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“Okay.” Franco eyed the village, a huddle of brown houses on a hillside. His task was to hirebracciantito work on thegiardino. Villagers would gather in the piazza every morning, hoping to get hired bygabellottilike him. Jobs were scarce, and poverty lived among thecontadini, the peasants in the countryside. A day’s pay for a father or husband could mean the difference between a family eating or starving.
Franco used to loathe choosing one man over another, unaccustomed to wielding power and feeling guilty afterward. Men he rejected would turn away crestfallen, beg for the job, or cry openly. Some would bring their children to the piazza, tell them to lift up their shirts and show Franco their protruding bellies.
Look, Signore. My boy needs to eat.
But Franco had grown used to making hard decisions, and he reflected now that doing so had hardened his heart over time, to the point where he could murder a man.
They entered the village and walked along the cobblestone streets. The houses were too small to blot out the sun, and their stucco baked in the heat, cracking to expose crumbling stone. Their doors stood ajar in hope of a breeze that would never come. The windows wereshuttered, but Franco could hear talking, laughing, and arguing inside. These would be the families of the men in the piazza.
Look, Signore.
Franco could see the men ahead, already gathered by the fountain, since he was late. They would be desperate for work, having been rejected by the earliergabellottias too skinny, too old, or too drunk. They would have club feet, missing fingers, or one blind eye. But they had families, too.
Franco saw them spot him, on his fancy white stallion with his lookalike brother, and he knew they were seeing a second chance at salvation. They brushed off their clothes, tossed away cigarettes, and smoothed their hair.
Roberto looked over. “How many men do you need?”
“Only four, but I see fourteen. Today, you choose.”
“Me? How do I decide?” Roberto frowned, but Franco was hoping that if Roberto lived his life, he would understand his choices.
“You’ll see,” he answered, without elaborating.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sunlight flooded the book-lined law office, and Gaetano sat at his desk, trying to read a lending agreement between a bank and their client, a local nobleman. Don Matteo Vigiliano’s firm represented many noble families, some of whom were unable to pay the increasingdonativi, or taxes, on their estates. They had to borrow money, so it fell to Gaetano to make sure their lending agreements were in order.
But he couldn’t concentrate, preoccupied with the kidnapping. He skimmed the first page of the agreement several times, retaining nothing. He turned to the first exhibit, which listed appraisals of the value of a villa and its parcel, outbuildings, contents, and fixtures. The numbers swam before his eyes. He gave up.
Gaetano rose and took his hat from the rack, which drew the attention of Bartolomeo, the other associate in the firm. They’d gone through school together, where Gaetano had been at the top of the class and Bartolomeo in the middle. Gaetano still sensed Bartolomeo’s jealousy, which he’d given up trying to assuage, and his faith taught him to turn the other cheek.Palermitanihated with the same unreasoning ferocity with which they loved.
Bartolomeo frowned behind his thick spectacles. “Leaving already?”
“Yes, I have an errand to run.” Gaetano headed for the door. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
“Don Matteo needs that lending agreement, you know.”
“I’ll do it this afternoon.” Gaetano left the office.
His cheek was getting tired.
Fifteen minutes later, he wasstanding on the Quattro Canti, where life had returned to normal. Men and women strolled this way and that, talking and laughing under straw hats and parasols as they headed home for lunch. Shopkeepers locked their doors, and carters pushed barrows of peppers, tomatoes, and melons to open-air markets. A line of donkeys burdened with boxes of lemons lumbered to the harbor, their journey from the Conca d’Oro at an end. A street sweeper set aside his broom amid a pile of broken wine bottles, discarded papers—and, oddly, a soiled marionette.
Gaetano eyed the four corners of the intersection. The one on the south was occupied by a church, but the other three held palazzos converted to apartments. Each had a balcony overlooking the Quattro Canti, and during the festival, they would have been full of people watching the procession. The westernmost corner was closest to the area reserved for the privileged, so it was the logical place to begin. Surely someone had seen a boy being kidnapped. All Gaetano needed was one witness.
He crossed to the building, went inside, and knocked on the first door, which was opened by an older woman. Her hair was fashioned into a silvery topknot that matched her steely spectacles. A deliciously garlicky aroma emanated from the apartment.
Gaetano introduced himself, then asked, “Signora, may I ask, did you watch the Saint Rosalia procession from your balcony on the last night?”
“Yes, I did, with my family.” The woman cocked her head. “Why?”
“I wonder if you heard about the kidnapping that took place?”
“Yes, yes, I heard. Such terrible news.” The woman’s lined face fell. “I pray for the family.”
“As do I. Did you see anything suspicious that night? Or did you hear anything unusual, like a child shouting for help? You had the perfect view of the Quattro Canti.”
The woman’s smile vanished. “No, I didn’t see anything. Or hear anything.”
