Midnight descended upon Messina not as an hour, but as a shroud of liquid lead. The roar of Hurricane Harry had reached an unbearable peak: it was no longer just wind, but a metallic wail that vibrated through bone and shook the very foundations of the villa. Inside the house, the darkness was broken only by flashes of lightning which, through the slats of shutters crisscrossed with adhesive tape, projected distorted and menacing shadows onto the walls—shadows like gnarled fingers searching for an opening.
Belinda felt that the time for physical barricades had expired. The sandbags Elia had piled up with such effort were yielding under the pressure of water that did not seem like rain: it was the black water of the Strait beginning to gurgle in the hallway—ice-cold, bringing with it the scent of rotting algae, mud, and forgotten abysses. Azzurra, huddled on the sofa, had a waxen, almost transparent face. Every time a gust struck the building, the girl clutched her throat, emitting a stifled whistle—the sound of one about to be seized by an invisible noose. The demon of the Draunara was tightening its mortal circle.
"Elia, take her upstairs! Lock yourselves in the room and do not let go of her hand, for any reason in the world!" Belinda commanded. Her voice brook no argument; she was no longer the worried wife or the anxious mother, but the guardian of Grandma Linda's legacy—the final defense against a shadow claiming its blood tribute.
Belinda headed for the kitchen. With calm gestures, slowed by a hypnotic solemnity, she opened the drawer where the black-handled knife lay. The blade, forged from ancient iron and tempered in salt, seemed to absorb the light of the lightning rather than reflect it. She gripped the Libro delle Ombre, its pages seemingly vibrating beneath her fingers, open to the prayer for "cutting the Dragon's tail."
Defying Elia's screams from the upper floor, as he begged her to get to safety, Belinda flung open the French doors to the balcony. The impact of the outdoors was brutal. The hurricane's fury tried to hurl her backward; the lashing rain cut her skin like a thousand shards of glass, and the salt stung her eyes, blurring her vision. But Belinda stood rooted to the ground, her bare feet seeking purchase on the wet marble, the roots of her lineage ideally sinking into the concrete.
Before her, the sight was apocalyptic. A column of water and debris—a dark vortex connecting the black sea to the purple sky—was spiraling just a few meters from the shore. It was the tail of the demon, the Draunara summoned by the "ill-fated husband," rising from the depths to settle scores with the seventh generation. In the whirlwind, Belinda thought she saw more than just debris: she saw faces deformed by rage and the sinister glint of gold canines, as if the storm had absorbed every fragment of their recent history only to turn it against them.
Belinda raised the knife toward the heart of the vortex. Her arm was a column of marble, motionless despite gusts of one hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.
"Lùniri santu, Màrtiri santu!" she cried, her voice miraculously piercing the roar of the wind. She executed the first strike through the air—a sharp, horizontal cut, severing the space before her.
"Mèrcuri santu, Iòviri santu!" At the second strike of the blade, the waterspout gave a violent jolt. The water turbine seemed to hesitate, buckling like a wounded muscle, tilting dangerously toward the open sea.
"Vènnari santu, Sàbbatu santu!" Belinda felt an icy pressure against her throat—the demon's desperate attempt to stifle the prayer. But she visualized Azzurra; she saw the emerald light of the Goddess Hygeia and drew strength from the sacrifice of the purple silk.
"Duminica di Pasqua, sta cuda a mmari casca!" she screamed with all the breath left in her lungs, bringing the knife down from above in a definitive gesture of banishment. "E pi lu nnomu di Maria, sta cuda tagghiata sia!"
A dull boom, like the cry of a primordial beast, shook the entire block. The waterspout snapped violently in half. The upper part pulverized into a fine mist, while the base fell back into the sea with an impact that made the villa's foundations tremble. The wind, suddenly deprived of its anchor, vanished into a dying breath, giving way to a heavy rain, yet one devoid of rage.
Belinda remained on the balcony, drenched and trembling. She re-entered the house, dragging her feet, and found Elia and Azzurra descending the stairs. The girl was breathing deeply, but her eyes were still searching for something in the darkness.
"Is it over, Mama?" Azzurra asked. "The thread is cut, my little one," Belinda replied, but her voice betrayed an uncertainty she did not wish to show.
Later, while Elia tried to dry the hallway, Belinda returned to the balcony to watch the calming sea. Among the debris washed ashore by the storm, she noticed something strange. It was not the figurehead she had hoped to find. It was a small fragment of purple silk, identical to the one Alfio had sealed in the pendant, floating alone in a pool of salt water right on the threshold of the balcony.
She picked it up with trembling fingers. How was it possible? The silk from the Shimmy doll had been burned, transformed, and sealed in resin. She looked toward the horizon, where the clouds were giving way to a livid moon. The silence was not one of peace, but of waiting. The debt had been cut, yes, but Belinda felt a shiver: a clean cut always leaves two ends.
From Azzurra's room came a soft sound, almost a whisper. It was the voice of the child singing a lullaby in a language they had never studied—a melody that tasted of rain and London fog.
Belinda squeezed the fragment of silk in her fist, feeling her heart fill with a new, icy awareness. The Draunara had been repelled, but the sea always gives back what it cannot digest. The chapter of the curse was not concluded at all; it had merely mutated into something more subtle, something that now lived within the walls of the house, ready to sprout at the next change of tide.