4

When Marchesano leaves, Vincenzo takes his head between his hands and stares down at the Persian rug without seeing it. Ignazio

walks up and down the study.

"Stop it." Vincenzo's voice is hoarse with anger. "Keep still, damn it."

Ignazio goes up to him. "What do you want?" he says aggressively. "Can't I even walk?"

"You're getting on my nerves," Vincenzo replies, pushing him away. Does he want to quarrel? Yes. To scream, to understand,

to rebel, because what he's just heard can't possibly be true. It's impossible; he can't believe it.

Ignazio grabs him and shakes him. "Keep calm."

"Why did you never tell me?"

"Would you have understood? All you think about is cars and women... And besides, what was the point in distressing both

of us?"

Vincenzo leaps to his feet. "Oh, you're a saint, are you? How much have you spent on your women, eh? The jewels you gifted all of them, not to mention the houses, like the one you gave Lina Cavalieri! And now, with Vera, you're endlessly going back and forth to Rome... Nothing to do with business, I'm sure!"

"I won't allow you to judge me. I'm the one who pays for your pastimes, or have you forgotten? Do you know how much it costs

to organize the Targa?"

They confront each other. Vincenzo pushes him away, muttering an insult. They are almost the same height; they resemble each

other. But the fifteen years' difference is noticeable, today more than ever.

"You had a duty to tell me what was going on. I didn't realize we were so..." He looks for the word but can't find it.

Ignazio finds it for him. "Desperate? Yes, damn it, that's what we are. And don't rule out the fact that we'll have to sell

some properties to settle our debts." He swallows air, fully conscious that they'll actually need to do a lot more than that

to give Casa Florio breathing room.

Vincenzo tries to calm down, but he's scared. It's not that exciting fear he feels when he's racing. No, this fear freezes his blood and thoughts and wipes out the future. He looks around, as if not recognizing the place he finds himself in, as if the furniture and the objects that have always formed part of his daily life suddenly belong to someone else. He paces around the study, lightly touching the marble panel that depicts an episode in the life of Saint John the Baptist. It's a work by the great fifteenth-century sculptor Antonello Gagini, and Vincenzo remembers that his father bought it when he was very small; it always struck him as huge and very heavy. Next to it is a painting by the school of Raphael. Then there is the desk, the leather armchairs, the Persian rug... And, beyond the door, in that house and in his life, there are the majolica vases, the bohemian crystals, the German porcelain, the English shoes, the exquisitely tailored suits... How can he accept that none of this belongs to him anymore? What kind of existence awaits him?

"I'm sorry." He hears Ignazio's voice behind him.

Vincenzo turns and embraces him. "We'll get out of this with our heads held high, Igna'. You'll see..."

But Ignazio shakes his head and breaks free of Vincenzo's embrace. "And you... you're supposed to be getting married..."

he says, his voice faltering.

At this thought, the line on Vincenzo's forehead relaxes. "We'll postpone it till next year. Annina's an intelligent girl.

She'll understand."

"Just think what they'll say about us. Starting with Tina Whitaker and her forked tongue!"

Vincenzo makes a gesture as if to say: What does that matter? "We'll try to pull through in some way," he replies. Part of him stubbornly thinks that there's a solution, some kind of

way out, because there has to be a way of pulling through. His family has done so much for Palermo and for Sicily. How can

all that be forgotten?

Ignazio nods and sighs, despondently. But his mind is running away, looking for something to comfort him, and he finds it:

Vera, her calm smile, her serenity. And yet next to that idea another one forms: a thought both bright and cruel. He tries

to dismiss it immediately, but in vain. It was that very lightheartedness Vera has given him that allowed him to still have

faith in the future. That gave him hope.

A hope that is inside Franca. Yes, his wife is pregnant again. Five years after the death of Giacobina, Franca is expecting

a child, and God only knows how much he hopes it will be a boy.

***

"Shall we go to the Royal Cinématographe? Oh, if only you knew how moved I was last night by Francesca da Rimini ! And how I then cried with laughter at The Monkey Dentist !"

"As you wish, dear," Franca replies. She turns to the chauffeur. "Via dei Candelai, at the intersection with Via Maqueda,

please." The Isotta Fraschini turns carefully, dodging the holes in the flagstones.

Her new pregnancy, only just announced, has filled Franca with a strange uncertainty. It isn't fear for the child, nor is

it a consequence of Ignazio's constant bad humor—he's in Rome right now on business, anyway. And not only business , she thinks. The image of Vera Arrivabene has come into her mind, but she quickly dismisses it. No, it's a sensation that's

both lethargy and impatience. She would like to go away, perhaps to Paris or the Alps, but the doctor has forbidden it: so

she divides her time between the Olivuzza and Villa Igiea, invites her female friends to play cards, reads a lot—she's just

finished the new tragedy by her beloved D'Annunzio, The Ship , though this time it bored her a little—and goes often to the cinématographe , in the company of Stefanina Pajno, whose chatter always amuses her, and Maruzza, who loves to watch those "scenes from reality,"

perhaps because they remind her of when she was young and affluent and could go traveling with her father and brother.

"The Regio Teatro Bellini is a nicer cinématographe , though. More elegant," Maruzza says, with an unusual hint of joy in her voice.

Stefanina opens her hands wide. "But the common people don't care about elegance. All they care about is stories, even if it's just a puppet show." She gives a muted laugh. "I'll confess something to you, my dear Franca. When I was a girl, I watched a puppet show from the window of my room, with my nurse next to me, because my parents didn't want me to mix with the crowd. And when the storyteller started his narration and put on funny voices, I was excited. I was afraid, I laughed and cried, even though the nurse covered my ears so I wouldn't hear the cursing. Well, with the cinématographe I feel the same... liberation!"

"And besides, it gives everyone the chance to see the world and learn about stories that aren't even in books," Maruzza says

enthusiastically.

"Precisely." Stefanina adjusts her blue afternoon dress, leans back in her seat, and looks out the window. "Everything's changing,

accelerating, even in a lazy city like Palermo. I'm not talking only about the new streets that are finally sweeping away

the alleys in the harbor with their slums, or about the automobiles, or even those flying cars your brother-in-law Vincenzo

likes so much! I'm talking about the women. Very soon even the women here will be like Parisiennes and abandon corsets. Perhaps

they'll have rallies at the Politeama like the suffragettes in London. You read about that, didn't you? There were fifteen

thousand of them, in the Albert Hall! It really seems that all of a sudden women are in a hurry to do new things, to run headlong

into the future. All the same..."

"Yes?" Franca says, turning to look at her.

"Sometimes I think these changes are just superficial. And that in fact we women are still behind, clinging to the past."

"Independence is always frightening," Maruzza comments. "But we can't hide from progress."

"But neither can we erase the past. And it wouldn't even be right to do so. For example, at the cinématographe , I find it unbecoming to be sitting next to my laundrywoman or a coachman. It strikes me as a thing that goes against...

well, the social order."

Maruzza raises her eyes to heaven.

Franca listens but remains silent, then passes a hand over her belly. Perhaps that's another reason for her anxiety. What

kind of world will her child inhabit? What will its place be in this city that's all atremble, ready to follow the future,

but with its face turned to the past?

***

The wainscoting has been polished with wax and gives off a delicate scent. Along the walls, bookcases full of leather-bound

volumes alternate with dark-hued paintings. The shiny marble floor glistens in the sunlight. It's a brazen sun, anomalous

for November, even here in Rome. And it even seems mocking.

Giuseppe Marchesano and Ignazio Florio are sitting in front of an imposing desk. Everything in this room seems to fulfill

the specific aim of inspiring awe, even the large double door covered in Moroccan leather, now closed behind them.

In front of them, Bonaldo Stringher, general director of the Banca d'Italia, leafs through the portfolio that Marchesano has

presented him with.

Ignazio is finding it hard to breathe. He's aware of the beads of sweat forming on his temples and wipes them away with a

furtive gesture.

"I see you've softened your stance," Stringher says. He has a face that seems carved in marble, a broad receding hairline,

narrow, penetrating eyes, and a manner that's both energetic and detached.

Ignazio's back stiffens. "We all have a right to change our minds," he replies condescendingly.

Marchesano is unable to hold back a grimace of irritation. Ig nazio Florio manages to be arrogant even on the edge of the abyss , he thinks.

Stringher runs his hand over his dark vest and lingers on the gold chain of his watch. He looks at it, as if needing to calculate

how much time he can still grant the two men.

"I've exchanged thoughts with our prime minister about your case. Giolitti is of the opinion that Casa Florio must be safeguarded,

not so much because it's yours but because it's necessary for guaranteeing employment and public order in Sicily, which are

already difficult to manage."

Marchesano would like to reply, but Stringher raises a hand to stop him. He looks around, then takes an extinguished cigar

from an ashtray. He relights it, looking straight at Ignazio as he does so.

"So you would be ready to entrust the management of your estate to an external administrator? And what about your brother?

What does he think? After all, he owns a third of your property."

"My brother trusts me absolutely."

Stringher's glance is skeptical. "So there won't be any problem getting his signature on these documents?"

"You'll have it," Marchesano intervenes. "Both Florio brothers commit themselves to entrust all their activities to an external

administrator for a period of ten years, in return for an allowance that guarantees their way of life."

Bonaldo Stringher raises an eyebrow. "Is this allowance also meant to maintain the parasites with whom the Florio brothers

surround themselves? Just to get a sense of the figure we're talking about."

"Parasites? No, good friends who need our assistance and support." Ignazio is unable to restrain himself. "My family has its dignity to maintain, Signor Stringher. Of course, we've made... I've made various mistakes in the administration of the family estate. I admit that. But I bear an important, respected name. I won't allow anyone to humiliate me and..."

Marchesano places a hand on his arm and squeezes it. Be quiet, for heaven's sake , his look seems to be telling him. "As I've told Signor Florio, he will have to make sacrifices, but nothing he cannot deal

with. He and his family will have to be more prudent... Not, of course, to live like common people."

Stringher sits back in his armchair and regards both of them, rolling his cigar between his fingers. "The NGI shares you will

transfer to the designated companies are not sufficient to cover your debts. You need about twenty-one million lire."

Ignazio gives a start. The amount takes his breath away.

"I've managed to obtain a deferment of payment until December for the SAVI shares you gave as collateral," Stringher goes

on, running his finger down the account. "But you also have other deadlines to honor."

"But the conventions..."

"I wouldn't place too much trust in them, Signor Florio. Lloyd's Italiano is already moving in that direction. You should

think about transferring part of the NGI fleet to them. That could certainly improve your position."

So I was right , Ignazio thinks, staring at the edge of the Persian rug, his vision clouding over. That damned Piaggio! It seems that the aim of his life is to take from us Florios everything we've ever achieved.

What Stringher is thinking, meanwhile, is connected to the conversation he had with Giolitti. The minister for transportation is trying to steer through the renewal of the maritime conventions. According to Giolitti, their nature has to change, because for now, they restrict other companies, Ligurian or Tuscan companies for example, from offering services at more advantageous prices. It's not a question of north or south, as far as Giolitti is concerned: it's just that the state can no longer afford to support companies that run a monopoly. And Stringher knows perfectly well that there has already been an auction for the renewal of the transportation services, even though, for various reasons, no company has taken part in it. Stringher knows this but says nothing, because, unlike Ignazio Florio, he knows when it's the right time to speak.

Stringher knows his own power; he knows to whom he owes loyalty.

And if, on the one hand, going to the aid of Casa Florio means helping the economy of an entire island, on the other, the

government has made it extremely clear to him where its own interests lie. And the two things do not necessarily coincide.

Ignazio feels a chill. In that silence, the only one who manages to speak is Marchesano. He gets to his feet, looks at Stringher,

and says, "Thank you, Director. We'll let you know our decision."

***

"Donna Franca, here you are! I was looking for you everywhere until Nino told me you were in the garden. In this cold!"

Maruzza, usually so calm, is unable to conceal her anxiety. She covers Franca with her shawl and warms her hands. Ever since

she got back from Messina, Franca has refrained from talking, has been sleeping little and badly, and has hardly eaten. Now

she's here, sitting motionless on the stone bench in front of the aviary, only a woolen jacket covering her dark gray velvet

dress.

"Come back inside the house, I beg you. I've asked the monsù to make you some tea and lemon tart, the kind you like so much. Let's go inside—it's going to rain soon."

In response, Franca raises her head and looks at Maruzza with a strange smile. "They were there. I saw them..." she murmurs. "Only I could see them, but they were there."

"Who, Donna Franca? What are you talking about?" Maruzza's voice becomes shrill with worry. "Come, let's go and warm up in

front of the fire. You need rest and warmth. Mastro Nino has lit the big one in the crimson salon."

But Franca doesn't move. Once again, she looks straight ahead, and her fingers claw at the dark shawl that Maruzza has draped

over her.

In her eyes, there's an image she doesn't want to wipe out.

The beach at Messina.

At dawn on December 28, 1908, the earth between Sicily and Calabria shook. It had happened before and would happen again.

It has always been a zone for earthquakes, for eddying seas and strong currents, and the Florios have always known that, even

though more than a century has passed since an earthquake prompted the brothers Paolo and Ignazio Florio to leave Bagnara

Calabra in search of their fortune in Palermo.

But this was no ordinary earthquake. It was the hand of God, raining down from the sky onto men and things to destroy them.

The earth split in two, broken like a crust of bread. And left only crumbs.

Reggio Calabria was devastated, many villages—including Bagnara—were reduced to a heap of rubble, and Messina became dust and stone in just under two minutes. Then the spirit of the earthquake took possession of the sea, raising it, and exceptionally high waves crashed down on what remained of the city and those who were on its streets. Fires broke out; there were gas leaks and explosions. Finally, the rain arrived to clear the dust, dirtying it instead of washing it away, blinding the survivors who wandered dazed amid the ruins. The newspapers filled pages and pages with details, each more frightening than the last: the chasms from which hands and legs protruded; the moans, at first strong and heartrending, then ever weaker; the people fleeing to the countryside or else remaining motionless, petrified, screaming without pause. And there were also stories of men digging frantically through stones, beams, and corpses in search of something to steal: the eternal story of jackals rummaging through other people's pain.

In the days that followed, there was a profusion of news: anguish and dismay turned to an initiative to provide emergency

help, which could arrive only by sea, given that the roads were impassable thanks to landslides.

The king, who arrived in Messina together with Queen Elena on December 30, on board the Vittorio Emanuele , said this himself in a telegram to Giolitti. Here there is carnage, fire and blood. Send ships, ships, ships. Then news came that Nicoletta Tasca di Cutò, Giulia Trigona's sister, had been buried under the rubble with her husband,

Francesco Cianciafara. Fortunately, their sixteen-year-old son, Filippo, was saved.

At that point, Franca could no longer be content with the newspapers and bombarded Ignazio with questions. She wanted to know

what the cruiser Piemonte of the Regia Marina had done—it was in the harbor at Messina when the tragedy occurred and was the first to intervene—what

help had arrived from the English merchant ships, but above all what NGI was doing. And he explained that they were carrying

food and aid, that four of NGI's steamers were ready to take survivors on board, that the Lombardia and the Duca di Genova were arriving from Genoa with provisions for about two thousand people for a month, and that the Singapore and the Campania would dock in Naples with three thousand displaced people on board.

But that wasn't enough for her.

When Ignazio announced that he was planning to go to Messina, Franca asked if she could go with him. When he refused, she implored him. Giovanna and Maruzza told her there were too many dangers for a pregnant woman, that there was a risk of disease and infection, that she was needed in Palermo in the charity committees for the evacuees, that she shouldn't tire herself, that the fright could harm the child... all to no avail. On the morning he left, Franca made sure she was outside the door, with her traveling coat and a suitcase. In a tone that brooked no reply, she said, "I have to be there, too."

They boarded a steamer and then, after transferring to a motorboat, found themselves on the beach at Messina. While Ignazio

supervised the unloading of food and medicines and participated in the emergency teams, Franca walked amid the tents and the

makeshift camps, ready to help in every way possible.

And it was then that she saw them.

Children, lots of children. Filthy with mud and blood, asking for a piece of bread or digging among the broken plaster, looking

for a sign of life where now there was nothing but dust and death; gray, motionless babies with their mothers obstinately

pressing them to their breasts; naked children making their way with difficulty through the heaps of rubble, asking desperately

for their mothers; children staring at her, alive but with no life in their eyes.

The memory of her own children overwhelmed her. In every pair of eyes she saw those of Giovannuzza; in every uncertain step

she encountered Baby Boy; all the babies reminded her of Giacobina... She even followed a little girl with a white nightdress

and long black hair who resembled her firstborn; she called out her name, but the girl turned and looked for her mother, a

woman sitting close by with a little boy asleep on her knees.

For a moment, she envied that poor unfortunate who despite losing everything still had her children.

And from that moment on she couldn't think of anything else.

"Only I could see them, but they were there," she repeats, reaching out her hand as if she could stroke Giovannuzza's face

and ruffle Baby Boy's curls.

Maruzza goes to her, puts an arm around her, and lays her forehead on her shoulder. "You have to let them go, Donna Franca,"

she murmurs. "They're with you always, but they're no longer on this earth. And as painful as it is, you must mind those who

are still on this earth. Igiea and... this little creature here," she concludes, placing her hand on Franca's belly.

Franca bursts into tears. She cries for those orphans she was unable to help. Yes, they welcomed about fifty evacuees—above

all, children—in their ceramics factory, converted to a makeshift hospital; she and Giovanna took care of three of them personally,

but one died of his wounds, another was reclaimed by his grandfather, and the third grew fond of her mother-in-law, refusing

to leave her alone.

But she doesn't want other people's children; she wants her own, her own.

And yet she no longer has them. For her they are shadows wandering around the Olivuzza, little angels destined never to grow.

Sometimes she hears their little steps on the stairs; at other times, half asleep, half awake, she seems to feel the caress

of a little hand or the kiss of two little lips. Then she wakes with a start, her heart in her throat, and in the darkness

looks for a sign of their presence, their smell, a laugh... But she's alone.

And yet Maruzza is right, just as the wife of that fisherman was right five years ago on Favignana when she was thinking of... There is Igiea, and there is a child who will be here in a few months. A boy? She hopes so but finds it hard to believe. In her life, hope has so often changed to poison.

Franca wipes her tears, then, supported by Maruzza, she gets to her feet and looks at the aviary. In this house, in these

grounds, there are too many signs of the past, too many memories.

"Shall we go back to Villa Igiea, Maruzza?" she says, her voice a mere breath.

"Yes," Maruzza replies, wrapping her arm around her. "Let's go home."

***

It's March 1909 when a meeting of lawyers and bank directors convenes in Bonaldo Stringher's office to discuss the situation

of Casa Florio.

The two brothers are not present. In their place are Ottavio Ziino and Vittorio Rolandi Ricci, the lawyers who, together with

Giuseppe Marchesano, represent the interests of the Florios. It's Rolandi Ricci who's taken on the unpleasant task of defining

the situation. There's no more time, he says. Yes, more than money, it's time that's lacking: there's a real risk that soon

there'll be nothing left to save. Prefect De Seta has added to the pressure, asking Stringher for a quick solution to the

matter.

The fact is that there is unrest again in Palermo.

Not only because four shots were fired on Piazza Marina on March 12th, killing Giuseppe "Joe" Petrosino, who had arrived in Palermo from New York, to strengthen ties between the Sicilian Mafia and the American Black Hand. Nor because the eternal Damocles sword of the conventions not being renewed—which would mean the disappearance of Palermo's maritime industry—still hangs over the city. On March 21st it is brought to a complete standstill— involving the factories, the schools, the shops, the streetcars—which only by a miracle does not explode into an uprising.

Too many rumors have been circulating for far too long and people want to know. They pass in front of the Olivuzza and stroll

in the garden of Villa Igiea, craning their necks, peering, straining to hear something. They try to catch a movement at the

windows, examine the cars parked in front of the entrance or the coaches that are still used for afternoon excursions, listen

to the music coming from the drawing rooms, scrutinize the guests at the parties and teas, and wonder if the crisis really

is as serious as they say.

Pushy and hungry for information, Palermo is waiting to understand what will happen, and does so with a wicked smile, because

there are many who think the reckoning has finally arrived for that arrogant fellow Ignazio Florio. But the smile conceals

fear. If the Florios go under, it will be hard for the city to remain afloat. From work to charity to the theaters, too many

things are at risk.

***

News arrives from Rome that makes Ignazio tremble. After meeting Casa Florio's lawyers, Stringher writes that Ziino, Rolandi

Ricci, and Marchesano—with the blessing of the Banca d'Italia—are trying to create a consortium of banks to take charge of

the debts and administer the Casa. Stringher's tone is curt, even though his words are cautious. As far as he's concerned,

Ignazio is a troublesome beggar, an incompetent who's whining because the banks have stopped listening to him.

On the other hand, Ignazio no longer knows who to turn to. One afternoon near the beginning of May, he goes to the office of the Banca Commerciale to discuss yet another extension but isn't even allowed to see the director, who, according to the secretary, is "very busy." "If that's the case, I certainly shan't be the one to disturb him," he replies curtly, and turns and leaves, while the other employees watch him go.

He has never felt so humiliated.

Once he would have been able to buy the branch, he could have become the master of their lives. Now he's been shown the door

like some bothersome supplicant.

Back home, he can't find any outlet for his anxiety. He wishes he could talk to someone. Not a friend, not even Romualdo,

because he's too ashamed, but someone who understands him. His brother? No, Vincenzo has gone out in the car with Annina and

Maria Concetta. They've fixed the wedding for the summer and have decided to live partly in the little villa at the Olivuzza—Vincenzo

is having it refurbished so that Annina "will have her space"—and partly on Via Catania, a cross street off the elegant Via

della Libertà, in a modern building in the middle of one of the most rapidly expanding areas in the city. A building they still have to finish paying for, for heaven's sake! Ignazio thinks with a touch of annoyance.

Franca isn't here either: she's at Villa Igiea, organizing an evening that will alternate card games and musical entertainment.

She's always liked playing cards, and is good at it, but lately it seems to be the only thing she thinks about. At first,

Ignazio was pleased: on returning from Messina, Franca didn't want to see anyone for weeks and spent whole days cooped up

in her room at the Olivuzza. More recently, though, he has come to realize that this hobby is becoming ever more expensive

and has asked her to limit her bets. But she seems deaf to all his appeals.

In truth, things between them have worsened yet again.

Franca's pregnancy, which brought them together and gave them back a little hope, ended on April 20, 1909.

A girl.

They've called her Giulia, like Ignazio's beloved sister. She has strong lungs and temperament to spare, this baby who now

fills by her presence alone the children's rooms that have remained empty for too long. Immediately after her birth, Igiea—who's

now nine—stared at her for a long time, then asked the nurse if she, too, would die like the others.

The nurse smiled at her, embarrassed, and with a caress assured her that no, she would live. Franca, luckily, didn't hear.

But Ignazio did, and felt a pang in his heart, because that simple question reignited the fire of his grief.

Of his five children, only two are left. And what's more, two girls.

Immediately after the birth, Ignazio gave Franca a platinum bracelet. Not a sapphire one—he had given her that when Baby Boy

was born. It didn't really matter if the expense added to his debts. He took her hands and kissed them. She looked at him

for a long time before speaking, reclining on the pillows, her face swollen and tired.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, in a low voice, her green eyes huge and resigned.

I'm sorry it isn't a boy. I'm sorry I'm too old to give you another. Because despite everything, I have loved you and have

placed my faith in you and our marriage. But now there's nothing left, not even the ghost of the love that united us. I know

you have another woman. And she's not one of your passing conquests.

All this passed from Franca's soul to her eyes, and the bitterness that she felt poured out onto Ignazio, forcing him to lower

his eyes and nod.

Because that's how it was and that's how it is. He thinks about Vera. She understands his frustration, she knows how to support and encourage him. To calm him, at least a little.

He imagines her coming to him and embracing him without speaking. She helps him take off his jacket, sits him down on the

divan in the suite of the Roman hotel where they meet, and places her head next to his. She doesn't nag him, she listens.

She doesn't judge him, she welcomes him.

Because although Franca was his first great love, it's equally true that she wasn't the only one. Because the way of loving changes, because people change and the way in which they need to feel loved changes, he reflects. Because fairy tales come to an end and all that remains in their place is the desire for an embrace that comforts, that takes

away the fear of passing time and gives you the illusion that you're not alone.

But Vera is in Rome, and far away.

Ignazio roams the house, and as he passes, the servants stand aside and bow their heads. He asks where his mother is, and

someone points him to the green salon. Giovanna is sitting in an armchair, with her embroidery next to her, but her arthritic

hands lie in her lap. She is dozing.

He goes to her and kisses her on the forehead. She wakes up. "So, my son... what did the people at the bank say?"

He hesitates for a moment, then says, "It's all right, Maman . Nothing to worry about." The lie brings an ache to his heart.

She smiles and, with a sigh, closes her eyes again.

Ignazio sits down next to her and takes her hand. What could he say to this poor woman, who already had to give up the lands

of her dowry, the Terre Rosse where she spent her youth?

He looks at the photograph of his father on the little table next to the armchair. And yet for once, strangely, he doesn't

read an accusation of incompetence in that stern look. Rather, it seems to him that his father is saying: Be strong, have courage, because that's what the moment requires.

There's still hope , Ignazio thinks as he heads for the study. And he repeats it to himself when he peers into Igiea's room and sees her playing

quietly, while the nurse cradles Giulia, who is fast asleep.

The Florios are still solid, they have means, they have a name, no matter what Marchesano thinks, damn it! The Banca d'Italia's

experts have investigated and said that there is money, that the family still has assets, and that his personal debts, which

caused so many eyebrows to be raised, are not the main cause of his problems.

He enters his study and slams the door behind him.

"I'm not giving up," he says out loud. "You'll all see who you're dealing with."