It could have been the rural retreat of a hedge-fund magnate or an Italian prince: a two-story villa of beige stucco and stone, perched in isolation on a rise overlooking the Jato Valley in northern Sicily. The front doors opened onto a refurbished dining room with high ceilings, terra-cotta tile floors and a row of stone arches that suggested a Roman amphitheater. Antique brass lanterns, pottery and other curios hung from the walls. Soft light filtered through the windows. It was getting toward lunch, and in the spacious kitchen, three chefs were preparing dessert: miniature pastries made with honey and chestnuts cultivated in nearby orchards. A narrow staircase wound upstairs to the villa's three rustic bedrooms, with 10 beds, each of which looked out upon pale-green meadows sloping upward toward bald-faced granite mountains.
In fact, this 17th-century farmhouse once belonged to Bernardo Brusca, the capo of one of Sicily's most brutal crime families.
post-gazette.com
|
