While the applause shook the very foundations of the Richmond Theatre, time in Sant'Alessio Siculo seemed to have frozen in a malignant stasis. The lead saboteur—a man whose face had been disfigured by resentment and corruption—had not fled after the failure of the first attack. He had remained hidden among the crevices of the cliffside, clutching in his hands the detonator of the final hope for destruction.
He knew that the pier was not merely a construction; it was the pivot of a magical balance that Belinda was trying to rebuild. "If the pier falls beneath my feet, the lady in London falls too," the man snarled, his accomplices having fled in terror from the anomalous waves of the previous night.
He felt no fear. He was a hollow man, and the void does not fear the Draunara.
As Azzurra performed her final leap in London, the man emerged from the shadows, advancing toward the pier's nerve center—the exact spot where Samuele's plaque had been chipped. He carried a backpack loaded with plastic explosives, enough to pulverize the entire structure and trigger a shockwave that would overwhelm Belinda's villa.
Elia, alerted by a sixth sense possessed only by those who have lost everything, lunged out of the shack. "Stop! What are you doing?"
The man turned, a mad smile stretching across his lips. "I'm closing the Lighthouse, Elia. Turning off the light forever."
A desperate struggle began. Elia threw himself at the man, trying to wrest the backpack away. They rolled across the still-fresh concrete, just inches from the precipice of the waves seething below them. From the veranda, Nonna Anna shouted ancient prayers, but this time the sea seemed powerless. The magic of the dance in London was absorbing all the energy of the bond; Sicily had been left "exposed."
"Belinda!" Elia screamed into the phone that had been knocked to the ground during the scuffle. "Belinda, everything is about to blow!"
The saboteur managed to break free, activating the timer. Thirty seconds.
"Run, Elia! If you stay here, we both die!" the man yelled, laughing as he clung to the pillars.
But Elia did not run. He looked at the villa, he looked at the sea where Samuele rested, and he understood that the pier could not fall. He hurled himself at the man once more, trying to drag him away from the critical point toward the shore to minimize the damage.
At that moment, in London, Azzurra felt the blow. In the midst of her bows on stage, she felt an unbearable burning in her ankles, as if the concrete were tightening around her bones. She looked at her mother in the front row. Belinda was on the phone, her face transfigured by horror.
"Elia! No!" Belinda screamed into the receiver.
The explosion tore through the Sicilian night. A column of smoke and fire rose toward the stars, lighting up the Strait as if it were day. The roar was heard as far as Reggio Calabria.
In London, the lights of the Richmond Theatre exploded simultaneously. The theatre plunged into total darkness. The audience began to scream, scrambling for the emergency exits. On stage, Azzurra felt the life draining from her legs. She fell into the arms of Oliver, who held her tight despite his own burns.
When the smoke cleared in Sant'Alessio, the pier was a heap of black rubble. But the Lighthouse... the Lighthouse was still standing. Elia lay motionless on the sand, while Nonna Anna ran toward him with a scream that seemed to have no end.
The dance was over. The sabotage was complete. But the price of truth had been paid in blood, and the novel was only halfway through its tragic descent.