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“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 wishwewere 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, carriedin the first course ofpasta alla Norma, a traditional Sicilian dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce, strips of fried eggplant, andricotta 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 thericotta 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 throughthe winding streets and alleys of the Capo district, his fine boots clattering on thebalati, 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 duckedbehind 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.”
