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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Franco set the basket of fresh lemons in the donkey cart, taking off his cap and wiping his brow. Roberto, Sebastiano, and Ezio were picking with thebracciantiin the oppressive heat. Sebastiano and Ezio, who usually sang as they worked, remained silent, and Roberto had run out of jokes. There was no breeze, and the humidity soured the lemons’ perfume.
Franco heard men calling his name. “Mariano? Onorato? I’m here!” he called back.
“Who are they?” Roberto asked, wiping sweat from his face.
“Gabellottifrom Moravio’s and Silvestri’s.”
Mariano and Onorato appeared on mules at the end of the row, then approached them, eyeing thegiardino. Franco knew they were assessing his lemons, determining whether they were free from disease and if grafting had been successful. He sent Sebastiano, Ezio, and thebracciantiback to the house for a break, and thegabellottidismounted.
Franco gestured to Roberto. “Mariano, Onorato, meet my brother, Roberto.”
“Franco, Roberto.” Mariano smiled, and Onorato nodded.
Roberto shook their hands. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” Mariano’s smile showed missing teeth. His features were coarse, his eyes almost black, and a scar puckered his left cheek. Darkcurls sprayed out from the sides of his cap. “You and Franco look so much alike.”
“I’m handsomer,” Roberto shot back, as Franco knew he would. It always got a laugh and did today, too.
“Good to see you, men.” Franco didn’t know what they wanted. Visits from othergabellottiweren’t common, none of them had time. “How can we help you?”
“We heard about what happened with the brigands.”
“Yes, but it went fine.”
Mariano grinned. “Fine? We heard you ran them off, the two of you.”
“It was fine,” Franco repeated, not wanting to share his business.
Roberto interjected, “Franco ran them off. I followed at a cowardly distance.”
They laughed, then Mariano’s smile faded. “Tell us what happened. It’s why we came.”
“I’ll tell it.” Roberto launched into a comically exaggerated version, and Mariano and Onorato laughed. But by the time Roberto had finished, the humor had vanished.
Mariano met Franco’s eye. “There are too many attacks in the Conca d’Oro. You know the same stories I do. Men have beenkilledtaking lemons to market. No one is safe anymore.” He pointed to his scar. “I got this from a brigand. He tried to cut my eye out.”
“I’m sorry, and I know it’s true. I see the crucifixes beside the road.”
Mariano shook his head. “This has to stop. My farmers lose money. That means they can’t pay rent.”
Roberto interjected again, “We had this problem in Bronte, but I thought it would be different here. There’s no police, even in Palermo?”
“None,” Franco answered. “We’re on our own.”
Mariano straightened. “Franco, we have a solution. We should help each other, coordinate our trips to Palermo. We would all be safer, and our lemons would get to market. It only makes sense. We harvest at the same time and we make trips to market at the same time. We gofromthe same placetothe same place. We would do better collectively.”
Franco listened without interrupting. Roberto did, too.
“Franco, everyone knows what you did that night, chasing the brigands. If we were going to pick one leader, it would be you. We would like to join you and make trips to Palermo with you. There’s safety in numbers, as you know. Donkeys herd for a reason.”
Franco shook his head. “No.”
Roberto looked over, lifting an eyebrow.
“Why not, Franco?”
