Villa San Giovanni was a hive of yellow lights, the rumble of diesel engines, and the smell of ship smoke. Oliver guided the car through the boarding lanes, following the directions of workers whose high-visibility vests made them look like shadows ushering souls toward a modern-day Charon.
The car climbed the metallic ramp of the ferry with a dull thud that made Maya jump. Once parked in the belly of the ship, squeezed between trucks laden with citrus and other dust-covered vehicles, the three of them got out and headed for the upper deck.
The moment Azzurra stepped onto the open deck, the wind of the Strait hit her full in the face. It was no ordinary wind. It was a current of air—simultaneously hot and cold—that carried voices, legends, and the taste of salt that seemed millennia old. The Strait was not merely a stretch of sea; it was a living organism, a deep throat where currents collided to create whirlpools that mythology had once transformed into gods.
"It's here," Azzurra said, gripping the railing. "Do you feel it, Oliver? The sea is breathing beneath us."
Oliver stood beside her. His hands were burning. The contact with the ferry's steel seemed to amplify the vibration he felt in his bones. He looked down at the dark, almost black water, where the foam churned by the propellers formed hypnotic patterns. "I feel the iron, Azzurra. I feel my grandfather's work and Samuele's. It's as if this sea recognizes my blood."
The ferry detached from the pier with a deep roar that shook the very core of every passenger. While the Calabrian coast slowly receded, the Sicilian shore seemed to surge toward them with an irresistible gravitational pull. The lights of Messina, arranged in a semi-circle like a luminous embrace, grew sharper by the second.
Maya watched the scene with a mix of dread and wonder. "It's terrifying and beautiful at the same time. It feels like the land is about to close in on us."
In that moment, Azzurra closed her eyes. The roar of the engines faded, replaced by the song of the sea. She felt Samuele's presence. It wasn't a vision; it was a sensation of protection, as if her godfather were swimming beneath the ship's keel, guiding the ferry through the most treacherous currents. "Welcome home, goddaughter. The door is open," the water seemed to whisper against the hull.
Halfway across, at the deepest point of the Strait, something strange happened. A sudden beam of light—perhaps a reflection from a distant lighthouse or the moon peeking through the clouds—hit Oliver's car parked in the open garage. It reflected off the windshield and projected toward the sky. For an instant, the ferry seemed illuminated from within.
"Did you see that?" Maya asked, her eyes wide. "It wasn't the moon," Oliver replied with a calm smile. "It was the lens. The lens that Samuele said I was."
The ferry slowed as it entered the port of Messina, nearing the "Falce" (the Sickle). The statue of the Madonna della Lettera, her arm raised in a gesture of blessing and protection, stood dark against the sky. "Vos et ipsam civitatem benedicimus," the inscription read. Azzurra felt that this blessing was meant for the three of them. They were no longer the fugitives from London; they were the survivors returning to reclaim their land.
The ramps lowered with a clatter of chains. Oliver's car emerged from the belly of the ship and finally touched Sicilian soil. The scent of the harbor—a mixture of diesel, fresh fish, and night-blooming jasmine—wrapped around them like a cloak.
They were in Sicily. They were in the realm of Elia, of Nonna Anna, and of Samuele's ghost. The final dance was now only a few kilometers away.