The threat had not arrived without warning. A full week earlier, meteorological models had begun to show a disturbing anomaly in the heart of the Ionian Sea: a low-pressure cell that, instead of dissipating, was spiraling inward with unprecedented ferocity. Meteorologists, their faces taut with concern, spoke of a "Medicane"—a term that sounded like a death sentence. Belinda, watching the first satellite maps projected on the TV, felt a familiar chill: that white spiral advancing toward Sicily looked terrifyingly like the tangled silk of the Shimmy doll.
During the seven days preceding the alert, preparations had been feverish, almost obsessive. Elia had begun clearing the garden as early as Monday, securing every chair, every pot, and every tool that the wind could transform into a projectile. He had purchased rolls of reinforced adhesive tape to "cross-hatch" the villa's large windows, creating a protective web designed to prevent the glass from exploding inward.
By Wednesday, the anguish had intensified. Belinda stocked up on provisions and candles, but her true work was of a different nature: she had begun sealing the cracks in the attic with protective herbs and coarse salt, fully aware that "Harry" was not merely a physical phenomenon. On Thursday, the mayor issued a total shutdown order: schools, offices, and ports were closed. Sicily was holding its breath. By Friday, Elia had hauled fifty heavy sandbags into the garden, arranging them like a trench in front of the main entrance and the basement vents. His muscles were strained, his face streaked with sweat and dust, while Azzurra watched him from the window with wide, hollow eyes.
By Saturday morning, the festive atmosphere of August was a buried memory. The sky changed color, shifting from a sickly yellow to a bruised purple that seemed to press physically against the rooftops. Suddenly, the silence of the deserted city was shattered by the first roar of the wind. It was no mere gust; it was a primordial scream. Hurricane Harry struck the coast with the force of a thousand hammers.
Waves—enormous mountains of foaming water rising up to ten meters—began to devour the beach that Azzurra and Agata had walked upon just days before. The sea was no longer azure; it was a black, muddy mass leaping over the sea walls and invading the promenade. Under the pressure of tons of water, the asphalt began to crack and heave as if a restless giant were moving beneath it, destroying the coastal roads.
From the kitchen window, Belinda watched the fury of the elements with horror. The wind reached gusts of one hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Ancient trees bent until they snapped with crashes that sounded like cannon fire. In the street, the scene was apocalyptic: the force of the air lifted parked hatchbacks, dragging them for meters or flipping them onto their sides like toys abandoned by a capricious child. Traffic signs were uprooted and flew away, transforming into steel blades slicing through the darkness.
"Mama, look down there!" Azzurra screamed, pointing toward the harbor through the slats of the armored shutters.
A pleasure craft, torn from its moorings despite the reinforced chains placed days earlier, was lifted by a freak wave and hurled directly onto the roadway of the seafront, crushing two undercover police cars. The windows of neighboring houses, unprotected by tape, shattered under the pressure, scattering shards everywhere. The power cut out, leaving them shrouded in a gloom pierced only by the lightning illuminating the Strait, revealing a landscape that no longer looked like their Sicily, but the antechamber of hell.
Belinda's heart hammered against her ribs. She sensed that behind this physical destruction lay an ancient rage. It was not just nature rebelling; it was the "Dragon" lashing its tail, the curse of the "ill-fated husband" using the weather alert as a shroud to come and reclaim Azzurra. Water was already seeping under the door, despite the barrier of sandbags Elia had prepared with such effort, bringing with it the scent of mud and the abyss.
Elia tried to maintain his composure, gathering the family in the safest part of the house, far from the large glass panes that vibrated dangerously under the blows of the wind. Azzurra trembled, clutching her silk and gold pendant; she felt the metal warming against her skin, as if the jewel were attempting to counteract the supernatural cold of the storm.
"We will hold on, Belinda," Elia said, trying to shout over the roar of the thunder. "We've done everything possible. The bags will hold, the windows are sealed. It will pass."
But Belinda shook her head, her green eyes fixed on the dark mass advancing from the sea. She knew that all this material preparation—the sand, the tape, the supplies—was only the first level of defense. The Draunara was coming for the final showdown, and sandbags could not stop a demon that rides the waves. She had to prepare for the rite she would perform that night: the only true act of resistance that would sever the ties to the past forever.
Night fell prematurely, enveloped in the clatter of debris rolling through the streets and the wail of the wind that seemed to call her daughter's name between the gusts. The physical preparation was over; now, only the struggle of the soul remained.