ch.4 The Escape of Fornelli

The days piled up like pages torn from a rotten calendar, leaving no trace, no meaning, no hope. The degradation was total: Vito's cell stank of mold and congealed piss, the mattress was a nest of fleas that devoured his skin at night, the bucket overflowed and no one emptied it for days. The food—if you could call it that—was a gray slop that tasted of detergent and spoiled fish, served on cracked plastic trays. The showers? Once every ten days, freezing water that pierced his bones like needles. The guards ignored him or insulted him, spitting near his feet as he passed.

Vito didn't complain. Never.

His anger was a low, constant, stoic flame. This is my furnace, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after swallowing yet another mouthful of shit. You'll temper me, you bastards, and when I get out, I'll be pure steel. But escape? Impossible. Asinara was a prison island, surrounded by stormy seas, guarded by patrol boats, dogs, and searchlights. No escapee had ever managed to escape alive. Even Jamal, his only friend, shook his head when Vito mentioned freedom. "The sea will eat you, Don. Better to wait."

Vito waited.

Then came the moment when the prisoners had to be cleaned and presented for a visit from an important figure: Senator Romanotti.An important statesman, a big shot from the Ministry of Justice, on an official visit to "verify the conditions of detention." Announced three days in advance, like a real event. The guards went crazy: they cleaned the corridors with bleach, painted over the damp stains, distributed new suits—gray, but at least without holes—and gathered all the inmates in the main courtyard.

"Stay calm," the warden shouted through the megaphone. "No fuss. No words. The Senator passes by, looks, and leaves."

Vito was pushed out with the others, the sun stinging his eyes after months of dim light. He wore the clean suit, but inside he was the same wolf. He observed everything: the distracted guards, the guards running after protocol, the dogs kept on short leashes. Romanotti arrived by helicopter, disembarking in his blue suit and red tie, surrounded by photographers and officials. He did a quick tour, shook hands, and nodded with satisfaction. The inmates were lined up, motionless as statues.

Vito counted.

Eight guards in the courtyard. Four at the gates. Two with dogs. The Senator stayed twenty minutes. Then he was back.

Upon returning to his cell, chaos ensued.

The inmates were herded back in groups of twenty, checked one by one with portable metal detectors and perfunctory searches. But the guards were tired, distracted, anxious to finish. Vito was in the last group. When it was his turn, the guard—a young man with acne—ran the detector over his body without conviction, his eyes already on the next.

Vito moved.

A quick sideways step, behind a concrete column. The next group covered him. No one noticed. He slipped into a service corridor—a half-open door he'd noticed during cleaning—and slipped outside the inner perimeter. The fishing village was less than a kilometer away, beyond the low perimeter wall, used for supplies.

He ran.

Not like a panicked fugitive. Like a wolf who knows where to go. He crossed the scrub fields, hid among the goats, and reached the first houses of Cala Reale. The boats were there, moored, their nets still wet. He found shelter in an abandoned shed; it smelled of rotting fish and tar, but it was perfect.

Night fell slowly.

The alarms sounded at dawn.

Sirens, dogs, helicopters. The guards combed the island inch by inch, roadblocks, radio messages to all the coastal stations: "Rizzuto escaped. Dangerous. Armed. Report any suspicious movement."

Vito was already on the fishing boat Santa Rosalia, hidden in the hold among crates of sardines and ice. The captain—an old man from Stintino with a sunburnt face—asked no questions. He'd received a message the night before, from a fisherman who was a conspirator: "Take the Sicilian to Ferroli. You'll pay later."

The engine coughed at 4:37.

The boat left the Cala Reale harbor without lights, slipping into the darkness like a shadow. Vito was crouched among the crates, his heart beating slowly, stoically. Not fear. Calculation.

At 6:12 they docked at Porto Ferroli, a forgotten pier on the northwest coast of Sardinia. The guards were still searching on Asinara.

Vito disembarked calmly.

He walked along the pier, his shoes wet from the salt water, his gray overalls blending in with the dawn. No security. No siren. He reached the center of town on foot—a hamlet of white houses, closed bars, a dog barking in the distance.

He stopped in front of a fountain.

He drank.

He washed his face.

He looked at the clearing sky.

Free.

He didn't rejoice.

He didn't laugh.

Just a lump in his throat, hard as stone.

Now it really begins.

Revenge no longer awaits.

It had a name, a face, a path.

And the sea, for once, had kept its mouth shut.