2

Vincenzo Florio is sitting on a chair, looking out, resting his chin on his fist. He hears a sound behind him and barely turns

toward it. One of the two women with whom he spent the night is waking up.

She looks at him through heavy eyelids, brushes her reddish hair off her face, and taps her hand on the mattress, inviting

him to join her. The other woman, a brunette with an ample bosom, is snoring softly, mouth half open, tousled hair down her

naked back. There is a smell of sex, sweat, and champagne in the room, in addition to a fragrance with powerful flowery notes.

He shakes his head and resumes looking outside.

It's raining over Paris, on the sycamores of the boulevard, on the slate roofs. It has been raining for three days. He's weary of this chilly, unpleasant June. He should go to the C?te d'Azur. Alternatively, he could join Franca, who's in Switzerland with his nieces. As for Ignazio, he might be in Venice or Rome with Vera—who knows?

His breath condenses on the windowpane. He draws an A with his fingers and erases it abruptly.

Annina .

It has been three years since his wife's death. Three years during which he has done nothing but travel and hop from one bed

to another, trying to shake off the unease that oppresses him and constricts his throat.

He's having a relationship with a woman of Russian origin. He sometimes thinks he's grown attached to her, but nights like

the last prove the opposite. The truth is that he no longer cares about anything or anyone; for the sake of a little distraction,

he has actually involved himself in the family business, even though Ignazio has never taken him very seriously.

"Annina will always be a part of you and your life," Franca told him a few days after the funeral. Vincenzo was on a bench in the garden, motionless, his head in his hands. She sat down behind him without touching him. "You'll keep wondering about the things you would have done together, the words she would have said to you, when she would have smiled. You'll imagine talking to her, just like I do..." She paused, looked up at the horizon, and dropped her voice. "You'll think about what it would have been like to have a child and watch it grow. A part of you will continue to live with her, in your mind or your heart... in a time and place that don't exist." Only then did she squeeze his hand, and he burst into sobs. "Only, that won't be your real life. Reality will be here, with the emptiness, the absence, and the words you'll never again be able to hear. And in the end, imagining the impossible will become so painful that you'll choose to give it up. You'll start looking at the present and feeling a little better. I know this sounds absurd, but trust me. No one knows better than I..." She put her arm around him and together they wept, each with his and her own grief.

Vincenzo shakes his head. In the past three years he has recalled Franca's words and waited for his suffering to relent. But

Annina is still here next to him, a constant presence. Maybe—he has wondered—women see things in the darkness of grief, things

men can't begin to guess. It's their curse and their salvation.

Even now, at this very moment, she's before him, in a dark skirt and a white blouse with a lace collar. She's about to get

behind the wheel of one of their automobiles, but then stops and looks at him with a reproachful expression, as though asking:

Why have you gotten yourself in such a state?

" Vincent, chéri, viens ici... "

The redhead is calling him, heedless of the fact that the other woman is still asleep. He wishes he could send them both away,

make them disappear.

Instead, he gets up, walks away from the window, removes his shirt, and lies down next to her. He lets her touch him, closes

his eyes, and thrusts into her body almost violently. He doesn't care what her name is, who she is, or how she lives outside

of this room: it's a body that gives him pleasure and warmth.

And he clings to that little bit of life he manages to snatch.

***

The lobby of the Hotel di Champfèr in the Engadin, where the Florios, the Lanza di Trabias, and the Whitakers are staying, is in turmoil. Tense faces, telegrams changing hands, telephones ringing, valets dashing between rooms like ants. For about a month now—ever since a very young Serbian nationalist assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, in Sarajevo—there have been endless, contradictory rumors of a possible declaration of war on Serbia by Austria. The ultimatum presented to the Serbian government in Belgrade by the Austrian ambassador on July 23 leaves little hope for a peaceful resolution.

Sitting in an armchair, Franca peruses the Italian and German newspapers, confused and unable to remove herself from this

back-and-forth volley between exaltation about war and the "feverish intensity required by the gravity of the circumstance"

that Italy is apparently adopting in order to maintain the peace, according to the Corriere della Sera .

"Here I am, Franca. Désolée d'être en retard ." Giulia Lanza di Trabia kisses her on the cheek and looks around. "Aren't Norina and Delia here?"

"No, they came by with Tina a couple of minutes ago and said they'd promised to spend the afternoon with her. They'll join

us at five for tea. They're thirty years old, but that woman sometimes treats her daughters as if they were children."

"So much the better," Giulia says, smiling and putting on her gloves. "Shall we go?"

They nod to Giovanna, who's on the terrace, getting some sunshine with Maruzza, then leave by the back door of the hotel.

Giulia takes a deep breath of the crisp air. "What a shame Igiea and Giugiù aren't here, too!"

"I actually had a letter from Zurich this very afternoon: the governess says Igiea's back treatment seems to be effective.

As for Giugiù, she's like her father: she always says the mountains are ‘boooring' and spends her time running around the

house. What's the poor dear supposed to do, after all? She's only five..."

With a firm step, Giulia takes the path to a pine wood that extends over the side of the mountain.

"And you? Have you heard anything from Giuseppe?"

"No." Giulia's tone is sharp. Her eldest son has always had a restless, rebellious nature. "With all that's happening, it

would be more prudent for him to be here or in Palermo... If he would at least let us know where he is." She pauses, lips

pursed. "I think he's in Venice with that woman."

"Madda..." Franca looks around at the pointed treetops soaring to the sky. A panoramic route opens before them amid the

trees. They slow down and almost come to a halt. The air is balmy, fragrant with greenery, steeped in the smell of musk. Every

so often, birdsong breaks the silence. "The Papadopoli twins don't know what fidelity and respect for the marriage bond are."

"Don't!" Giulia responds with a grimace. Unlike Franca, she has never taken particular care of her looks, and time has done

her no favors. Her face has grown sharp and lined. "When I think of how she ensnared him! He was a boy when they met, and

she already had a daughter. Giuseppe wants me to meet her... but that would be madness! She's married and she's left everything

for him. No, I refuse to see her: it's indecent even to mention her name."

Franca squeezes her arm. "You're right. You're so right."

"I suppose my brother is still with her sister, Vera."

Franca responds with an exasperated sigh.

Giulia makes a gesture of contempt. "To leave four children and a husband to be with a man—a married man at that... The

world's gone mad!"

Franca stops abruptly and looks at Giulia. "Do you remember what you told me all those years ago in the winter garden at your

house?"

Giulia stares into the distance and smiles. "You were so scared... Everything and everyone frightened you, including my mother."

"But you told me that I had to claim whatever was mine by right, that I should be proud to be a Florio, to bear this name."

"Yes, and so you did. Always, even when times were particularly tough."

Franca smiles bitterly. "Yes, I learned to. It cost me a great deal, but I managed it in the end. In the eyes of the world,

I've been a Florio, and always will be. But inside..."

Giulia takes her by the hands. "Inside, you died so many times. Because of what you went through, because of Ignazio's behavior...

I know that, too."

"Yes, but there's something else. Until two years ago, I was convinced I knew my husband. I'd long stopped defending him and

quietly accepting his defects. But I was sure we were still united by love."

Giulia raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, I still call it love. In any case, there was a bond between us. Then Vera came along and Ignazio fell in love with her.

And I was left truly alone."

"Franca, darling, you're not alone... I'm here, and so's Igiea, and Giugiù..."

Franca throws her shoulders back and looks into the distance. "Yes, thank heavens you're here. But when I look in the mirror,

I can only see myself, as though the world didn't exist. I see a broken woman who nevertheless lives on." She takes a deep

breath. "That's what I wanted to tell you: that thanks to what you said, I've learned not to depend on anybody and to keep

on going in spite of everything."

"And no longer feel anything?" Giulia murmurs.

"You know that's not possible. How long ago did Blasco die?"

"Twenty-one years," Giulia replies in a breath.

"And has there been a single day when you haven't thought of him?"

She shakes her head.

"Our dead never leave us, and their presence is both pain and consolation."

Suddenly, Giulia bursts into tears, holding her head between her hands. "You speak of the dead and I..."

"What's wrong?" Franca asks, anxious. She has never seen her sister-in-law cry like this. "Are you unwell?"

Giulia shakes her head, still sobbing. "No, no... I didn't want to say anything so as not to worry you, but I'm very afraid,

Franca. I spoke to Pietro last night. He's in Rome and he says terrible things are afoot. He thinks the Austrians are going

to attack Serbia and that will prompt France, Russia, and maybe Britain to go to war. And I'm scared because I have sons,

and God only knows what might happen."

"But the papers say the Italian government is mediating..."

"Pietro is very skeptical about that," Giulia replies, drying her tears. "War is at the gates and the Lord only knows how

it'll all end up. I can't bear the thought of my sons going to fight. Giuseppe is twenty-five years old, Ignazio twenty-four,

and Manfredi twenty. They're grown men, they're Lanza di Trabias, and their place is on the front line. It's their duty."

Franca doesn't know what to say. First the Olivuzza and then Villa Igiea have always been open to all. She can't even remember

how many Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, and Russians she has met.

Politicians and artists, bankers and entrepreneurs, with their families in tow. They have talked and dined together, danced till dawn, played cards or lawn tennis, laughed at jokes or gossip. They have dived into the sea or scaled Monte Pellegrino, spent happy hours on Favignana, made long excursions on Ignazio's yachts or in Vincenzo's cars. She thinks about the kaiser, the English monarchs, Empress Eugénie...

And now these same people are deciding whether or not to ravage Europe.

Giulia's sons are so young... Actually, Giovannuzza would be twenty-one now and maybe she would have to watch her husband

leave. Ignazino is only sixteen, though, so he's too young to—

Wait. Stop. They're not here anymore. But Giulia is here.

She puts a hand on her sister-in-law's shoulder. "Pietro's probably exaggerating. He always makes things out to be worse than

they are. No harm will come to your sons."

"I hope not." Giulia takes deep breaths to calm down. "Yes, I'd better think about the future of my daughters, Sofia and Giovanna.

They're already seventeen and eighteen."

"Or about that hooligan Ignazio," Franca adds with a tense smile. She cannot bear to see Giulia in so much distress. "We must

look ahead, to life carrying on, and not to these dreadful things we're unsure of."

When they return to the hotel, though, they quickly realize that the earlier turmoil has turned to fear. Anxiety has become

physical; there is an unpleasant stink of cigarette smoke and sweat in the air. Groups of people surrounded by trunks and

suitcases are besieging the concierge, asking for their bills at the tops of their voices, swearing, begging for attention,

letting rage get the better of them. In a corner, a woman is sobbing and two children are sitting on the floor, crying, ignored

by everybody.

For a second, Franca's mind slips away to the night her son died.

Then she looks around in panic, searching for a familiar face, and finds it: Maruzza stands up from the couch where she's been sitting next to Giovanna, who is praying with her rosary, eyes closed, and comes to her.

"Austria has declared war on Serbia. And they say other countries will soon be involved."

"What? When? And what about Italy?" Franca and Giulia speak in unison, and Maruzza raises her hands to stop them. "I telegraphed

Ignazio to warn him," she says to Franca. "The Whitakers are already packing their bags. Everybody's leaving the hotel to

go back home."

Giulia lifts a hand to her chest, as if to steady her heartbeat. "I'll have to speak to my husband and my sons. Yes, you're

right: we must return to Italy. Franca, do you have with you the documents that state you're a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elena?"

Franca nods, confused. "Yes, but—"

"Good. I'm sure those documents are valid as a diplomatic pass for you and your family. Call Zurich and tell the governess

to get the girls ready for immediate departure."

Franca nods. "I'll do it right away."

"And talk to Ignazio," Giulia adds, dropping her voice. "His place is with you now. And he'd better realize it."

***

"Of course I'm aware of the danger. All the same, my specific duty is—"

"But we've been the emperor's guests in Vienna! And you want to volunteer against him? It's absurd!"

"We're at war and everyone has to play his part."

For almost a year, Franca has hoped that Italy would stay out of the conflict. The fear of war has grown inside her gradually and she has hidden it for a long time in a dark corner of her soul, the way she does with anything she can't accept. But she can no longer avoid it now.

She gets to her feet and paces up and down the room, struggling to control her tension. A little earlier, she was at Palazzo

Butera and found Giulia devastated because her sons are about to go to war. Franca adores those boys: Giuseppe, Ignazio, and

Manfredi are a part of her life; she has watched them grow up and become men, while she was losing hers. The very thought

of seeing them in uniform gives her a pang of anxiety, so she can't even imagine what her sister-in-law is going through.

That's why she's decided she will avoid saying goodbye to them. That way she won't be forced to admit that this is all really

happening. She's tired of defending herself against life and the world.

She leaves the room and walks to the little temple overlooking the sea, squinting in the light. It feels absurd to talk of

war in the serenity of Villa Igiea's garden, amid blossoming plants, with the fragrance of summer in the air. Along the avenues

that slope down toward the coast, amid the boxwood and pittosporum hedges, two gardeners are bedding out young plants while

talking softly. Only the sounds from the harbor in the distance interrupt the whistling of the wind in the palm trees.

They're living now in Villa Igiea, with Giovanna, Maruzza, and Miss Daubenye, the girls' English governess. The Olivuzza has

become too large, with too many expenses, and a garden that demands too much attention. Their hotel apartment is much better,

still luxurious but easier to manage. Besides, Villa Igiea is half deserted at the moment, since the guests—almost all Italians—left

a few days ago.

Ignazio approaches her, but Franca clenches her hands and asks, without turning, "And is it really necessary that you join

up immediately?"

He hesitates and looks in the direction of the Arenella tonnara and Villa dei Quattro Pizzi, which his grandfather loved so much. The deep blue soothes his irritation. His forehead relaxes

as he remembers cruises on board the Aegusa . But only for an instant. A past life , he thinks bitterly. "Necessary? Yes," he finally replies. "At the moment, I can arrange it so that I get an assignment far

away from the front and suited to my skills. And I'll do the same for Vincenzo, who otherwise would run the risk of ending

up on the front line, since he's younger than I. He's an excellent driver and a gifted mechanic, so he could be useful for

transportation on the sidelines. He's also thinking of starting a small factory to manufacture airplanes or seaplanes in partnership

with Vittorio Ducrot, and apart from that he mentioned a project involving a truck that could be useful to the army in the

more rugged terrain... You know what Vincenzo's like: always on the go."

Franca shakes her head. "He'll do something foolish. He's a daredevil."

"Of course he won't!" He strokes her arm. "We won't be in any danger. You'll see."

She turns to look at him. Ignazio now has a few locks of hair with a dusting of gray, and his lips, once thin and elegant,

are marked with bitterness. "Do you think it'll be over soon?" she asks, hands joined over her black skirt.

Ignazio shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't say. It was supposed to last just a few weeks, and there's been fighting for a year

already." He drops his voice and touches the white lace sleeve of Franca's blouse. "In any case, the war can only make things

worse."

His voice is filled with a resignation Franca struggles to interpret. She wants to ask, and nearly does, but then a noise

makes her turn.

"Forgive the intrusion. If I'd known you were engaged, Signor Florio, I would have waited before talking to you."

"Do come here, Signor Linch. Good morning."

Carlo Augusto Linch takes long, soft strides toward them. Ignazio goes to meet him, while Franca simply gives a nod. She is

wary of this Argentinian, partly because she knows so little about him: only that he studied in Milan and at the Zurich Polytechnic,

that he managed a factory in Germany, and that he returned to Italy once the war broke out. He immediately gained the trust

of her husband and brother-in-law, winning them over with his good nature, his reassuring character, and his easy way with

words. They both decided to involve him in the administration of their property, or what was left of it. Three months ago,

in February 1915, Linch became the Florios' administrator and legal representative.

Franca stands aside and watches the two men. She hears the words, "Because the Casa Florio estate is..." and raises an

eyebrow. What estate, when even Cartier and Worth—where she's been a client for over twenty years—now ask her to sign "documents"

guaranteeing the payment of bills? Not to mention what happened just yesterday: a maid quit because she hadn't received her

wages regularly. A true lack of respect toward people who had given bread and work to half of Palermo.

"And you, Signora? What are you going to do?"

She gives an embarrassed little laugh. "Pardon me, I wasn't listening to you. What were you discussing?"

"No, I was saying... What are you going to do to support our country at this time? Will you give your services as a Red

Cross nurse?"

"Oh... Yes, certainly. At the hospital here in Palermo, I suppose."

Linch smiles at her, then looks away, as though her reply didn't convince him in the least. "I'm sure you'll be able to adapt to this difficult situation. There are times of great sacrifice ahead."

Franca squints. She senses reproach for her conduct behind his words, for her expenditures, and especially for what has now

become her only pastime: cards. Chemin de fer, baccarat, poker. When she plays, her sadness becomes less oppressive, her thoughts

lighter, and time passes. Of course, money also slips away in these hours, because she places high bets. And she is "luckier

than is fair," as her gaming table companion, Marie-Thérèse Tasca di Cutò, known as Ama, Alessandro's wife and poor Giulia

Trigona's sister-in-law, always says. But not lucky enough , Franca wants to reply.

"I think I have the necessary papers in my office," Ignazio is saying to Linch. "I'll get the car ready so we can go together."

"No need. I can tell you everything here and now."

Franca looks at Linch, then at her husband. Once upon a time, she would have walked away quietly, because this is men's business.

But now she wants to listen and understand. If my husband's mistress knows all our business, why should I remain in the dark? she thinks with irritation. So she follows them to the small willow drawing room in a corner of the Villa Igiea terrace, tells

a servant to bring a carafe of lemonade, and sits down gracefully in an armchair.

Linch gives her a furtive, vaguely puzzled glance. Franca responds to it with a long look of defiance, then turns her attention

expectantly to Ignazio.

Linch is embarrassed. He has never before discussed business in the presence of a woman. Franca's expression is so sharp that

he almost stammers. "So then—if you will allow me..."

Ignazio sits down without looking at his wife and takes a sip of lemonade. "Do please go on."

Linch cautiously opens the portfolio he has brought with him and puts it on a table. He touches the papers—letters, notes, and accounts—as if to gather his thoughts, then steeples his fingers before his face. "As you know, a few days ago I completed a thorough examination of your financial situation. As I mentioned to you, I was planning to go to Rome to try and form a group to come to the aid of Casa Florio. The Banca d'Italia could be essential to fixing your debts, above all the contract with Lavagetto and Parodi for the tonnaras on the Aegadian Islands. It's now clear that that was an unfortunate decision, and it has made everything infinitely more

complicated. Of course, in the beginning, you had a healthy injection of cash that allowed you to pay some of Casa Florio's

arrears, but the revenue from the tonnaras has been entirely insufficient to cover even the interest. Moreover, the mortgage you... imprudently obtained from the

Société Fran?aise de Banque et de Dép?ts to cover other losses is proving to be very damaging."

Ignazio listens, impassive. Franca tries to keep up, but too many things in this speech are unclear to her.

"And then there are the blocks of shares that guarantee other loans and make the debts of Casa Florio heavier. I intend to

ask for the blocks of shares still in your possession to be sold in order to obtain more liquidity, as well as subsidies on

the part of other banking institutions, subsidies guaranteed by collaterals on your real estate, which would be sold at a

later stage." He stops and sighs. "In a nutshell: you need a lot of money, and that obliges you to ask the banks for loans

and offer them as collateral real estate like the Olivuzza, but also your plants in the Castellammare district. Assets that

will have to be sold in the future."

Ignazio gives a start. "Our villa... and the aromateria ?"

"Yes—as well as the other warehouses and apartments."

"Even the house on Via dei Materassai... my father's house?" His voice is thin, like a thread blown by the wind through the pine trees.

"I'm afraid so."

Ignazio runs his fingers through his hair. "My God..." He laughs, but it's a broken, perverted laugh. "To be honest, I

haven't been there for ages... As a matter of fact, my wife doesn't even want to go to Quattro Pizzi either, even though

we had it refurbished because I was already expecting to have to give up the Olivuzza... But to sell the house on Via dei

Materassai..." He clenches his hand into a fist and rests his chin on it.

Franca suddenly feels out of place. She has never seen Ignazio's father's house, and her mother-in-law has rarely mentioned

it. It's true, she has never much cared for Villa dei Quattro Pizzi: it's not that it's ugly, but it's too small for their

needs, and in a working-class district like the Arenella. It really wouldn't be suitable for receiving guests, who would have

to travel down streets crowded with wagons and poor people in order to get there.

But to hear it stated like that, like a reproach, is a humiliation she didn't expect.

Linch picks up a sheet of paper. "I'm afraid we won't have much room for negotiation with the Banca d'Italia. I've tried requesting

a meeting with Stringher, but they told me he's very busy and, above all, not interested."

"I'll bet!" Ignazio leaps to his feet, knocking against the table and making the carafe wobble. "That son of a bitch wants to punish us for what happened in 1909, when I withdrew from the consortium—that's the truth. And he's never cared anything about Casa Florio!" Ignazio is almost yelling. "He's always wanted to strip us of everything, even our dignity!" He takes a few steps, mutters an insult in dialect, and puts his hand over his eyes. "I'll have to write all this to Vincenzo... I think he's on his way back from Paris," he adds, almost to himself. "I don't know anything about his lifestyle now... He spends more time in France than anywhere else, and only comes back here to organize the Targa Florio or some other competition..."

"Just calm yourself and sit down," Linch says firmly. "We can talk about that, too."

Ignazio walks back to the wicker armchair with the air of a condemned man on his way to the gallows. All at once, Franca feels

sorry for him. Instinctively, she reaches out her hand to console him, to let him know that she is with him. But Ignazio sits

down without looking at her and she moves her hand back to her chest.

"You need to put limits on a whole series of activities and, in tandem, reduce your expenses," Linch explains, articulating

the words clearly, as if calming a wounded animal. "The charity donations, for example..." Here, he gives Franca a brief,

almost furtive glance. "But also the spending on clothes and jewelry. Or expenses like all those pocket watches with your

trademark that you give your suppliers... In other words, unnecessary expenses in general. Your sponsorship of the Teatro

Massimo and the Targa needs to be significantly scaled back."

"That old story again?" Biting the knuckles of his fist, Ignazio rocks back and forth slowly in the armchair. "Cutting off

the charities, the subsidies to the Massimo... Avvocato Marchesano came up with that at least seven years ago! Does nobody

realize what name I bear? It would be like parading through the streets of Palermo with a banner saying: ‘Ignazio Florio is

bankrupt!'"

"Perhaps if you had made that choice then, you would be in a less critical situation now. And yes, I admit, the decision is a painful one, but it's more necessary now than ever, if you want to save yourselves." Linch leafs through the papers, takes out another one and shows it to Ignazio. It's a promissory note bearing Giovanna's shaky signature. "Do you see this? I asked the Banca d'Italia for an extension and they granted it to me only because it has your mother's assets as collateral."

For the first time in his life, Ignazio Florio blushes.

Linch is unable to hide how sorry he feels. The lines on the sides of his mouth seem to deepen, and he lowers his eyes. "Many

sacrifices will be necessary from everyone," he says, turning to look at Franca, who instinctively crosses her arms over her

chest. "It would be useful, for example, to offer pledges to the banks as collateral for the debts." A long pause. "Pledges

in jewels."

She turns pale and shakes her head vigorously. "No, you can't ask that of me." Her voice is sharp, like glass on glass. "Not

my jewels. There are diamonds in the safe, he knows that," she goes on, pointing to Ignazio, who appears to ignore her. "There's

no need to... use mine."

"As I was saying, everyone has to be prepared to make sacrifices, including you, Signora." Linch doesn't raise his voice,

but his tone brooks no argument.

Franca is dismayed: nobody has ever talked to her like this, let alone a foreigner.

Ignazio shrugs and sighs. When he speaks again, he does so in a sad tone. The tone of a defeated man. "So be it. The houses, the jewels... What difference does it make now? The king is naked!" He stands up again and resumes walking slowly. He stops next to one of the pillars and strokes it. Through his memory pass images that make his lips curl in a gentle smile. "There was a time when I would have done anything to protect what belonged to me. I would have fought; I would have accepted mortification and humiliation. But now there's nothing and nobody left to fight for. I'm a tree without shoots, and very soon our country will be the same way. This war will bring only disaster, while it lasts and when it's over. So for what, for whom, should I struggle?" He turns to look at them. "I have nothing left of what made me a Florio." He counts on his fingers. "I sold the winery, my grandfather Vincenzo's first business. I tried to build a shipyard, but it failed, and with it NGI, which my father built up. I allowed the Oretea Foundry to go to rack and ruin. I fed the tonnaras on the Aegadian Islands to the sharks, convinced I would be able to get back on my feet, but to no avail. When I asked for

help, I was given ropes to hang myself. What do I have left? The Banco Florio transformed into an office for pen pushers,

and this hotel, which is going to be empty with a war on... I'm about to lose everything, even my home. That's the story

of my family." He looks at Franca. "So why should I care about your jewels? All we have left is our dignity and a little pride.

Make sure you don't waste them."

Franca gets abruptly to her feet, grabs his wrist, and yanks it. "You can't do it!" She takes both his hands. "Think about

me and your two daughters!"

At that very moment, Igiea appears at the French doors. She's fifteen years old, with a graceful figure, short hair, and a

delicate face that resembles her mother's. She takes a step onto the terrace, raises her hand to shield herself from the sun,

and looks at her parents. The fact that they're quarreling is no novelty to her.

" Maman , Maruzza and I were wondering if we can go and see Princess Ama later... Can Maruzza come or should she stay with Granny?

You know she hasn't been very well."

Franca's white, stiff hand lets go of Ignazio's wrist. "We'll go to the Tasca di Cutòs later. Yes, it's best if Maruzza stays

with your grandmother."

Ignazio waits for his daughter to leave, then walks past Franca to Linch. "Do everything that's necessary to save what can be saved," he says in a low, calm voice. "You'll have what you need as collateral for the still unpaid promissory notes."

Linch gets to his feet. He's a few years older than Ignazio and is almost as tall as him, but slimmer. "I need a list of all

your expenses, Signor Florio. Every outlay, every purchase, every unpaid bill. I need to see the invoices, too, and from now

on, please, don't buy anything without consulting me first. Can I rely on you to tell your brother the same thing?"

Ignazio nods. He has understood that Linch will be merciless with him and Vincenzo. "I'll try. In a few days I'll be leaving

as a volunteer, as you know..."

"A laudable gesture. I'll make sure I keep you up to date and I'll do everything I can to make Stringher and the Banca d'Italia

soften their stance." Linch clears his throat and walks over to Franca. "Signora, I fear this goes for you, too. Can you make

me an up-to-date list of your expenses?"

Franca nods. She stares at Monte Pellegrino, as if admiring it, but in reality she's consumed with a fierce anger, mixed with

humiliation. Her expenses? Of course. But then what about everything that Ignazio spends on Vera in Rome, given that he's

now living with her? Not to mention the fact that—she's almost certain of it—her husband's decision to go to war is also connected

with that woman, who, she's found out, has enlisted as a volunteer nurse.

Yet again, she has been pushed aside and is having to bear the brunt of other people's mistakes, as well as her own. Not my jewels , she thinks. They'll never have them.