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Franco got to the point. “My men and I guard lemons being brought to market. I don’t know if you heard, but last night Michele was killed and the men taking your shipment to La Cala run off. Your lemons and donkeys were stolen by bandits.”
“Who’s Michele?”
Ironically, Franco felt angry at the Baron for not mourning a man he himself had murdered. “He’s yourgabellotto.”
“How do you know what happened?”
“My men and I patrol the Conca d’Oro. I knew Michele. I found him and the others shot to death this morning.”
“Can you help me get a newgabellotto? I never go out there.”
“Of course, I know many experiencedgabellotti.” Franco would place his own man there, ensuring his loyalty. “I’ll get back to you with a recommendation.”
“How much are your services?”
“No fee for finding yourgabellotto, but a fee for protecting yourgiardinoand lemons to market. With some effort, I think I can recover the ones that were stolen.”
“I bet you can.” Baron DiGiulio lifted a knowing eyebrow.
“My fee is twenty-five percent more than before. These are dangerous times in the Conca d’Oro. My men and I run a lethal risk.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“Did you hear that brigands burned Baron Zito’s villa andgiardinoto the ground? He lost everything.”
Baron DiGiulio bristled. “Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not. I’m presenting a choice. Pay me for protection or don’t.”
Baron DiGiulio sniffed. “Why do I feel as if I’m paying you to protect mefromyou?”
“Ask yourself, I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” Baron DiGiulio’s hand went to his chin. “You know, I think mycontadinishould pay. They farm the land, and I doubt they pay enough for that privilege. What do you think?”
Franco thought that it was something only apezzo di merda, a piece of shit, would say. “I don’t care where you get it from.”
“Did Michele pay your increase?”
“No.”
Baron DiGiulio seemed to think it over again, and Franco took in the fancy quill-and-ink set and the paperweights ofmillefioriglass. Leather-bound books filled one shelf next to some silver awards that jarred a memory of something Michele had said.
“Baron DiGiulio, I understand you’re considering running for mayor someday. I know everyone in the Conca d’Oro. I would encourage them to help elect you.” Franco hesitated, for show. “If we were in business together.”
Baron DiGiulio leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and seemed to appraise Franco with new eyes. Suddenly, there came the lilting laughter of women in the next room, and only one man allowed himself to be distracted, looking away.
“Baron DiGiulio, have you made a decision?” Franco asked, on point.
Franco, Roberto, and their menrode on horseback through Palermo, turning heads. Roberto basked in the attention, and Franco felt satisfied, having made a deal with Baron DiGiulio and hired a housekeeper who couldn’t take direction. Her name was Signora Esposito, and her bony little frame fit perfectly in his arms atop Arabo, even though she was cantankerous.
“Signore, go slower!”
Franco smiled. “We’re walking.”
“We’re walking too fast! I’m worried my bag’s going to fall.”
“It won’t,” Franco told her for the third time.
