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“I’ll see you out.” Gaetano walked him to the door. “Thank you, and good night.”
Dottor Marconi left, and Gaetano looked around the living room, utterly at a loss. Maria’s embroidery sat on the end table, a baby’s face half-stitched on ivory linen. He didn’t know when she’d started the design. He spotted a vase with drooping freesia, but he didn’t knowwhen she had bought flowers. He didn’t even recognize the vase, so perhaps that was new, too.
Gaetano couldn’t remember the last time he’d chatted with Maria in the living room or roughhoused with the boys on the rug. He had been reading a book about the Spanish Inquisition, but it was nowhere in sight. There was no evidence of him in the apartment. He’d become a ghost in his own home.
His heartbroken gaze fell on their ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary, a bronze crucifix on a stand, and their family Bible. He walked over and sank to his knees. Their four rosaries sat in little silver boxes, his had tiger’s-eye beads.
He felt a wave of guilt so profound that he doubled over, covering his face with his hands. He had neglected his wife and his family. He had chosen to search for a missing child, and in the end, he had lost his own.
He would have to pray to God for forgiveness, for the rest of his life.
He started now.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Franco, Roberto, and their men left Baron Zito’s palazzo in flames and galloped through the night. Franco’s mind burned with fiery images. Something had been set free inside him, a dark energy empowering him. He was becoming the man he was truly meant to be. Now he was home in the Conca d’Oro, and it was time for the final step.
Franco held his flaming torch high, facing his farmhouse from atop Arabo. Beside him were Roberto, Sebastiano, and Ezio, and behind them were all of their men. Franco looked around, taking in the beautifulgiardinoin the darkness, one last time. No longer could he smell its lemony perfume.He breathed only oily smoke from his torch.
“Is everything ready?” Franco looked over at Roberto in the torchlight.
“Yes. The servants are paid and gone, the animals were taken to Mario’s. We dug and watered the perimeter.”
“What about our strong box?”
“Reburied at Mario’s.” Roberto met his eye. “Franco, are you sure you want to do this? Thegiardinois not the palazzo. You love this place. It’syours.”
“No, it’s not. It never was. The next one will be.”
Roberto fell silent, awaiting Franco’s order, and so did the men, their horses restless.
“Vai!” Franco shouted, spurring Arabo into a gallop. He galloped straight for the farmhouse, while Roberto and his men headed for Baron Zito’s villa and its outbuildings. Sebastiano, Ezio, and the other men went with them, heading with torches for thegiardino.
Franco rode inside the farmhouse and set fire to his table, chairs, and bed, maneuvering Arabo in the tight quarters. Arabo understood, his fine Arabian blood as hot as Franco’s. They set fire to the farmhouse, charged outside, and headed for thelimonaia.
Franco rode inside thelimonaiaand lit up the wooden walls, rafters, and boxes of lemons. He raced out and rode up and down the rows of lemon trees closest to his house and thelimonaia, setting fire to limb and leaf. They went up, their leaves crackling and spitting. Birds and bats flapped and fled in panic.
The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. His eyes began to water. He charged on and on, setting fire to every tree, up and down, right and left, not stopping even when tears streamed down his face.
Orange and gold flames climbed the night sky. The lemon trees burned like hundreds of fireballs under the moon.
Franco knew he was crying, but he didn’t stop.
His new life would arise from these ashes.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was nighttime, but Dante was awake and the cell was quiet. Opera Singer had fallen asleep, and the silence felt like a gift. Suddenly, he heard men in the other cells calling to Renzo, and he feared that Opera Singer would wake up. Luckily, Opera Singer stayed asleep, and Dante’s ears picked up a sound he had never heard before in the hallway.
It was another boy, crying.
Dante thought his ears were playing tricks on him, at first. But in the next moment, he heard Renzo’s heavy footsteps and the crying, louder and closer.
“Shut up, boy!” Renzo shouted, his voice echoing in the hallway.
Dante started to shake, and his eyes filled with tears. Renzo was carrying another boy down the hall.
Dante heard the door on his old cell open. Renzo was putting the boy in the cell and would tie him to the wall with the rope.
