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“We agree!” Don Fulvio chimed in, and heads nodded around the table.
“Thank you.” Gaetano eyed them. “I’ll tell you why I feel so strongly.This kidnapping occurred on the Quattro Canti, the very center of our city, on the night we celebrate our patron, Saint Rosalia. To me, it’s a crime not only against the boy, but against all of us.”
“Yes,” Carmine chimed in. “The festival is the heart of Palermo. If you tear out our heart, how can we live? Who are we then?”
Don Leonardo clucked. “It’s a lawless act against a child, an innocent.”
“Yes!” Don Fabiano shook his knobby fist. “I want justice, for Palermo, the mother to us all.”
Gaetano bore down. “Let me ask you, were any of you watching the procession from the Quattro Canti? We could have witnesses among us. I wasn’t there, I was at the Cathedral with my family.”
Carmine shook his head. “No, we were at the Cathedral, too. My mother-in-law likes to watch the reliquary leave.”
“We were at the Cathedral,” Don Leonardo answered for himself and for Don Manfreddi.
Don Fabiano shook his head. “Sorry, we didn’t go to the festival this year. My wife was feeling poorly.”
Don Vincenzo sighed. “We didn’t, either. My back was acting up.”
Gaetano thought it over. “Do any of you know of anyone who watched from the Quattro Canti? We know so many people who could have been there.”
Carmine nodded. “I’ll ask my wife. Discreetly.”
“As will I,” Don Fulvio added. “She gossips at the bakery every day.”
“Good, thank you,” Gaetano told them. “Now, I’ve been planning my investigation. If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain.”
“Go ahead,” Carmine said, and they all leaned in.
CHAPTER FIVE
PORTICELLO, A FISHING VILLAGE NEAR PALERMO
Mafalda Pancari endured contractions all night, and her friends wiped her brow, offered her water, and prayed. They filled her warm little house to its walls, and those who couldn’t fit inside prayed outside. They all knew how much Mafalda wanted this baby, having been childless for so long.
Mafalda didn’t know if she could bear the pain any longer. Sweat plastered her nightgown to her swollen breasts and belly. She could barely breathe for the agony. Surely, childbirth would kill her. Surely, she would die. Women did all the time, two of them in the village last year.
“Please, God, help me!” Mafalda gritted her teeth. “I can’t do this!”
“Mafalda, you’re almost finished!” Her best friend, Concetta, held her hand. “It’s time to push! Push, push!”
“Oh God!” Mafalda pushed with all her might. “It hurts so much—”
“Think about something else! Count!Uno, due, tre...”
“Uno, due,” Mafalda repeated, pushing. “I have nothing to count—”
“Count your blessings! What’s your greatest blessing?”
“My husband, my Turi,” Mafalda answered through clenched teeth.
“Yes, he’s such a good man!” another woman joined in. “He’ll bring home a good catch! Fish for everyone!”
Mafalda didn’t want to think about fish now. “Concetta? Help me!”
“Turi is your first blessing! What else? Count your second!”
Mafalda pushed. “My parents in heaven, watching over me.”
