chateau Lafayette

‘Every scene is a full sensory experience, as Scottoline weaves lemon-scented breezes, the ocean’s sounds, and sun-baked piazza stones into a timeless, tragedy-strewn story of love, power, and redemption’ – Booklist (starred review)

‘A powerful, poignant exploration about the rise of the Mafia in Sicily, Lisa Scottoline’s Loyalty is a gripping, compulsively readable tale of courage, loyalty, family secrets, and the price of honour. An unputdownable piece of historical fiction that puts Scottoline’s talent for writing twisty plots and unforgettable characters on full display’ – Kristin Hannah, author of The Four Winds

‘Loyalty is a beautiful, bold, and brilliant masterpiece that, in the spirit of The Godfather, reminds us of the perils of blind allegiance, the consequences of betrayal, and the lengths to which one will go for family. A breathtaking tour de force’ – Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Forest of Vanishing Stars

‘Scottoline brings her characters to life, instilling them with wit and intellect as they navigate the corruption of Sicily’s law enforcement. Historical crime fiction fans will be riveted’ – Publishers Weekly

‘The brilliantly-told story about the rise of the Mafia is an unforgettable saga of the powers of corruption and courage, injustice and honor, family secrets, loyalty, and love set against the evocative backdrop of Sicily. Scottoline deftly explores the darkest passions and the deepest compassion of human nature in a fabulously twisty historical thriller that will keep you guessing until the very end’ – Meg Waite Clayton, author of The Postmistress of Paris

For my amazing daughter, Francesca, with all my love

To have seen Italy without seeing Sicily is not to have seen Italy at all, for Sicily is the clue to everything.

– goethe,italian journey

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Dante, a boy kidnapped from Palermo

Renzo Gentili, a guard in the Ospizio di Santa Teresa, a madhouse

Teresa, Gentili’s wife

Dottor Vergenti, administrator of the madhouse

Baron Pietro Pisani, administrator of the Real Casa dei Matti di Palermo and the real-life founder of ‘moral therapy’ in Sicily

Franco Fiorvanti, the manager of a lemon grove outside Palermo

Roberto Fiorvanti, his twin brother

Sebastiano, a farmhand

Ezio, another farmhand

Baron Zito, the wealthy baron who owns the lemon grove

Gaetano Catalano, a lawyer from Palermo

Maria, his wife

Carmine Prizzi, his friend

Mafalda Pancari, a mother from the village of Porticello, outside Palermo

Salvatore ‘Turi,’ her husband

Lucia, their daughter

Alfredo D’Antonio, a cheesemaker from the mountain town of Mussomeli, in central Sicily

Bella, Flora, Valentina, and Ginevra, his daughters

Don Matteo Vigiliano, Gaetano’s boss

Donna Angelina, his wife

PART ONE

They know how to read and write – that’s the trouble.

– giovanni verga, ‘the gentry,’ little novels of sicily

(d. h. lawrence translation)

1

Palermo, Sicily

1810

It was the final night of the Festival of Saint Rosalia, and hundreds of people lined Via Toledo, cheering, praying, and singing hymns. Priests led the procession, holding tapers that glowed like halos in the darkness. Spectators looked up the street, craning their necks to see the ornate silver reliquary of the patron saint. The carabinieri faced that way, too, their plumed hats in a line, their horses shifting on polished hooves.

Only a bearded man looked away, down the street. Nobody noticed him in the shadows behind the crowd. He kept his eye on the wealthy families privileged to stand on the Quattro Canti, or Four Corners, which was the intersection of Palermo’s two most important streets: Via Toledo, extending to the harbor, and Via Maqueda, bisecting the capital.

The procession moved down the street, and the crowd’s fervor intensified, anticipating the reliquary. People kissed pictures of the young saint, held roses up to her, and cheered Viva Palermo e viva Santa Rosalia! Among the privileged on the Quattro Canti, the husbands surged forward to see better and the wives remained behind with the children.

The bearded man threaded his way to a little boy standing with his mother at the back of the Quattro Canti. He snuck up behind the boy and waited for the moment to pounce.

The saint’s reliquary popped into view, and the crowd erupted in shouting, cheering, and weeping. The boy’s mother burst into pious tears, and the bearded man made his move. He pulled a marionette from under his cloak and showed it to the boy. The boy reached for the marionette, and in one cruel motion, the man grabbed the boy and flung his cloak over him. The clamor of the crowd devoured the boy’s startled cry. The marionette dropped to the cobblestones.

The man ran away with the boy. The mother looked around for her son. She called him but didn’t see him anywhere. She whirled around, beginning to panic, then screamed. It was as if he had been swallowed by the crowd. She would remember this moment for all of her days.

The man jumped onto a bay mare and rode off with the boy. He galloped from the city proper and raced past prickly pear cacti, cypresses, and olive trees on a road illuminated by a crescent moon. In time, he approached a dilapidated building set off by itself, a boxy, broken shadow in the night. It was the Ospizio di Santa Teresa, a madhouse that held lunatics, lepers, and the poor.

The man entered the building’s courtyard and halted the mare. He dismounted and threw the crying child over his shoulder, then banged on the door, which was opened by a guard. The kidnapper handed the boy over with a sack of ducats, then left.

The guard pocketed the ducats and took the boy inside the madhouse. The place was dark at this hour, though it was never quiet. The wails, rants, and cries of a hundred lunatics echoed throughout its stone walls. The guard crossed the entrance hall with the boy and entered the kitchen, where the only illumination came from the moon filtered through a dirty window.

‘Sit, boy!’ The guard dumped the boy onto the wooden table.

‘Mamma?’ the boy whispered, teary. ‘Where’s Mamma?’

‘She doesn’t want you anymore.’ The guard picked up a knife, its sharp blade glinting in the moonlight.

‘No!’ The boy scrambled backward, terrified the guard would stab him. Instead, the guard used the knife to cut his own finger, drawing blood.

‘Look what you did, boy! You cut me!’

‘I didn’t! Mamma! Papa!’

‘Shut up!’

The guard picked up the boy, left the kitchen, and crossed the entrance hall. He reached the stairs and descended into a gloom that reeked of mice and chamber pots. He lumbered down a hallway lined with the cells of the male lunatics. The walls were of crumbling plaster, and the metal doors dented from within.

‘Renzo? Renzo?’ one of the lunatics shouted.

‘Renzo, I’m hungry!’ shouted another.

‘Let me out! Please, I beg you!’

The guard reached the end of the hall and stopped at an open door, scattering the rats. He entered a cell that contained only a chamber pot and the frame of a bed with no mattress. A crucifix hung on the wall above an iron chain that ended in a leg manacle. A small window, set oddly high, admitted moonlight through its bars.

The guard tossed the boy onto the floor and picked up the manacle, realizing it was sized for an adult, not a child. He would have to come back with a rope.

‘Mamma!’ the boy called out, sobbing.

The guard whacked him across the face, knocking him unconscious.

‘Mamma!’ the lunatics shouted. ‘Mamma!’

2

Franco Fiorvanti rose from the table, leaving his twin, Roberto, with his farmhands, Sebastiano and Ezio. It was almost midnight, and the three other men had just returned from the Festival of Saint Rosalia in Palermo. They’d brought home a jug of red wine, crusty peasant bread topped with sesame seeds, golden hunks of Canestrato cheese, roasted red peppers with garlic, and fresh green olives. Deliciously pungent aromas scented the small kitchen.

Roberto poured wine into a coarse glass. ‘You missed a great time tonight, brother.’

‘I couldn’t leave the property.’ Franco crossed to the door, which stood open. ‘Our lemon house is almost full, and bandits would choose a night like this to strike.’

‘Roberto, your brother works all the time.’ Sebastiano dealt brightly colored Scopa cards.

Ezio drained his wineglass. ‘The Fiorvantis were no fun before you, Roberto.’

Franco stepped outside, walked away from the farmhouse, and scanned the property with a manager’s eye. The latifondo, an agricultural estate, was owned by Baron Zito, but he didn’t live here and his villa stood empty and dark. Its lovely façade of gray-and-brown stone was flanked by two wings set sideways, and Palladian windows with potbellied railings faced the giardino, or lemon grove. A curved portico protected a grand entrance, the door painted a dark green like the shutters.

Franco’s farmhouse was off to the side, allowing him to see all comings and goings, and behind was the limonaia, or lemon house, where they stored lemons until taken to market. A stone wall surrounded the villa, farmhouse, and outbuildings. Mules and donkeys grazed within, flicking their tails.

Franco’s gaze shifted to the giardino. A cool breeze wafted through the lemon trees, rustling their richly green leaves and perfuming the air like a magical elixir. The Conca d’Oro, or golden bowl, was a luxuriant valley of lemon groves around Palermo, and Baron Zito’s giardino spanned thirty hectares, or seventy-five acres.

Franco knew every tree. When he had first come here from Bronte, he had tended, pruned, and grafted them, as well as the olive trees surrounding them for protection against the wind. In ten years, he had risen from being a bracciante, a day laborer, to a gabellotto, a manager, and the giardino had become his passion.

‘Brother.’ Roberto appeared at his side. ‘You seem restless. I know you’re thinking about something.’

‘I’m always thinking about something.’

‘I’m never thinking about anything,’ Roberto shot back, and they both chuckled. They were identical twins and shared the same handsome face, with strong features. Most prominent were their eyes, which were the golden-brown of hazelnuts, and they each had a large nose, heavy cheekbones, and full lips. Their hair was thick, dark, and wavy, but Franco visited the barber more than Roberto. They were of average height, but Franco’s work kept him fit, whereas Roberto’s love for bread left him with a soft belly.

‘I’m glad you came.’ Franco loved having his twin back, feeling incomplete without him.

‘I am, too.’ Roberto grinned. ‘The city is so big, with so many people! Tonight, I felt like I was standing at the center of the world.’

‘You were, brother.’

‘Why did you want me to come here? I know you had a reason.’

‘Look.’ Franco gestured to the lemon trees. ‘Femminello lemons. There’s no more lucrative crop. They prevent scurvy, and the British Navy is crazy for them. Europe can’t get enough, either. They ship easily and don’t rot as fast as oranges. Palermo serves the busiest trade routes, and ships from here sail to England, Africa, Europe, even America, only forty-five days away by clipper, longer by merchant ship. We export tuna, spices, and silk, but lemons are –’

‘Is this school?’ Roberto wisecracked.

Franco remembered his twin’s impatience with details and tempered his approach.

‘All you have to know is that Sicily is the biggest exporter of lemons in the world, and Palermo grows the lion’s share, here in the Conca d’Oro. We’re sitting on a gold mine, and I have a plan for us.’

‘Okay, I’ll pick lemons for you,’ Roberto said agreeably.

‘You’ll do more than that here. Look, Baron Zito’s giardino sits in the middle of four others.’ Franco pointed east. ‘That way is Baron Piccolo’s, there’s Baron DiGiulio’s, and to the north and south are Baron Moravio’s and Marquis Silvestri’s. They’re all managed by gabellotti like me.’

Roberto nodded.

‘Remember when we were little? Everything grew on the other side of Mount Etna. Pistachios, lemons, oranges, grapes, everything. There was better soil there from the volcano. We lived on the wrong side, and we traveled with Papa to pick. We broke our backs.’

‘What of it?’

‘Here, we’re on the better side, to me. The western half of the island, with Palermo and the Conca d’Oro, teems with citrus, not just lemons. Oranges, blood oranges, limes, all kinds of fruit, vegetables, and flowers. You can grow anything here. The Arabs irrigated the valley, and for once, we benefitted from a colonizer.’ Franco could see Roberto listening. ‘But on the east side – the Greek side, where we grew up – it’s harder, it’s drier. The soil isn’t as fertile, there’s more hardship. Don’t you get tired of being on the wrong side? Where there’s such struggle?’

Roberto shrugged. ‘No, I’m content, like Papa was.’

‘Well, someday I want to own a giardino, not just manage one.’

Roberto laughed, but Franco wasn’t joking.

‘Why not us, the Fiorvanti brothers? Why should we grow for others? Why not grow for ourselves? Noblemen aren’t better than us, despite their titles. God loves all men equally.’ Franco felt himself falling under the spell of his own dream. ‘Like a woman in love, a giardino offers everything. Beauty. Sustenance. Life.’

Roberto’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you in love?’

‘No.’ Franco kept his secret, unripe for telling.

‘Ezio thinks you are. He says you’re seeing someone new.’

‘I’m always seeing someone new.’

‘He says this one matters. Last week, you smiled.’

Roberto chuckled, but Franco wanted to change the subject.

‘Roberto, lemons are the future. We can master the future.’

‘Now you’re talking like Mamma. Crazy.’

‘She wasn’t crazy. She just had dreams.’

‘Crazy dreams.’ Roberto shrugged. ‘Okay, I’m in. We’ll be the famous Fiorvanti brothers. We’ll be rich.’

‘It’s not only for money. It’s for dignity. Respect. Equality.’

‘Have you become a Communist now?’

Franco scoffed. ‘Politics is a corrupt conspiracy between colonizers and nobility against us. Sicily is still feudal. We’re workers in their fields, fodder in their cannons. We’re far behind the mainland and Europe in this way. I was reading –’

‘I knew it!’ Roberto wagged his finger. ‘This is because Mamma taught you to read. What a mistake!’

Franco let it go. ‘Roberto, other families have succeeded in business, not only nobility. The Florios aren’t noble, but they’re ascending the ladder. Baron Zito owns this latifondo, though he can’t sell because it’s feudal land. But there’s talk of changing the law, and if that happens, I think I can convince him to sell me a small parcel.’

Roberto cocked his head. ‘Where would you get the money?’

‘Savings, since I left home.’

‘But why would he sell?’

‘He doesn’t like the country life at all, and he complains about the taxes.’

Roberto smiled, narrowing his eyes. ‘Are you trying to become a baron?’

‘Why not?’

‘They were born noble. We were born handsome.’

Franco didn’t laugh. ‘I want to move up, Roberto.’

‘You want to be king of the mountain. Remember that game we used to play?’

‘Yes, and back then, you wanted the same. So why not now?’

‘This is life, not a game. Nobility is like the stars. They belong up there.’ Roberto waved at the night sky. ‘We belong down here with the women, the wine, and the cards. Which place is truly heaven?’

Suddenly they turned at the pounding of a horse’s hooves, then a man materialized from the darkness, cantering toward them. Franco had been awaiting him. ‘Roberto, go inside.’

‘Why? Who’s this?’

‘Business. Go.’

‘Okay.’ Roberto turned away and walked back to the farmhouse, and the man halted the mare and dismounted, his cloak swirling around him. He breathed heavily, and his face was slaked with sweat, leaving spittle on his beard. The mare was exhausted, her nostrils as round as ducats.

Franco took the mare’s reins and wiped foam from her neck. ‘Well?’

‘Franco, it’s done. I took him to the madhouse.’

‘Good.’ Franco’s chest tightened. It was a dirty piece of work, but not as dirty as it could have been, since he hadn’t followed orders. ‘Remember, Claudio, this is our secret. If you’re ever asked, you must say you killed the boy.’

‘I will.’

‘And you weren’t seen at the festival?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Franco didn’t like the answer. ‘Were you seen or not?’

‘As I say, I don’t… think so, but I can’t guarantee anything. I waited until his mother was distracted, but there were so many people –’

‘Look in my eyes. Were you seen? Yes or no?’

‘No,’ Claudio answered, but his eyes betrayed him.

Franco felt stricken. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t risk being discovered or all would be lost. He willed himself to action. Quickly, he withdrew his knife from its sheath and plunged it into Claudio’s chest.

Claudio’s eyes flew open. He emitted a moan, dropped to his knees, and flopped over onto his side. Franco controlled the revulsion and horror he felt as he wrenched the knife from Claudio’s chest. Blood spurted from the wound as the man’s heart pumped its last.

‘Franco!’ Roberto rushed over.

Franco whirled around, shocked. ‘I thought you were inside –’

‘No!’ Roberto knelt beside Claudio, whose gaze fixed on the stars. ‘You killed him!’

‘I had to.’ Franco felt sick to his stomach. He forced himself to think. He wiped his knife clean on the ground.

‘How could you do such a thing?’ Roberto looked up, distraught. ‘You stabbed him, unprovoked! Why?’

‘It was the only way.’ Franco returned his knife to its sheath.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You don’t know how things are here.’

‘It’s a sin!’ Roberto’s eyes filled with tears. ‘A mortal sin!’

Franco straightened, composing himself. ‘Roberto, what’s done is done. I’ll take the body, and you take the mare. She needs to be cooled down.’

‘Franco, this isn’t like you!’

‘No, it isn’t like you.’ Franco picked up Claudio’s heels and began dragging him away.

3

‘So, tell me about this boy,’ Dottor Vergenti said to Renzo, as they stood in the entrance hall of the madhouse. It was Monday morning, and evidently a child had been relinquished over the weekend, which would necessitate extra paperwork. Vergenti was administrator of the madhouse, addressed as dottore though he wasn’t a medical doctor. He had gotten this job through his relatives in city government. He used to teach Latin, and while he did like Latin, he disliked children.

‘He’s about five years old, maybe six. He’s incorrigible. I told you what he did. He stabbed me!’ Renzo held up a hand with bloodied gauze. ‘See for yourself!’

‘Madonna!’ Vergenti wrinkled his nose. ‘But how? You’re built like an ox. He can’t be very strong, at his age.’

‘He caught me unawares!’

‘What’s his name?’

‘His parents didn’t say. They barely stopped their carriage. They relinquished the boy after he tried to kill his little brother with a rock!’

Vergenti recoiled. ‘How horrible! Why didn’t they summon the authorities?’

‘I don’t know, but the madhouse is the more humane solution, isn’t it?’

Vergenti agreed. The madhouse was awful, but the prison was far worse. At least here, the government paid to feed them.

‘Dottore, he’s a bad case, I assure you. He needs to be admitted.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Vergenti thought of his budget, which was strict. ‘I must file a detailed report, you know. Tell me more about the incident. Where did he get the knife? He didn’t have it on his person, did he?’

‘No, I took him to the kitchen to offer him an orange. The next thing I knew, he grabbed the knife. The child is wicked!’

‘Not wicked, insane,’ Vergenti corrected.

‘You’re right, Dottore.’ Renzo frowned. ‘Nevertheless, we can’t be too careful. What if he had attacked you, at your age? Your reflexes aren’t as fast as mine. Your wife would be left a widow and the madhouse without its leader!’

Vergenti knew Renzo was flattering him. He liked being flattered almost as much as he liked Latin. ‘I must examine the boy. Take me to him.’

Renzo turned to the stairwell, and Vergenti trailed behind. They went downstairs and walked the dark hallway lined with cells. The stench of the chamber pots upset Vergenti’s stomach, which was delicate.

The lunatics began shouting, ‘Renzo, let me out! Help me! Save me!’

Vergenti covered his ears. He never came down here, preferring his office, which was farthest from the patients, especially the lepers. He feared their contagion infected the very air. He waited while Renzo unlocked the cell and they stepped inside.

The boy was sleeping on his side, his hands under his face. He must have come from an upper-class family, because he had a fine brown jacket, a white shirt with a high collar, and dark green pants with polished shoes of black leather. He had well-formed features, smooth olive skin, and glossy dark hair, except for a red welt marring his left cheek.

Vergenti turned to Renzo. ‘What happened to his face? It looks like a blow.’

‘He came out of the carriage that way. Perhaps his father disciplined him.’

The boy stirred, then woke up, his eyes rounding with fear. He scrambled away, dragging the rope tying his foot to the wall.

Vergenti forced a smile. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

The boy’s dark gaze shifted to Renzo and back again.

‘Boy, don’t be afraid. I repeat, what’s your name?’

‘I want Mamma,’ the boy whispered, tears filming his eyes.

Vergenti didn’t have time for this. The child, the odor, the din. ‘Just tell me your name. That’s all.’

‘Dante,’ the boy whispered.

‘Good. What’s your surname, Dante?’

Dante looked too frightened to speak, his terrified gaze fixed on Renzo.

Renzo advanced on the boy. ‘Spoiled brat! Show the doctor some respect!’

‘Renzo, please.’ Vergenti was getting a headache. ‘Dante, your parents brought you here because you tried to harm your younger brother. Why did you do that?’

Dante’s eyes widened. He shook his head, his lips still sealed.

‘Speak, boy!’ Renzo bellowed.

‘Speak, boy!’ one of the lunatics shouted. ‘Speak! Speak!’

‘I have no brother!’ Dante blurted out in bewilderment.

Vergenti turned to Renzo, puzzled. ‘They told you he had a brother, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, I saw his younger brother in the carriage. The boy lies!’

Vergenti patted his gray hair into place. ‘His young mind must be terribly disordered. How unfortunate.’

Renzo stepped closer to the boy. ‘Stop lying! Tell the truth!’

‘Boy!’ the lunatics shouted. ‘Tell the truth!’

‘Oh, that din!’ Vergenti covered his ears.

One lunatic hollered, ‘He speaks the truth! I saw no carriage!’

Renzo bellowed, ‘Shut up, Big Nose!’

The lunatics fell quiet, except for one weeping.

Vergenti considered the situation. ‘It’s hard to understand, Renzo. This boy seems well cared for, even loved. He shows no signs of beating, neglect, malnourishment, as we usually see.’

One of the lunatics hollered, ‘I tell you, I saw no carriage! Carriages never come here!’

Renzo hollered back, ‘Big Nose, I’ll beat you!’

Vergenti regarded the child. ‘He’s frightened, so we’ll show him he doesn’t have to be. Renzo, untie him.’

Renzo gasped. ‘Dottore, he bites, too! Did I tell you?’

‘Renzo, please.’

Renzo began to untie the boy. ‘Boy, don’t you dare bite me!’

Suddenly the boy grabbed Renzo’s hand and bit down.

‘Brat!’ Renzo yanked his hand away. ‘See what I mean, Dottore? I told you!’

Vergenti felt his face aflame. ‘My apologies,’ he said, edging to the door.

‘The boy must be admitted!’

‘I still need a diagnosis.’ Vergenti fled the cell.

‘Make one up!’

after the men left, dante sat curled into a ball, covering his ears. He didn’t understand why he was here. Men in the other rooms shouted, yelled, and argued. One of them screamed day and night. Another cried, like Dante. He didn’t want to be in this terrible place. He felt frightened all the time, especially of Renzo.

The night Dante came, he was afraid Renzo would run him through and through with the knife, like in The Song of Roland. It was about Christians and Saracens fighting at the Battle of Roncevaux Pass. Count Roland had the best sword, named Durendal, given to him by Charlemagne himself.

Dante liked Count Roland, his best friend, Oliver, and all the others in The Song of Roland, which was his favorite book. Mamma would read it to him at bedtime, and he knew it by heart. He closed his eyes, pretending that Mamma was reading to him now and he was sitting on her lap.

‘Mamma, read that part again, please. It’s one of the best bits.’

Mamma cleared her throat. ‘‘High are the hills, the valleys dark and deep, grisly the rocks, and wondrous grim the steeps.’’

‘Again,’ Dante said, as soon as she finished.

Mamma chuckled, and Dante’s cheek rested against her dress, which felt scratchy because it was brocade, a word she taught him. She loved to teach him words, and he loved to learn them. Dante wanted to learn every word in The Song of Roland.

Mamma read the line again, then closed the book. ‘Bedtime.’

‘Mamma, isn’t that one of the best bits?’

‘Yes.’ Mamma set the book aside. ‘Why do you like it?’

‘I can picture it in my mind.’

‘So can I.’ Mamma smiled, and Dante thought his mother was even more beautiful than Aude, Oliver’s sister in the book.

‘Mamma, Count Roland and Oliver are best friends. Will I have a best friend?’

‘Yes, someday.’

Dante recited, ‘‘Roland is fierce and Oliver is wise, and both for valor may bear away the prize.’’

‘Bravo, Dante.’ Mamma beamed, which made Dante feel as remarkable as the sun rising at night.

‘Mamma, I think Count Roland is brave, but he’s too proud. Oliver tells him to blow the horn for Charlemagne, but he doesn’t listen.’

‘That’s true. So, who do you like better, Count Roland or Oliver?’

‘Oliver. I’m more like Oliver, I’m wise. Count Roland is too bold and fierce.’

‘I agree.’ Mamma smiled, brushing back his hair.

Dante kept his eyes closed, staying in his mind because it made him happy to be sitting in Mamma’s lap again, telling her the best bits and hearing her say I agree. He didn’t think there was any better sound in the world.

I agree

I agree

I agree

Dante covered his ears, keeping her words inside his head.

Until he fell asleep.

4

Gaetano Catalano stepped into his well-appointed foyer, taking off his straw hat and hanging it on the rack. His sons were playing in the living room, and the delicious aroma of fried eggplant wafted from the kitchen. He looked forward to a wonderful lunch with his family before he had to return to the office. Gaetano was a lawyer at one of the finest firms in Palermo, which catered to an aristocratic clientele.

But his wife, Maria, was hurrying toward him, a frown creasing her forehead and clouding her warm brown eyes. A lovely woman, she had a fine nose and lips set on an elegantly long face. Her hair was dark and shining, and she wore a double braid around her head. Today she wore a dress in a blood-orange hue, coral earrings, and a gold crucifix he had given her.

‘Darling, I have bad news.’ Maria lowered her voice. ‘There’s been a kidnapping. A boy was taken at the festival.’

‘Oh no,’ Gaetano said, horrified. ‘Who was it, do you know?’

‘No. He was on the Quattro Canti, so his family must be important.’

‘It happened on the Quattro Canti? That’s an outrage!’ Gaetano realized the kidnapping must’ve been why the meeting had been called tonight. He had gotten the notice about it earlier today, via secret courier.

‘That’s only a few blocks from where we were. It’s so awful.’ Maria’s dark eyes glistened. ‘They say he’s young, five or six.’

‘Has there been a ransom demand?’

‘No one knows.’

‘It’s always the same.’ Gaetano clenched his jaw. Parents of kidnapped children feared retaliation if they reported the crime, and the police were unreliable, if not corrupt.

‘Imagine that poor mother.’ Maria hesitated. ‘I admit, so often I feel, well, jealous. Do you remember what I said that night?’

‘No,’ Gaetano answered, but he did. It hadn’t been her finest moment.

‘I said, “I wish we were standing on the Quattro Canti.”’ Maria puckered her lower lip. ‘But if we had been, it could’ve been one of our sons, kidnapped. I’m ashamed.’

‘Don’t be.’ Gaetano kissed her, breathing in her jasmine perfume. He adored his wife and their life together in the Capo district. He could have afforded a better apartment but didn’t want to move, though he couldn’t share the reason with Maria.

‘Darling, come in, let’s eat.’

‘By the way, I won’t be home until late tonight. I have a dinner meeting with a client.’ Gaetano didn’t like lying to her, but he had to.

‘Oh, that’s too bad.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Gaetano followed Maria into their elegant dining room, which had a chandelier of Murano glass in ivory-and-melon tones hanging above a polished walnut table surrounded by carved chairs. A tall window with lace curtains admitted sunshine from the courtyard, shining on a large black lacquered breakfront, an Oriental touch Maria claimed was fashionable.

‘Papa, Papa!’ Gaetano’s two sons, Paolo and Mario, came running toward him.

‘How are my boys?’ Gaetano clasped them to his sides, ruffling their dark curls. Holding them, he thought of the family who had just had a son kidnapped. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes!’ The boys scrambled into chairs as the cook, Sofia, carried in the first course of pasta alla Norma, a traditional Sicilian dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce, strips of fried eggplant, and ricotta salata, or salted ricotta cheese.

‘Sofia, thank you.’ Gaetano sat down, and the aroma made his mouth water. Sofia nodded, set the platter on the table, then went back to the kitchen.

‘Gaetano, here.’ Maria served him a generous helping. ‘Will you say grace, please?’

Gaetano did, then twirled some spaghetti onto his fork and took a bite, tasting the rich sweetness of the tomato and the tang of the ricotta salata. But he didn’t take his usual pleasure in the meal, preoccupied by the kidnapping. He knew how these cases went. Sooner or later, the kidnappers would demand a ransom and send the wealthy parents a lock of hair, a finger, or an ear. The ransom would be paid, and sometimes the boy would be returned alive. But some boys were never found.

Something had to be done.

Gaetano counted the minutes until his meeting.

that night, gaetano walked through the winding streets and alleys of the Capo district, his fine boots clattering on the balati, the oversized cobblestones that paved Palermo. Ahead, he spotted the chubby form of his friend and fellow member Carmine, but neither man acknowledged the other on meeting nights, according to the rules.

The neighborhood was mostly empty, and the houses’ closed shutters emitted light and sound through their slats. The air was cool and permeated with a fishy odor from the sea. A skinny cat trotted toward the market, which was closed now except to the city’s vermin. Gaetano knew Palermo’s dark side and loved her anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her rat-and-mouse problem, but he could try to stop those who preyed on her children.

Gaetano turned onto the side street next to the Chiesa di Santa Maria di Gesù, dark at this hour. He reached a metal refuse bin and ducked behind it to a concealed side door. He opened the door, then closed it quickly behind him. He found himself in a tunnel that ran underneath the church.

It was chilly, dusty, and pitch black inside, and he clambered down a set of ancient steps, running a finger along the rough wall for guidance. He reached the subterranean floor, hurried down a narrow hallway like a catacomb, and headed toward a pale light from flickering oil lamps. Voices echoed within the walls.

Gaetano entered a small room containing the members of the Beati Paoli, or the Blessed Society of Saint Paul, who sat around a table. They were aristocrats who worked for the common good in honor of Saint Paul, whom they revered. Some were moneyed enough not to be employed, and the others included a retired lawyer, a surgeon, a classics professor, and several businessmen. Gaetano and Carmine were the youngest members.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Gaetano greeted everyone. ‘Let’s begin the meeting with our oath. Who are we, men?’

‘We’re the Beati Paoli!’

‘And for whom do we fight?’

‘For justice, for Sicilia, and for God!’

Gaetano sat down, leaning over. ‘We’re meeting tonight about this awful kidnapping, and I would like to take the lead in this investigation. I know it’s my first time, but with the help of Saint Paul, I think I can find the boy.’

‘By all means, you have my vote.’ Carmine smiled, his brown eyes warm. He was a lawyer, too, but his dimpled face looked like a schoolboy’s. His hair was black and curly, and his dark skin evinced the African heritage of many Sicilians.

Don Ugo’s hooded eyes met Gaetano’s. ‘You’re ready to lead. I trust in you.’

‘We agree!’ Don Fulvio chimed in, and heads nodded around the table.

‘Thank you.’ Gaetano eyed them. ‘I’ll tell you why I feel so strongly. This kidnapping occurred on the Quattro Canti, the very center of our city, on the night we celebrate our patron, Saint Rosalia. To me, it’s a crime not only against the boy, but against all of us.’

‘Yes,’ Carmine chimed in. ‘The festival is the heart of Palermo. If you tear out our heart, how can we live? Who are we then?’

Don Leonardo clucked. ‘It’s a lawless act against a child, an innocent.’

‘Yes!’ Don Fabiano shook his knobby fist. ‘I want justice, for Palermo, the mother to us all.’

Gaetano bore down. ‘Let me ask you, were any of you watching the procession from the Quattro Canti? We could have witnesses among us. I wasn’t there, I was at the Cathedral with my family.’

Carmine shook his head. ‘No, we were at the Cathedral, too. My mother-in-law likes to watch the reliquary leave.’

‘We were at the Cathedral,’ Don Leonardo answered for himself and for Don Manfreddi.

Don Fabiano shook his head. ‘Sorry, we didn’t go to the festival this year. My wife was feeling poorly.’

Don Vincenzo sighed. ‘We didn’t, either. My back was acting up.’

Gaetano thought it over. ‘Do any of you know of anyone who watched from the Quattro Canti? We know so many people who could have been there.’

Carmine nodded. ‘I’ll ask my wife. Discreetly.’

‘As will I,’ Don Fulvio added. ‘She gossips at the bakery every day.’

‘Good, thank you,’ Gaetano told them. ‘Now, I’ve been planning my investigation. If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain.’

‘Go ahead,’ Carmine said, and they all leaned in.

5

Porticello, a fishing village near Palermo

Mafalda Pancari endured contractions all night, and her friends wiped her brow, offered her water, and prayed. They filled her warm little house to its walls, and those who couldn’t fit inside prayed outside. They all knew how much Mafalda wanted this baby, having been childless for so long.

Mafalda didn’t know if she could bear the pain any longer. Sweat plastered her nightgown to her swollen breasts and belly. She could barely breathe for the agony. Surely, childbirth would kill her. Surely, she would die. Women did all the time, two of them in the village last year.

‘Please, God, help me!’ Mafalda gritted her teeth. ‘I can’t do this!’

‘Mafalda, you’re almost finished!’ Her best friend, Concetta, held her hand. ‘It’s time to push! Push, push!’

‘Oh God!’ Mafalda pushed with all her might. ‘It hurts so much –’

‘Think about something else! Count! Uno, due, tre…’

‘Uno, due,’ Mafalda repeated, pushing. ‘I have nothing to count –’

‘Count your blessings! What’s your greatest blessing?’

‘My husband, my Turi,’ Mafalda answered through clenched teeth.

‘Yes, he’s such a good man!’ another woman joined in. ‘He’ll bring home a good catch! Fish for everyone!’

Mafalda didn’t want to think about fish now. ‘Concetta? Help me!’

‘Turi is your first blessing! What else? Count your second!’

Mafalda pushed. ‘My parents in heaven, watching over me.’

‘Yes, good! What else, what’s number three?’

‘You and my friends.’

‘We love you!’ Concetta said, and the other women chimed in, ‘Push, push!’ ‘I see the baby’s head!’ ‘You’re almost there!’

Mafalda yelled in pain. She pushed and pushed.

‘One last time, Mafalda!’

Mafalda pushed once more, grunting, then heard the wail of a baby.

‘It’s a girl!’ Concetta cried out, and Mafalda’s heart filled with happiness, since she had prayed for one.

Silence fell in the bedroom, filled with the salty scent of blood and tears.

‘But…’ Concetta began to say.

‘What?’ Mafalda asked, alarmed. She couldn’t see the baby because everyone was in the way. ‘Concetta, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, really. She’s just a little… different.’ Concetta handed over the baby.

Mafalda accepted the baby, taken aback at her appearance. The infant was beautiful, but her skin was as white as flour. Her scalp was so transparent it revealed delicate blue veins underneath, and her fuzzy head was as pale as the moon. Mafalda had never seen such a baby in her entire life. Like most Sicilians, Mafalda was olive-skinned, and Turi was brown as a walnut from the sun.

Mafalda ran her fingertip along the infant’s arm, smearing a red line of her own blood, as vivid on the baby’s skin as red ink on white paper. Her gaze followed the red line to the purplish cord of blood that connected her to her baby, their God-given bond made flesh. In that moment, she fell in love with her daughter.

‘I’ll call you Lucia,’ Mafalda whispered to the baby. ‘You’re pure light, from God.’

Concetta beamed. ‘Yes, she’s an angel.’

The others joined in. ‘She’s been touched by God.’ ‘She’s a perfect little angel.’ ‘What a blessing!’

Mafalda hoped Turi would be happy, too. Her gaze went to the window, brightening. She realized that Turi should have been back already, since the men fished at night. ‘Where are they? What time is it?’

Concetta frowned. ‘Oh my, they’re late.’

‘Madonna, they’re an hour late!’ The women burst into nervous chatter. ‘They should have been back!’ ‘I lost track of time!’

Then they heard a shout, echoing from the harbor below.

mafalda stood on the dock with the other distraught wives, cradling her swaddled infant and trying not to panic. She was still in pain from the delivery and she’d wadded cloth in her underwear to catch the blood. Turi and the other men hadn’t returned from the sea, and it was already nine o’clock in the morning. They’d never been this late before.

Villagers crowded the harbor, clustered on the docks, and overwhelmed the pebbled shore. Every able-bodied man in the village fished for a living, and now their wives, mothers, fathers, and children huddled together, clutching each other, weeping, praying, and calling for them.

‘Giuseppe, Giuseppe!’ Concetta shouted, alongside Liliana, Letizia, Mariana, Nicolina, and the other frantic wives.

Mafalda searched the horizon, but there was no sign of anything. The absence tore at her because the view was otherwise beautiful. Verdant mountains ringed a harbor shaped like a mother’s outstretched arms, and the sky was the serene blue of Mary’s cloak. The water glimmered like polished aquamarines in the sun, darkening to sapphire and lapis lazuli, like nature’s own jewels. The waves rolled into shore, bubbling and frothy.

Every wife knew the dangers of the sea, and Mafalda’s mind raced with the terrible things that could’ve happened. Storms could whip up quickly on account of the winds, as Sicily was at their mercy: from the north came the chilly tramontana; from the south, the ostro; from the east, levante; and from the west, ponente. A Rose of the Winds compass hung in every home, and even children knew the grecale, a dangerous wind from Greece that could take their fathers.

‘Look, I see something!’ Concetta shouted, pointing to the sea.

‘What?’ Mafalda gasped, horrified to spot a dark hump floating toward the dock, like a man’s back. ‘No! No!’

The crowd erupted in chaos. Wives screamed their husbands’ names. Villagers raced into the water and started swimming. A group of old men reached the floating hump and shouted what everybody feared. It was a dead body.

Mafalda prayed it wasn’t Turi. Concetta prayed next to her, and so did the other wives. Everyone was in an uproar, screaming, wailing, and weeping on the dock, on the shoreline, in the water.

The old men swam the body closer, and villagers craned to see who had drowned. Then Mafalda spotted a bald head and she knew it wasn’t Turi. She felt relieved even as she learned which of her friends had just become a widow.

‘Gustavo!’ Caterina wailed, falling to her knees on the dock.

The crowd surged to comfort her.

The wind picked up, and the waves grew taller and broke harder. Suddenly, everyone was shouting and pointing at the same time. Mafalda looked out to sea, appalled to find dark humps popping out of the water, filling the harbor like a tide of corpses. Amid the bodies bobbed broken blue-and-white wood, oars, and debris.

Mafalda, Concetta, and the other women ran screaming from the dock, reached the shoreline, and rushed into the water. Mafalda held Lucia high above the waves, crying Turi’s name over and over. Everyone shouted, cried, and wailed, a cacophony of shock, horror, and grief echoing throughout the harbor.

Old men started swimming to the bodies, but Mafalda couldn’t tell if Turi was one of them. The corpses kept turning this way and that, tossed about by the sea, revealing clothing, hands, a foot without a shoe. Body after body was brought to shore by whoever could swim. Rescuers staggered out of the water with corpses, weeping and exhausted. Wives raced into the waves, only to be knocked off their feet.

Husband after husband was taken to a widow. Father after father was lost to his family. The bodies of Concetta’s Giuseppe and Nicolina’s Stefano washed up hideously bloated.

Mafalda stood in water up to her belly, holding Lucia high and praying to Madonna del Lume to bring Turi to her. Suddenly she spotted a man’s body carried forward by a wave, his arms floating. She recognized the diamond pattern of his shirt. It was Turi.

Mafalda wailed, agonized that she had become a mother and widow on the same day. But then she noticed Turi’s arms, moving of their own accord.

‘Turi, Turi!’ Mafalda could see him swimming, then a large wave picked him up, carried him on its crest, and brought him closer.

‘Help him, please! Help!’ Mafalda cried again, and older men heard her, raced into the water, and swam to Turi. They helped him out of the water between them.

‘Turi!’ Mafalda rushed to embrace him, and he staggered toward her, falling into her arms, chilled and soaking wet.

‘Madonna, Madonna,’ was all Turi could say, over and over, and Mafalda helped him to shore, still holding the baby. They eased as a family onto the coarse sand, where Turi gave in to hoarse, heartbreaking sobs. He seemed not to notice his newborn daughter, but Mafalda understood. All around them was wailing, crying, and grieving.

Mafalda held him and Lucia, thanking Madonna del Lume and praying for the safe return of the other husbands.

An hour later, she knew the awful truth, and so did the entire village.

Turi was the sole survivor of the disaster.

And Mafalda didn’t know if they were blessed or cursed.

6

Outside Mussomeli, a mountaintop town in central Sicily

Alfredo D’Antonio was a blessed and happy man with daughters named Bella, Valentina, Flora, and Ginevra. Each was beautiful in her own way and had a wonderful personality. Alfredo loved each one, and the fact that they were goats made no difference to him.

‘Come, Bella,’ Alfredo said, and she walked over, always first to be milked. The others waited patiently, chewing their hay in the shed. They knew Alfredo was trying to get to them quickly, aware they were uncomfortable with full udders.

‘Good girl, Bella.’ Alfredo helped her to the milking stand, and Bella began to nibble hay from a hanging net. He didn’t have to lock her in with any device, as his girls made the job easy for them both. The milk they produced had a lot of fat, which enabled him to earn a living by selling their cheese in Mussomeli.

Bella, Valentina, Flora, and Ginevra were Girgentana goats, a breed unique to Sicily, with creamy-white coats that curled around their bodies. Their eyes were a warm amber, and their longish ears flopped. Their pinkish noses were refined, and their mouths curved into permanent smiles. Most remarkable were their horns, which spiraled into the air like tall corkscrews, almost seventy centimeters high. Alfredo loved their soft white beards, and he had a beard, too, so the whole family was bearded.

He pressed his thumb and index fingers up into Bella’s udder, which felt warm and heavy on his knuckles. He began to squeeze and release her teats, in alternating fashion. Her milk began to flow, and he reached for his tin bucket and resumed milking, finding his rhythm.

‘Bella, which story would you like? How about “The Cat and the Mouse”?’ Alfredo liked telling stories while he milked, and if he told a medium-sized one, Bella’s teats would be flat by the time he was finished.

He cleared his throat. ‘Once upon a time, there was a cat who married a mouse. One day, the cat went out to get some pasta, and the mouse fell into a pot of boiling water and died. The cat cried, tearing out his fur, and the door asked him what was the matter. The cat told the door, and the door got so upset it started slamming. Oh my, then the window asked what the fuss was, and the door told him, whereupon the window got so upset it began opening and shutting.’

Bella shifted on her hind legs.

‘Now, seeing this, the tree asked the window what was amiss, and after the window told him, the tree hurled itself onto the ground in grief. You can imagine what happened next, when a bird landed on the tree. The bird asked the tree why it wept on the ground, and the distraught tree told the bird, whereupon the bird plucked out its own feathers, one by one!’

Bella’s milk flowed nicely, and Alfredo continued the story.

‘The bird flew to a fountain to get a drink, and when the fountain asked where its feathers were, the bird told him. You can guess, the poor fountain dried up on the spot. Well, a cuckoo flew to the dry fountain, and after the cuckoo heard the tale, she was so sad she burned her own tail. A Monk of Saint Nicholas passed by and asked the cuckoo why her tail was on fire. The cuckoo told him, and the Monk became so distressed he went to Mass without his robes on –’

‘Signor D’Antonio, are you home?’ a woman called from outside the milking shed.

Startled, Alfredo released Bella’s teats. No one ever came here, much less a woman. Ginevra raised her head to the sound.

‘Coming!’ Alfredo rose, dried his hands on his pants, and left the shed to find an attractive woman standing outside in a red dress. Her dark hair flew in the wind, and she held it back with her hand, smiling.

‘Signore, I don’t know if you remember me. I bought cheese from you last week. My name is Signora Tozzi. I hope you don’t mind my coming to your home.’

Alfredo did. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘I asked around.’

Alfredo didn’t like that. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Do you have any more cheese?’

‘No.’

Signora Tozzi’s shoulders let down. ‘You don’t have any?’

‘No, I make it fresh. I’ll be at the piazza soon again.’

‘When?’

‘I go twice a week. Sometimes one time.’

‘But the others are there every day.’

‘It takes time to make the cheese. You have to let the curds drain.’

‘Oh no.’ Signora Tozzi’s lower lip puckered. ‘My husband isn’t feeling well. I think I mentioned that last time.’

Alfredo remembered. ‘A stomach problem?’

‘Yes, he improved on your cheese, so I need to buy more.’

‘I don’t think my cheese helped. Cheese doesn’t improve stomach problems.’

‘I think it made a difference, I truly do.’ Signora Tozzi smiled. ‘I tasted some, and it was delicious, unusually so.’

‘My cheese?’ Alfredo asked, incredulous, then caught himself. He wasn’t a good salesman. ‘I mean, I know it’s good.’

Meanwhile Ginevra ambled out of the stall, and Signora Tozzi squealed in delight. ‘Look at those horns! They’re magical! I’ve never seen a goat like that! Where did you get her?’

‘From Agrigento.’ Alfredo could tell that Ginevra didn’t like Signora Tozzi. ‘The Girgentana is a rare breed, and their milk has a lot of fat.’

‘How did she get here?’

Alfredo hesitated. ‘My family is from there.’

‘And you say her milk is special?’

‘No, I said it has a lot of fat.’

‘I think that’s what cured my husband’s stomachache!’

‘No, your husband got better on his own. Or perhaps you took good care of him.’

‘Are you flirting with me?’ Signora Tozzi asked with a giggle.

Alfredo felt taken aback. He had forgotten how to flirt, if he had ever known. He still loved his late wife, Felicia. ‘I should get back to milking.’

‘What time do you come to the piazza, when you come?’

‘Around ten.’

‘I’ll be the first in line! Thank you!’

Alfredo nodded.

‘Goodbye!’ Signora Tozzi turned away, and Alfredo headed back into the shed, followed by Ginevra. He sat down next to Bella, resumed milking, and tried to remember the story.

‘Oh yes, anyway, as I was saying, the Queen saw the Monk of Saint Nicholas without his robes and demanded to know why, or she would cut off his head. The Monk told the Queen the story about the cat and the mouse, and the Queen burst into tears, ran to the kitchen, and sifted flour all day.’

Alfredo tried to find his milking rhythm, thrown off by Signora Tozzi’s visit.

‘The King had never seen his wife in the kitchen before, so he thought she’d gone mad. He asked her if she was crazy, and she told him all about the cat and the mouse, the door and the fountain, and the rest. Now, what did the King do? The King drank a cup of coffee. That’s it, that’s all. Now, girls, you can take from the story what you will. I think the moral is, Be a King. Don’t let things bother you.’

But Alfredo couldn’t heed the moral. His fingers trembled, and he stopped milking. He felt suddenly afraid. He lived his life bearing a secret. It was the most dangerous of secrets, he had been told from his earliest years.

His parents had made him and his older sister, Annalisa, swear never to breathe a word. Annalisa had taken the secret to her grave, and Alfredo would take it to his, sealed behind a plaque reading Alfredo D’Antonio, which wasn’t his real name. His sister’s real name wasn’t Annalisa, nor were his mother’s and father’s Pieri and Gianluca. They had chosen their names as arbitrarily as Alfredo had chosen the names for his daughters who happened to be goats.

They’d changed their names to live in peace, and that was all his grandparents had wanted, and his great-grandparents before them, and so on. Alfredo’s line went back for generations in Sicily, and so did his family secret.

Alfredo’s secret was that he was a Jew.

His parents had told him the history so many times he knew it by heart. Jews had lived in Sicily before Christians, settling on the east coast, then spreading outward, flourishing under Muslim rule. Palermo became a Jewish center, but everything changed under Aragonese rule. In 1492, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain issued the Alhambra Decree, or the Edict of Expulsion, which expelled Jews from any Spanish territories, including Sicily. Sicily’s Jews, numbering thirty thousand, fled the island. Their temples were converted to churches, and Jews who didn’t leave were converted to Christianity or executed at Palazzo Chiaramonte Steri in Palermo.

Alfredo’s ancestors wanted to stay in Sicily, but they didn’t want to convert. They wanted to live in the country they loved and worship the G-d they loved.

So they did, keeping to themselves for generations, guarding their secret.

Sicily had never before had conversos or marranos, the Spanish derogatory terms for those who practiced Judaism in secret, but it became a matter of life and death. Alfredo’s family adhered to the Law as best they could without a rabbi, a synagogue, a Torah, or a kosher butcher. His parents warned him to keep to himself, lest anyone discover his secret. They always lived outside of town, and to avoid suspicion, they attended Mass at the Madonna dei Miracoli church in Mussomeli. They mouthed the Latin prayers and took the Eucharist. They knew G-d would understand.

Now they were all dead, leaving only Alfredo, who had no children except Ginevra, Bella, Valentina, and Flora. He kept his family’s Hebrew Bible hidden in a box, with a frayed tallis in a satin sack. He used to have a skullcap, but Ginevra ate it. He had his family’s silver menorah, but no candles narrow enough to fit. He didn’t dare buy any, lest he give himself away. He hadn’t heard of a single other Jew in the entire province, much less met one.

So he kept to himself and made his cheese, leaving only to sell it or to buy necessities in Mussomeli. He prayed on the Sabbath, by himself.

He kept his faith.

He felt happy and blessed in his life.

His real name was Abraham.

He was the last Jew in Sicily.

7

Dottor Vergenti smoothed down his white coat, scanning the examining room with annoyance. The madhouse was formerly a convent, so its physical layout was poorly suited to its current use. The examining room used to be a pantry, so it fit only a small table, a chair, and a scale. Shelves that used to hold groceries were empty except for a single textbook. The room was located next to the kitchen, so it smelled like bean soup and mouse droppings, making Vergenti’s nose twitch. Today he had to diagnose the boy, Dante No-Surname.

He slid the textbook off the shelf and thumbed to the chapter entitled Causes of Madness. He found the list, Physical Causes of Madness, and read it: Heredity, Masturbation, Sunstroke, Syphilis, Alcohol Abuse, Abuse of Mercury. He frowned. None applied to the boy. He read the list, Emotional Causes of Madness: Family Problems, Poverty, Unreciprocated Love, Jealousy, Religious Fanaticism, Superstition, Ambition, Hurt Pride, Bereavement, Persecution. Maybe the boy’s diagnosis was jealousy, of the younger brother. He put the textbook back on the shelf.

Vergenti turned when the nurse entered the room. Her name was Teresa and she was married to Renzo.

‘Good morning, Dottore.’ Teresa had dark eyes, a wide nose, and a ready smile. A topknot tamed her black hair, and her ample body filled out a white blouse and a voluminous brown skirt under her muslin pinafore. ‘Renzo stayed this morning to help us, then he’ll go home. He’s bringing the boy down.’

‘How thoughtful.’

‘Dante’s a difficult case, sir. I believe he’s dangerous, though he’s quite young. Not only did he stab Renzo, he threw food at me, and feces.’

Vergenti loathed the shit-throwers. ‘I’ll make quick work of the examination.’

‘Good.’ Teresa nodded, and Renzo entered the room holding Dante, who squirmed in his grasp. Tearstains streaked the boy’s cheeks, and his hair was in disarray. His shirt and pants were dirty, and he was barefoot.

Vergenti frowned. ‘What happened to his shoes?’

‘God knows.’ Renzo rolled his eyes. ‘Boy, stop it, stop it! Stay still!’

‘He had a brown jacket, too. Where is it?’

Teresa interjected, ‘I gave it to the laundry after he soiled it.’

‘Oh.’ Vergenti knew Renzo and Teresa had three sons, but he didn’t accuse them. The husband-and-wife team was invaluable to him, since he never went near the lunatics. ‘Renzo, set him down, please.’

‘What if he bites me again?’

‘I need to evaluate him.’ Vergenti was required to diagnose the child, so the madhouse would receive its allotment for the boy’s support.

‘Write that he’s violent and incorrigible.’

Vergenti patted the examining table. ‘Dante, sit down here and be still. I would like to talk to you.’

Dante struggled in Renzo’s arms, his eyes wide with fear.

Renzo snorted. ‘He won’t listen to anybody. He acts like a prince.’

Teresa shot him a look. ‘Renzo, set him down.’

‘Are you crazy? He’ll run away!’ Renzo set the boy down, and Dante bolted from the room, tripping on his leg rope.

‘Oh no!’ Vergenti sighed in dismay.

Teresa shook her head, clucking.

‘Get back here!’ Renzo grabbed the child. ‘Stand still!’

Teresa looked back at Vergenti. ‘You see how hard he is to manage?’

Vergenti’s patience evaporated. ‘Renzo, put him on the table.’

‘Yes, Dottore.’ Renzo brought the child to the table and sat him down. ‘Listen to the doctor, boy, or we’ll send you to the lepers. Your fingers will fall off, then your toes. You’ll be Prince of the Lepers.’

‘Let me talk to him, Renzo.’ Vergenti stood in front of the boy, who fidgeted in Renzo’s grasp. ‘Now, I want to ask you a question, Dante. You must tell me the truth. Why did you try to harm your brother? Were you jealous of him?’

‘I have no brother,’ Dante whispered.

‘Lying is against the rules.’ Vergenti picked up his pen and pad, then made a note, lies compulsively and disobeys rules. Also throws food and feces, which revolted him even to write. ‘Dante, are you jealous of your little brother? Yes or no?’

Dante shook his head, frowning.

‘Didn’t you wish your brother away? Didn’t you want your parents to yourself? That would be a natural wish of any firstborn child.’ Vergenti made a note, delusional and wishful thinking. ‘Your parents brought you here –’

‘That’s not how I came,’ Dante interrupted, still in a whisper.

‘Then how did you come?’

Renzo interjected, ‘You’re inviting him to lie, Dottore!’