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Roberto broke into a crooked smile. “Franco, you want to work harder fornoextra? Then I agree. Congratulations, you’re a terrible negotiator.”
Franco chuckled, then stood up. “Now, we have to get going.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Get the men.”
Roberto rose. “Okay,boss!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
It was morning by the time Franco, Roberto, and their men rode into Palermo, the sight causing a stir. Franco and Roberto led the way on Arabo and the mare, followed by ten armed men on horseback, blocking the narrow streets. Their sweaty faces, open shirts, dirty britches, and rough boots showed that they came from outside the city limits. Their guns showed that they came from outside any limits at all.
The clatter of so many hooves brought people to their windows to watch. Shopkeepers stopped sweeping and looked up. Women waiting at the bakery clustered together, talking behind their hands. Men ducked inside the shops or turned onto side streets, instinctively getting out of the way.
Franco acknowledged everyone with a nod, and Roberto was grinning like the mayor himself. Their men tipped their caps to ladies as they walked by. Franco could tell by the admiring glances of the women and the respectful expressions of the men that everyone regarded them as strong, bold, and daring. The Sicilian word for such qualities wasmafioso, and it was a compliment.
Franco halted the men in front of Baron DiGiulio’s villa, which was one of the best-maintained on the street, a limestone edifice three stories high. Its arched windows were tall, and it had balconies with ornamental ironwork and lovely red and white snapdragons.
Franco dismounted Arabo, handed Roberto the reins, and knocked on the red-lacquered front door. It was opened by an older housekeeper in a black and white uniform, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of Franco and the men.
Franco introduced himself, then said, “Good morning, I’m here to see Baron DiGiulio.”
“You can’t, sir.” The housekeeper pushed a graying tendril back under her cap. “He never rises before noon.”
“This is an important matter. Please wake him.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “I can’t. He’ll fire me.”
“If he fires you, I’ll give you a job.”
“You’re joking, but I’m a widow. I need the money.”
“I’m not joking.”
Roberto interjected, “Heneverjokes.”
The housekeeper whispered, “Baron DiGiulio isn’t a nice man.”
“Neither am I,” Franco whispered back.
Suddenly, a beautiful woman appeared on the balcony in a red silk dressing gown, her long black hair curling to her shoulders. “What’s going on?” she called down.
Roberto called up to her, “My brother, Franco, is here to see Baron DiGiulio, but I’m here to see you, Signora.”
“Signorina!” the woman corrected him, giggling, then another beautiful woman appeared beside her on the balcony. The second woman wore a white dressing gown and had flowing red hair that reminded Franco of Violetta, engendering both desire and despair.
Roberto nudged Franco. “Brother, a replacement redhead!”
Franco ignored him. “I’m here for Baron DiGiulio,” he called up, and soon he got inside.
Baron Digiulio was an agingaristocrat with a balding pate and slim features in a fleshy face with mottled skin. He met with Franco in his well-appointed study, wearing a dressing gown of gold-and-blackbrocade. He sat behind a rose marble desk with gilded legs, narrowing his gray eyes at Franco.
“Signore, you’re rude to call uninvited, at this hour. My housekeeper should never have let you in. The woman cannot take direction.”
“You should fire her.”
“I will.”
