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“Mamma!” the lunatics shouted. “Mamma!”
CHAPTER TWO
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. Thelatifondo, 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 thegiardino, 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 thelimonaia, 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 thegiardino. 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’sgiardinospanned 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 abracciante, a day laborer, to agabellotto, a manager, and thegiardinohad 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 aboutanything,” 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 sobig, 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’sgiardinosits 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 bygabellottilike 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 toownagiardino, not just manage one.”
