The festive August atmosphere had dissolved into a frigid breath, replaced by an electric anguish that raced along the telegraph wires and bounced off the Civil Protection monitors. This was no ordinary summer disturbance; it was something alien, a "Medicane"—a Mediterranean hurricane—surging up the Ionian Sea with the precision of a predator. The authorities had pulled no punches: a red alert had been issued, a black code covering the entirety of eastern Sicily, Calabria, and the Aeolian archipelago.
The message was clear and unsettling: "Stay indoors. Move away from the coastlines. Get to safety." The Messina seafront, usually swarming with bathers and tourists, had transformed into a desert of asphalt and brine. Roads had been closed to traffic, workplaces forcibly shuttered, and ferries to the smaller islands had been hauled ashore or moored with reinforced chains. Sicily seemed like a fortress preparing for the siege of an invisible but thunderous enemy.
Belinda and Elia, following the instructions of the patrols passing with loudspeakers, had worked all morning to fortify the house. Elia, his face streaked with sweat and his muscles taut, had positioned heavy sandbags in front of the entrance and the basement vents, hoping they would be enough to hold back the flood tide that promised to be catastrophic.
The sky changes color, shifting from a sickly yellow to a bruised purple that seems to press down upon the rooftops. Suddenly, the silence of the deserted city is shattered by the first roar of the wind. It is no mere breeze; it is a primordial scream. Hurricane Harry strikes the coast with the force of a thousand hammers.
Waves, enormous mountains of foaming water rising up to ten meters high, begin to devour the beach. The sea is no longer azure; it is a black and muddy mass that leaps over the protective walls and invades the promenade. The asphalt, under the pressure of tons of water, begins to crack and heave as if a restless giant were moving beneath it.
From the kitchen window, Belinda watches the fury of the elements with horror. The wind reaches gusts of one hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Ancient trees bend until they snap with crashes that sound like cannon fire. In the street, the scene is apocalyptic: the force of the air lifts parked hatchbacks, dragging them for meters or flipping them onto their sides like toys abandoned by a capricious child. Traffic signs are uprooted and fly away, transforming into steel blades that cut through the darkness.
"Mama, look down there!" Azzurra screams, pointing toward the harbor. A pleasure boat, torn from its moorings, is lifted by a freak wave and hurled directly onto the roadway of the seafront, crushing two undercover police cars. The windows of nearby houses explode under the wind's pressure, scattering shards everywhere. The power cuts out, leaving them shrouded in a gloom pierced only by the lightning illuminating the Strait, revealing a landscape that no longer looks like their Sicily, but the antechamber of hell.
Belinda feels her heart beating wildly. She senses that behind this physical destruction lies an ancient rage. It is not just nature rebelling; it is the "Dragon" lashing its tail, the curse of the "ill-fated husband" using the weather alert as cover to come and reclaim Azzurra. Water is already seeping from under the door despite the sandbags, bringing with it the smell of mud and the abyss.
Elia tried to remain calm, gathering the family in the safest part of the house, away from the large windows that vibrated dangerously. Azzurra trembled, clutching her silk and gold pendant tightly; she felt the metal warming against her skin, as if the jewel were trying to counteract the cold of the storm.
"We will hold on, Belinda," Elia said, trying to shout over the roar of the thunder shaking the villa's foundations. "It's just a storm stronger than the others, it will pass."
But Belinda shook her head, her green eyes fixed on the dark mass advancing from the sea. She knew it was not "just a storm." She knew the overturned cars and gutted roads were only the prelude. The Draunara was coming for the final showdown, and sandbags would not be able to stop a demon that rides the waves. She had to prepare for the rite she would perform that night—the rite that would sever the ties to the past forever.
Night fell prematurely, shrouded in the clatter of debris rolling through the streets and the wail of the wind that seemed to call her daughter's name. The preparation was over; now, only the struggle remained.