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“We’re competitors. I have no interest in protecting your lemons to market against mine. I doubt Baron Zito would, either.”
“The Baron needn’t know.”
“I make the decision on my own.”
“You’re saying no? Even if it means we’re all safer? That nobody will get a scar like this one? Or lose hislife?” Mariano’s eyes widened in frustration. “Franco, it’s for the collective good. Our lives are more important than lemons, aren’t they?”
“We all have this problem and must solve it our own way.” Franco gestured at his lemon trees. “Look, we have the same problems in thegiardini.We all experience blight and have trouble getting grafts to take. Yet I have methods I don’t share with you, and I saw you looking when you came in.”
“Fair enough.” Mariano shook his head. “But here’s something you’re not considering. There’s little work except for what we offer. That’s why the piazza is crowded when you hirebraccianti.Men need to feed their families, and they’re becoming brigands to do it. Franco, they’ll attack you again. You’re a target now. They need to save face.”
Franco had noticed an increase in the frequency of attacks.
Roberto interjected, “Mariano, I agree with my brother that cooperating with competitors goes against business sense. Worse, I think if you combine your trips to market, it will make too long a caravan. Aherd protects because it’s a bunched formation. A long line is the opposite. I have a better idea.”
Mariano blinked. “What?”
“Me.” Roberto spread his palms. “I’m the idea. Just now, when I told the story about the attack, I exaggerated the number of brigands, because more brigands are more threatening. What we need is an army of guards to protect you on the way to market, even to protect your farms.”
Mariano shook his head. “We already havecampieri, two armed men to protect thegiardinowhile we’re on the trip.”
Roberto raised an index finger. “Mariano, I mean thirty men or more, andnotmen who grow lemons. We need men who shoot, like me. I’m an excellent shot. I hunted all the time with my friends, also excellent hunters. I can send for them.”
Franco could see only one drawback. “It’s dangerous, Roberto.”
“So? I don’t mind risk, do I?”
“It’s not a card game. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Roberto patted Franco’s shoulder. “This way, I can be my own man, but work with you. We’ll be partners with different areas of responsibility. Don’t you agree? We can both be king of the mountain.”
Franco smiled. “I agree.”
Mariano brightened. “How would we pay such an army, Roberto?”
“Easy.” Roberto shrugged. “I’m betting you’re a Communist.”
“I am,” Mariano answered proudly.
“Signor Collective Thinker, you’re going to like my answer. You pool your money. Every farm contributes to a pot proportionally, according to its size. The pot is mine, and in return, every trip to market receives protection from me and my guards. This is a beautiful plan.” Roberto bowed with a flourish. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Commendatore Roberto. I’m as rich as sin. Men envy me, virgins bed me. My future’s as clear as the sky. Are you in?”
“I’m in.” Franco chuckled.
“We’re in, too,” Mariano answered, then turned to Franco. “But I have a question. Franco, why is it okay for competitors to cooperate by hiring guards, but not by traveling to market together?”
“I want you bankrupt, not dead.”
Mariano laughed, and so did Roberto and Onorato.
Franco laughed, too.
But he wasn’t kidding.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gaetano hurried along the piazza to the Cathedral. He was going to investigate the kidnapping, following up on the idea he’d gotten after Mass. Tucked under his arm was his leather envelope, with fresh paper inside. He’d left the office in a hurry, having placed the finished lending agreement on Don Matteo’s desk. He’d told Bartolomeo he was leaving for a doctor’s appointment.
He reached the entrance of the Cathedral and let himself through its massive doors, taking off his hat. He paused at the font of holy water, making the sign of the cross. He walked up the center aisle to the altar, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. It was between Masses, so it was quiet, and only a few parishioners knelt in the pews, their heads bent in prayer, rosaries dripping from their fingers.
