3

The next day, it's Ignazio who's the first to survey the devastated rooms. He's been told by the firefighters that it was an accidental fire: perhaps a hearth that had not been put out, perhaps a spark that fell on a curtain or a rug... But what does that matter now?

With a heavy heart, Ignazio wanders between the blackened walls, passes his fingers over the fragments of tapestry cracked

by the heat, clambers over furniture reduced to ashes, shards of valuable porcelain, blackened and disfigured paintings. Finally,

he comes to his mother's bedroom.

All that remains of it, and of various drawing rooms and, above all, of the wonderful ballroom, are the walls. The other rooms

on the ground floor—including the study—are miraculously intact. And fortunately, the fire did not spread to the newest part

of the Olivuzza; his room and Franca's, the dining room, the winter garden, and the green salon have all been saved.

Sitting in an armchair in the garden of Villa Igiea, wrapped in a large shawl, Giovanna listens to her son's account; painful

as it is, Ignazio knows that it would be pointless to hide the truth from her. He speaks slowly, trying not to let any bitterness

seep through, but Giovanna senses it on her skin, almost like an echo of last night's heat.

Ignazio removes something from his jacket pocket. "Here, I found this on the floor of your room," he says, handing her a diamond

necklace all dirty with soot. "I'm sorry. I fear the pearls and cameos are ruined. We'll look for them anyway."

Giovanna takes the necklace. The gold has been warped by the heat and the stones are opaque. She turns it in her hands and

hardly recognizes it. No, it can't be one of her husband's gifts. Then she remembers the large inlaid ivory box on the dressing

table, the one that contained her delights.

And suddenly she understands.

She will never again hold Giovannuzza's sewn-canvas shoes. Her Vincenzino's baptism shirt, finished in petit point by Donna Ciccia. Ignazio's last bottle of perfume. Her glasses. Her coral and silver rosary. The photographs of her husband, of her son in a sailor suit, and her dead grandchildren, arranged on the chest of drawers so that they were the first things she saw in the morning and the last things she saw at night. All the clothes in her wardrobe. The blouse she wore on her wedding night. The medallion with a lock of Ignazio's hair. The prayer book in which she kept a portrait of little Blasco. The books with Vincenzino's German exercises. His violin. The damask curtains. Donna Ciccia's rosary. The large portrait of Ignazio, painted when he was still young and healthy.

Her life, in ashes.

But also...

She's never had the heart to get rid of the rosewood-and-ebony box in which Ignazio kept the letters of the woman he loved.

Giovanna found it after his death and, more than once, was driven by jealousy to take it out of the chest and burn it, but

she never did. Nostalgia won out over resentment. Even what she had hated most had become dear to her. Inside that box was

a trace of Ignazio, of his love; however painful it was, and even though that love had not been reserved for her, those letters

made her feel close to him.

And now they have gone up in smoke.

Now they are just ashes, carbon, and soot.

And Giovanna doesn't know how she will keep going, now that even the last of her ghosts has disappeared.

***

Annina Alliata di Montereale likes cars and speed. She is courageous and resolute. She looks to the future without fear.

Vincenzo immediately sensed that. And he had confirmation of it when, two months ago, in July, she asked him to marry her. Yes, she asked him. In that, too, Annina was extraordinary.

They were on their way to the sea when he invited her to drive instead of him. In the other car, Franca smiled indulgently,

Maria Concetta crossed herself, and the chauffeur decided to go much more slowly than usual. Then Annina floored the pedal

and overtook the other car, throwing her hat into the back seat and lifting her face to the sun. Then she sounded the horn

and in doing so brushed Vincenzo's arm. He blushed like a schoolboy.

They stopped near the seaside resort of Romagnolo. In front of them, the coast of Aspra and Porticello and a sea of a turquoise

so brilliant it hurt your eyes. She quickly hopped out of the car, adjusting the sleeves of her peach dress, her mouth fixed

in a half smile. Vincenzo grabbed his jacket and joined her, and they began walking side by side.

"Don't tell me off for being reckless, all right? You knew I would drive like that."

"I'd never tell you off. I like speed—you know that."

She nodded, then grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "I know. We're perfect together." Her face turned serious. "Marry me."

He stared at her in astonishment. A woman making a marriage proposal?

And besides... Get married? Him? Give up everything, his lady friends, his life, his amusements, his travels, his car races...

"Yes."

His reply came from the soul. Because with her he wouldn't have to give anything up, because they shared the same passions,

because they were both hungry for life. Ever since Annina had entered his life, he hadn't looked at anyone else. Of course,

he occasionally spent an evening at the Casa delle Rose, but that was expected of a man, wasn't it?

Vincenzo was silent for a few moments, his eyes wide open. "I should have been the one to ask, you know."

She shrugged. "You can make a public declaration, with a ring and everything, for the sake of our family members and acquaintances.

They expect it anyway and are dying to have something they can chatter about, or even malign. I want to know if you want me

as much as I want you."

He didn't reply, but kissed her, lifting her from the path that led to the sea.

"Oh, my God! What's this?" cried Maria Concetta, who had caught up with them in the meantime. But not Franca. She didn't smile;

she sighed and looked away.

Annina isn't a girl like the others. Jewelry and clothes interest her only to a point. She's pragmatic, cheerful, full of

life, and above all determined to live without compromise. She claims respect. She's not like Franca, who, after years of

quarrels, has chosen to ignore her brother-in-law's relationships.

Vincenzo knows that. With her he will have to change his ways, he thinks, as he opens the door of the little villa in the

middle of the grounds. He is greeted by the smell of wood and the gentle smell of the citrus potpourri on the large center

table. He looks around: by the entrance, which also doubles as a sitting room, wooden vaults rise from the walls to interweave

in sinuous lines on the ceiling. On the left, a fireplace of majolica and wood; facing him, a large window that looks out

onto a terrace covered with white canvas and furnished with wrought-iron divans. Ducrot furniture—couches upholstered in green,

a large console with flowery lines—completes these spaces in which light and wood seem to merge into one another.

He heads for the basement, where the automobile workshops are, but also a billiard room, which doubles as a fumoir and gaming room. While he waits for his cousin Ciccio d'Ondes to join him for a game of billiards, he checks the cues in the racks and rubs chalk on the tips. The huge room, also upholstered in green, is cool and silent: the ideal place to spend this summer afternoon without any disturbance. He has often brought women here and spent whole afternoons with them, playing cards and using his clothes and those of the day's beauty as stakes.

This thought both pleases and embarrasses him. When the fire broke out at the Olivuzza in February, he feared for a moment

that the fire would also engulf his little villa. He can remember how desperate this made him feel: this place is a part of

him, reflecting his desire for freedom and independence, his constant search for surprising things.

This is a bachelor's house , he tells himself with a sigh. He'll have to change something or else find another place to live with Annina. Something they

can build together.

He's always thought only of himself and now he can only think of her by his side. And for the first time in his life, he feels

confused. He's too young to remember his mother's devotion to her husband, and he doesn't know how much love his grandmother

Giulia gave to the grandfather whose name he bears. All he has before his eyes are countless marriages of convenience, either

social or economic. The mere idea of the cage of lies and suffering that some couples have built around themselves makes him

shudder.

Of one thing he is certain: he wants Annina in his life. On the one hand, he'll try not to hurt her; on the other, he'll try

to give her everything she deserves.

Love and respect. These are new words for him, just the beginning of a journey to a fascinating and unknown land.

But with Annina by his side, he feels he can go to the ends of the earth.

***

That afternoon in late October 1908, in the study of the Olivuzza, Ignazio rubs his eyes and picks up a sheet of paper. Yet

another bill: worth—robes, manteaux, lingeries, fourrures .

The list below these words almost makes him feel dizzy:

1 Robe de soie en velours gris taupe, panneaux de tulle même ton, brodée de paillettes grises mates et scintillantes, ourlet

de skunks

1 Corsage en tulle garni d'épis de blé mur

1 Costume de piqué, gilet de lingerie

1 Manteau du soir en velours cerise garni de chinchilla; manches rebrodées or de motif "étincelle"

1 Robe de dentelle d'argent et satin bleu ciel...

"Sending Franca, Igiea, and my mother to Paris to replenish their wardrobe after the fire was a really bad idea..." he

says to himself, staring in dismay at the figure at the bottom of the list. At other times the sum would have been of little

consequence to him; now it is a branding iron. As are the bills from Lanvin and Cartier, where his wife took her mother-in-law

to replace some of the luxuries that were lost in the fire.

On the other hand, his mother's mood had darkened even more, Igiea had caught fright, and Franca... Well, sending her away

did help to avoid any scenes and the acid comments she'd been making since she found out about his relationship with Vera

Arrivabene.

Franca's mother, first of all, and then Giulia were right: you cannot trust the Papadopoli twins. Madda is no longer hiding her interest in the nineteen-year-old Giuseppe Lanza di Trabia. As for Vera, her husband is more than ten years her senior, a stiff naval officer. True, he's a friend of Ignazio's... but that hasn't been enough to stop him.

Vera is beautiful, bright, full of life: she makes him feel good and lightens his heart, and that's what Ignazio desperately

needs. Within these walls, he feels oppressed.

He pushes away the bills from Worth, Lanvin, and Cartier and skims through those for the restoration of the Olivuzza. He's

had to redo as many as eight rooms—including the ballroom—not to mention all the cleaning and painting needed to remove the

carbon black from the walls of other rooms. Franca and he have considered taking the opportunity to build a circular anteroom

next to the ballroom, the kind of space that's become fashionable for chatting and relaxing.

"Relaxing, of course," Ignazio murmurs.

A light knock at the door. "Avvocato Marchesano, Don Ignazio," the butler announces.

With heavy steps, Giuseppe Marchesano comes in and approaches the desk. For some time now he has been the family's lawyer,

after having served as a deputy as well as the civil lawyer in the Notarbartolo murder trial. But his brief interrogation

of Ignazio goes back seven years. Since then, the wind has changed course many times, and Marchesano has adapted. In addition,

he's certainly not the only one, in Sicily, to have a past that contradicts his present.

Ignazio doesn't even stand. He looks warily at the huge portfolio that Marchesano has set on the desk, then fixes the lawyer

with an expression halfway between impatience and anxiety. "Give me some good news," he says as soon as the door closes behind

the butler. "I need it."

The lawyer's mustache—as black and compact as his hair—quivers. "I fear I can't help you there." He sits down and points at the portfolio. "They've written to me from the Banca Commerciale." He pauses. "From the head office in Milan."

Eyes closed, Ignazio rubs the base of his nose. "Go on."

"At the meeting on November 10, they will ask you to officially transfer the NGI shares you gave as collateral to two companies,

La Veloce and Italia. They've chosen these two companies because they're affiliated with NGI, which means the shares will

remain within the group." He speaks calmly, measuring his words. Ignazio Florio knows what it means, he isn't stupid, but

he needs to accept the fact that the Banca Commerciale Italiana, Casa Florio's biggest creditor, no longer trusts him.

And they're trying to force him out of NGI.

Ignazio covers his face with one hand. "They're scared," he says. "They're afraid we'll sell the NGI shares cheaply to some

foreign company to get ready cash, thus allowing dangerous competitors to enter the market."

"That's obvious. They've been keeping an eye on you ever since you sold shares to Attilio Odero. Practically speaking, you

handed him the shipyard. What is it they say? You let the fox in the henhouse—that's it."

It's true; almost three years have gone by since he transferred the shares of his shipyard company to scrape together a little

money, a move that basically excluded him from the activities of the company. It's a sacrifice that still hurts—and that didn't

even solve the problem.

"That bastard Piaggio is behind all this. Ever since I dismissed him, he's been determined to have NGI chewed up by his Lloyd's

Italiano. And I'm ready to bet that Giolitti is in agreement and can't wait to get rid of me! He and all his friends!"

Marchesano raises an eyebrow but makes no comment. He unties the strings of the portfolio, takes out a sheet, and squints at it. Then he takes a pince-nez from his pocket and puts it on. "Over time, you've ceded more and more NGI shares to the Commerciale, and now there's practically nothing left in the coffers. You even gave them the last SAVI shares, as collateral for a loan, and God knows if you'll be able to get them back. In addition, the state navigation conventions are up for renewal soon, and your competitors will be able to make better offers."

"So when it comes down to it, what does the Banca Commerciale want?" Ignazio's voice has grown thin. "Because they have to

give me something in return. They surely don't expect me to divest myself of everything!"

"The Banca Commerciale holds the shares temporarily and is offering you the chance to buy them back in May or November of

next year, obviously at a higher price." Marchesano removes his pince-nez and crosses his hands over his belly. "To be quite

honest, Don Ignazio, you're right: these are brutal circumstances. If those shares are not redeemed, you will be ousted from

NGI and everything associated with it, especially the Oretea Foundry, but also the slipway. Nevertheless, given the situation

of the company, I don't see what..."

He takes out another sheet of paper and hands it to Ignazio.

Ignazio looks at these figures. In their purity, the numbers are pitiless.

And the situation they summarize is tragic.

He feels his hands shaking and his stomach tightening. He reaches out his arm and grabs the bell. He wants Vincenzo to be

present, too.

Up to now he has sheltered him from everything, he's never explained in detail what's been happening. He wanted Vincenzo to enjoy his youth without being burdened with responsibilities, as he himself was. He has permitted Vincenzo everything, spoiling him like a son, the son he no longer has.

A thought crosses his mind, striking the earth like an electric current.

Will there still be a reason to fight?

His brother doesn't take long to arrive, but the wait seems endless. Ignazio and Marchesano remain silent while the shadows

lengthen in the room, taking possession of the shelves, twisting around the feet of the desk, and rising to the surface, among

the papers. It seems almost as if the wood is breathing, emitting a creak.

One final very long moan.

Vincenzo arrives out of breath, in his shirtsleeves and sporting attire. He has grease stains on his hands and light-colored

trousers, and he looks cheerful. "What's going on, Igna'? I've been repairing my car with the mechanics and... Oh, Avvocato

Marchesano, you're here too?"

"Come in."

His brother's grim tone extinguishes the smile on Vincenzo's face. He closes the door and sits down next to Marchesano. Ignazio

passes him the sheet of paper with the figures and orders him to read.

Vincenzo obeys. As he reads, his brow furrows and he shakes his head, again and again. "I don't understand..." he murmurs.

"All that money... How is it possible?" Vincenzo turns pale and scans the columns again with his fingers, as if, by so

doing, the figures might change. "When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because it all started nearly fifteen years ago and you were too young then. Do you remember the failure of Credito Mobiliare? They were connected to our bank, and because of that people were confident enough to deposit money with them, and then... I settled their debts, repaying savers with money from Casa Florio. That's where it all started. I used up all that money and now..."

He falls silent and points to the papers on the table.

A series of attempts, a mountain of failures: from the agrarian consortium to the Marsala winery. From the shipyard to the

Anglo-Sicilian Sulfur Company. And even Villa Igiea, whose shares are now almost all pledged to a French bank, La Société

Fran?aise de Banque et de Dép?ts—yes, he's had to go all the way to France to get a bit of money.

"I had so few assets, I've had to beg for loans from other banks. And now the interest is due..."

"Only the tonnaras are still active," Marchesano says, confirming what Vincenzo, whose finger has lingered over the entry for the Aegadian Islands,

has been thinking.

Ignazio slumps back in his chair and looks at the lawyer. It seems as if a part of himself is convinced that some solution,

some way out, can come from that overweight man. But the other part, the rational, lucid part, is screaming at him that Casa

Florio is a prisoner of its debts.

And now everyone knows, not only in Palermo but all over Europe. It's no longer only a question of the bills from the tailors,

the jewelers, the furniture makers. Or of the fact that the hotels on the C?te d'Azur or in the Swiss Alps now ask that the

bill be paid the moment he checks out, when before all it took was a handshake and the understanding that the money would

be paid soon. Then there are the promissory notes, an increasing number of them, waiting to be paid. And the mortgages that

have been taken out on the houses and factories over time.

"Yes, the Aegadian Islands are the only thing that still brings in any money," Marchesano says. He gets to his feet and looks at them. Beside him, a young man who until now has thought only of enjoying life but is now crushed by these figures, even if he doesn't yet fully understand their real meaning: for him, money has never been something to worry about. In front of him, Ignazio. All at once, this elegant forty-year-old strikes Marchesano as old and tired. As if the weight of a curse has landed on him. A man without an aim in life.

Without a son to whom he can leave everything.

Marchesano feels sorry for him.

Not that the Florios can claim it's impossible, or accuse anyone else, he reflects. The writing has been on the walls, and this communication from the Banca Commerciale is only confirmation of

years of risky activities, of advice given but not taken, of thoughtlessness.

Ignazio blinks as if waking from a long sleep. "With the cards in our hands, we won't even be able to get those shares back,"

he comments bitterly.

Marchesano can only open his arms wide. "I told you: these are very harsh conditions. But they're also the only ones they're

prepared to offer you." He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps away from the desk. "The situation is serious,

but not unsolvable, Don Ignazio. We have to think up a recovery plan. A way of finding a new direction. Because right now

Casa Florio has no credibility." His tone is calm, his words like knives.

Ignazio puts his hand over his mouth to stop himself cursing. He shudders, brings his hand down onto the desk, and cries,

"Damn!"

Vincenzo gives a start and shifts back in his chair. He's never seen Ignazio so angry or so desperate.

"The Banca Commerciale already has our bank... the shares, the customers... And it's had them for six years! As collateral

for the money I asked for! And now they want the rest?"

"But at that time they opened a line of credit for five million—"

"How much?" Vincenzo cuts in.

The lawyer turns to look at the young man and this time is unable to hide the pity he feels, a pity tinged with annoyance.

"Six years ago, your brother was given credit by the Banca Commerciale, but he's continued to sink further in debt year after

year, guaranteeing it with the temporary shares, starting with those of NGI. You, Signore, have been kept out of this for

too long. It's good that you should see the storm clouds gathering over your future."

Vincenzo opens his mouth to speak but is unable.

He's starting to understand. He remembers. The Aegusa , the yacht on which he spent so many carefree summers as a child. Sold. And the same thing happened to the Fieramosca , the Aretusa , and the Valkyrie . Then there was the sale of Villa ai Colli... "I always thought you transferred Villa ai Colli to the nuns because Franca no longer wanted to set foot in the place where

Giovannuzza died. Instead of which..."

A pained line appears on Ignazio's brow. He shrugs, as if to say: Yes, that, too, for the same reason, then reaches out his hand across the table, grabs another file, and pushes it toward him. The label says: sale of the lands of the terre rosse . The properties of Giovanna d'Ondes, her dowry.

Vincenzo shakes his head, incredulous. He reaches out his hand to open the file, then pulls it back, as if scorched. "What

does Maman know?"

"Of the situation we're in? Very little. She's aware we're having difficulties, but..."

"And Franca?"

Ignazio's glance is more eloquent than any words.

"Before anything else," Marchesano says, "you have to decide if you want to get back the SAVI shares you offered as collateral to the Commerciale and thereby keep participating in the activities of the Marsala winery. You have private accounts that should be settled as soon as possible."

"But there are still resources..." Vincenzo murmurs. He gets to his feet, waves his hands, then indicates the list of assets.

"There's the property, the shares... I'm sure even the SAVI shares have some value."

Ignazio coughs. "But didn't you hear that those shares were given as collateral for the debts? So, basically, we can't count

on them, given that it's almost impossible to buy them back. Yes, there is some credit to be recovered, but very little. Most

of our wealth now comes from Favignana and the houses." He opens his arms wide, as if to embrace what surrounds him.

For a moment, Vincenzo thinks again about his little villa in the grounds of the Olivuzza and about the preparations for his

marriage with his beloved Annina. He promised her a fairy-tale wedding. And now...

Marchesano's voice interrupts his thoughts as the man places an index finger on the papers. "You both understand what needs

to be done." For the first time, he raises his voice. "You have to reduce your expenses . I understand that for you it's difficult to accept, but you have to start somewhere."

"Where? With the Teatro Massimo? The civic hospital? Do you know how things were there? The state the pavilions were in? I

intervened to put it back on an even keel... And now I'm supposed to abandon everything?"

"Don Ignazio, you're involved in too many things that don't bring in any revenue. You have to put a stop to them."

Ignazio pushes himself back from the desk, leaps to his feet, and goes to the window. His hair is disheveled, his tie loose. "Cutting the funds from the charity would mean revealing to the whole world that we're no longer the Florios, that our name, the name of my father and my grandfather, no longer means anything. Do you understand?"

Marchesano doesn't reply immediately. He puts his hands over his lips, as if wanting to hold back what he's thinking. But

in the end, he speaks. And Ignazio and Vincenzo will remember them forever, those words of stone, even when they are old,

even when they no longer have their own house and are forced to live as someone else's guests.

"You no longer have a name people can rely on, Don Ignazio."

Vincenzo collapses into his chair. Ignazio stares into empty space, then closes his eyes. For the first time, he is thankful

that his father is dead, because he would never have been able to bear such shame. And it matters little that he would never

have found himself in this situation.

"Have we reached that point?" Ignazio murmurs.

Marchesano stiffens, takes out his pocket watch, and pauses. There's so much he would like to say, but the words are like

burning embers in his mouth: he has no desire to offend. In the end, he makes up his mind. "We don't have many options, except

to turn to those in high positions."

"The Banca d'Italia and its director, that shark Bonaldo Stringher?" Ignazio shakes his head vigorously. "No! He'd put a chain

around our necks. He has too many allies among the industrialists. They're all waiting to get rid of me and divide Casa Florio

among themselves like mangy dogs."

"They might, yes, but I doubt it. Right now, the main objective is to protect the economy of Palermo and Sicily, and it suits everyone to move in that direction." Marchesano clears his throat. "We'll have to ask for an emergency meeting with Stringher before the partners' meeting." He takes a deep breath, then continues, looking him in the eyes. "You've started businesses that turned out to be failures. You've supported companies that closed down after a few years. You burdened yourself with the construction of a shipyard that never went into full operation and so had to sell it. You've made mistakes through pride and inexperience. Lots of people have given you good advice, but you pushed them away. On top of that, you've made too many enemies, starting with Erasmo Piaggio, whom you dismissed disrespectfully. That's why, yes, we have reached this point, and yes, the name of the Florios is now worth only as much as the paper it's written on. Your estate is gravely compromised, and all that's left is for you to find a way to at least keep your dignity: a way to get out of this with your head held high."