There was one thing Scianel knew for a fact: all grandes dames of the past hosted salons, where they played cards, bandied civilities, or gathered to gossip, rarely condescending to discuss affairs at hand. She couldn't remember exactly where she'd got that idea from—perhaps she picked it from a book, heard it on TV, or came across a painting during compulsory school trips to a museum. Either way, it sprouted in her mind, and the woman pledged to herself that she would finally become somebody and establish one such salon where she could, just like the grandes dames of the past, play poker, chat, and previsualize the strikes she was about to deliver.
Although the outline only existed in her imagination, Scianel managed to pull it off: without bloviating or digressing, she persistently pursued her goal, using whatever occasional help she could muster. Even though it took her more than a few years to achieve, she was eventually relishing the fruits of her perseverance, tenacity, and wit: surrounded by loyal—and often obsequious—minions, she could order whatever her heart desired: glean information, destroy an enemy, bushwhack to finish an assignment, or perform a trick that required the utmost adroitness and aptitude. Come to think of it, she was capable of building an empire that was bound to thrive—if only she could topple the tyrant. The mere possibility of it stroked her ego and galvanized her into action, but Scianel tamped down her zeal and forced herself to lie low. For now, she must go to ground and resurface only when Gennaro was at his lowest. An experienced poker player, she knew she had to play it safe.
But only for now.
That’s why Scianel barely paid attention to the mess around her. First of all, she didn’t really think anything might pop up, and if things did indeed go south, her guagliù at the drug den were more than competent—they could handle any problem, including brawlers, enemies, or sbirri. Second, she didn’t go through it all to constantly supervise anyone; if they wanted a modicum of her respect and a bigger chunk of money, they had to prove they deserved it. Theirs was a ruthless business, a dog-eat-dog kind of place, and those who hadn’t learned that quickly were eliminated. Scianel had already had a fair share of life lessons and was now entitled to some free time, which she chose to spend with a group of friends gathered around the poker table.
"As usual, the feared donna wins again!" guffawed Ludovica, a bulky woman with garishly painted lips and bejeweled fingers. "I should’ve learned not to place higher bets while playing with you."
"Win that back, then," Scianel replied with a lopsided smirk, motioning her cigarette in a magnanimous gesture. A boy of about fifteen materialized out of thin air, as if the flick of the cigarette was enough to summon him. "Take that away," the donna pointed at the euro bills and coins scattered across the table. "We might want another round, but a little later."
"Not so quickly. You’ve drained us to the last drop," Ludovica laughed again and grabbed her gold cigarette case. "Give us a break."
"You’re growing old, Ludo," Scianel flipped the ash off the cigarette. "I remember times when you were far more reckless than that."
"My recent Tarot reading was against recklessness, and I ignored the signs," the woman’s voice sounded almost dreamy, although laced with irony. "There were plenty of those. I’ve already lost a fortune, and I’ll gamble away my own ass if I don’t stop. No, thank you, donna. Next time, next time."
Scianel leaned back, eyes affixed to an undisclosed point in space, jaws idly chewing on the smoke billowing in her mouth. She didn’t know Ludovica was a fan of Tarot cards, but it wouldn’t be extraordinary for a person this odd: Ludo’s family’s eccentricities had become proverbial, and she certainly acquired a rare knack for esoteric practices and divinations. La Smorfia, Anime Pezzentelle, and Malocchio items were probably only the tip of the iceberg, but Scianel never pried into it: she neither had the time nor interest to ask around.
"Where’d you get a reading?" the donna asked casually, by way of encouragement. "I didn’t know Secondigliano could offer that too."
"Whatever’s popular in the world, I lay my paws on it," the woman shrugged and took a lighter, proffered by a gaunt lady sitting opposite her. "Grazi’. Besides, I was curious," she lit her cigarette and returned the lighter, her hazel eyes squinting. "Aren’t you curious, Scianel? Don’t you want to know what’s awaiting in the future?"
Scianel paused, nibbling on the filter. She hadn’t thought of it in earnest—such things always seemed minuscule to her and never played a role in her decisions, otherwise she would have been buried six feet deep or scattered like some kind of trash, but she had to admit, sometimes she was tempted to try.
"I guess that wouldn’t hurt, would it?" she drawled somewhat pensively, her eyes swiveling in the direction of a ramrod straight silhouette, so quiet and aloof it resembled a specter. "What do you think, Patri?"
The figure, customarily solemn and wary, roused at the call. Taciturnity and inconspicuousness, so uncommon in their line of work, usually aroused suspicion, and yet, Patrizia hadn’t done anything that would trigger Scianel’s instincts. The donna decided to give the woman the benefit of the doubt—after all, it wasn’t her first day in the business, and if she wanted to take down Gennaro, she should take every advantage, this unexpected ally included.
"No. I guess there’s no harm in that," Patrizia replied in a hollow voice that mostly sounded like a confirmation coming from Scianel’s own mind.
"See, Ludo? No harm in that," Scianel gave out a raspy, slightly artificial laugh—she couldn’t quite explain, but the esoteric allure had somewhat put her on edge. "Predict us more prosperity and the fall of Savastano!"
Another raucous laugh, laced with ill-hidden dark triumph. While it was far more genuine than the previous, Scianel hoped that her reaction might reveal Patri’s ulterior motives, but she didn’t even flinch. If she were a traitor, a fleeting emotion would've given her away.
Scianel perused the woman's features with curious intensity. She seemed loyal, but just how loyal could she really be? Was she dependable? Trustworthy? Stalwart? Partizia possessed a whole lot of qualities Scianel’s boys lacked, but wasn’t it what defined a woman in general? At the same time, she appeared flexible and ready to serve, but it was clear from her behavior that she would not be ordered about—she chose when to obey, refusing to kowtow before anyone who proclaimed themself a sovereign. Another rare quality: men blindly followed orders and fell into traps, while women reconnoitered and reported back.
Just by looking at her, Scianel understood that Patrizia was better off without these cafoni—first, Pietro, then Ciro, next Gennarino. They ruled the world, resorting to superannuated, anachronistic methods that no longer worked. Pietro had refused to adapt and got eliminated; Ciro, slippery like an eel, promoted a mock democracy that did little to help them reign over Secondigliano; and now Gennaro, the baneful, pastiche combination of the two: not quite pliable and cunning as the renowned L’Immortale, he wasn't even remotely as steadfast as his father.
Ah, to hell with them. They all believed it was the men's world. It was not. She was here to prove it.
Ludovica had already scrounged up a deck of old Tarot cards that looked so fragile it could fall apart. Albeit she was clearly eager to start, she didn’t prod the donna: instead, she quietly smoked her cigarette, eyes squinted at the fume, prowling into her hazy sclerae.
"Lay it on me," Scianel said with a note of finality in her tone. "But don’t even try to pull tricks. You know how it ends."
Ludo didn’t react, as if entering some sort of trance. Her derisive face switched into an impassive mask, and the susurrus of the deck being shuffled gained a mysterious cadence, the emerald card backs flicking between her ring-clad fingers. Scianel watched her movements, completely mesmerized: though Ludovica wasn’t the most graceful of their clique, her gnarled digits acted with previously unknown elegance. Scianel felt uneasy. Whatever it boded, it couldn't be bad, could it?.. She had her people. She had her sources. She had a trump card, too—Patrizia—by her side… She might not be able to outrun Gennaro, but she could outsmart him, blindside him, and promptly sidestep, while he was trying to recover, and stab him in the back—
"Lift," came Ludo’s jarring voice, her enormous gold earrings clinging in her ears. "With your left hand."
Scianel did as instructed. Unlike other fortune tellers Scianel had heard about, Ludovica didn’t ask her to ponder over a question or an intricate predicament her friend wanted to resolve. Perhaps Scianel's attitude toward Gennaro was evident, and her behavior self-explanatory; perhaps her problems, though clandestine, had begun to seep through the cracks; perhaps it was just a different approach... Banishing the thoughts to empty her head, Scianel tried to focus—and realized that her eyes were transfixed on the emerald cards, ancient and weatherbeaten.
The beefy hand with ugly bunions fanned out the Tarot and soared over them, as if scanning them one by one. Then, out of the blue, it clawed at a card—the one Scianel herself had been attached to. No matter how much the donna wanted to divagate, nothing could deflect her attention; her eyes always returned to that card. The fortune teller turned it faceup and laid it back on the table, revealing a picture with a stately, majestic woman whose regal countenance radiated quiet authority.
L'Imperatrice.
"Do I need to be any more clear?" Ludo’s inscrutable face suddenly shifted into a smug expression, which lasted only a few moments before reinstating the veil of apathy.
"Yes. Please, humor me. And our dear guest from the Savastano camp," Scianel replied with audible delight, rolling the words on her tongue, stressing—for everyone else in the room even more than for the stranger, Patrizia—that she was the authority. "Just in case we misunderstand something."
Ludovica blinked, raised her head in a slow, steady gesture, and motioned around, her bracelets chiming.
"Meet L'Imperatrice," she announced almost histrionically, not losing the bizarre lilt in her intonation. "A powerful card. There is not a thing she could not be: she is fertility, she is creativity, she is nurturing, she is... abundance, life itself!.." the fortune teller enunciated with unadulterated pathos. "But in this case, she most likely defines your position, Scianel. You are in control. You have the power and the means to achieve your goals. You are exactly where you ought to be."
Pleased and gratified beyond measure, Scianel willed herself to stay silent. She wanted to elaborate that she did not intend to stop here, that it was a mere pause, a strategic retreat, a necessary respite before an exhausting battle, but she thought better of it. It wasn't distrust; rather, she didn't want to evince her plans while she hadn't mapped out her assaults and her targets—
"Your second card…"
Ludovica froze and glowered. She was either seesawing or pulled in several directions at once.
"Che cos'è?" Scianel failed to conceal her curiosity under the guise of nonchalance. When Ludo didn’t respond, the donna felt more than a little agitated. The air congealed with suspense, thick and viscous as coagulated blood. Even Patrizia, a glum statue in the murk, leaned forward, her tea-coloured eyes scintillating in the dim light of the salon.
"You won’t like it," warned Ludo, her eyes swept past the Tarot to the donna, her fingertips stroking a card.
"Naturally," Scianel issued a hoarse laugh. "But I’m in control. You’ve just said so yourself.”
Not adding anything, Ludovica swiftly turned up the card and patiently waited for the reaction.
L'Appeso. Reversed.
Scianel's body stiffened like a coiled spring, and she straightened up in her chair. Of course, all this Tarot nonsense was a hoax, a pile of shit never to be believed; these once-bright pictures, dulled by ages of use, had no real meaning behind them in the first place. At the same time, the pictures hardly corresponded to their interpretation, so the Hanged Man could be anything, anything at all. For instance, it might mean Gennaro’s imminent fall.
"Huh? What does that mean?" Scianel prompted her friend in a tone carrying a nascent threat. "No one hangs anyone these days. Guns are cheaper and do a better job."
"Betrayal."
The donna’s predatory eyes, encircled in yellow hoops, drilling through the fortune teller, cigarette smoldering between her fingers.
Betrayal. She thought as much. It was so predictable and commonplace that it hurt to admit. But who? Surely one of the ruffians who killed that puttana’s fuckboy. He did what was told, true, but she saw the look on his face. He probably imagined himself while shooting his balls off.
"Of course," she said in a carefully modulated voice, " A betrayal. A traitor. Is he active now?"
"Not yet, but the Empress must remain cautious at all times—this person will reveal themselves, but it will be hard to read the signs."
"Fine," Scianel took a long drag, the smoldering tip almost burning her lips. "Next card."
"You sure you don't need further elaboration?"
"You think I don't know how to deal with traitors?" She narrowed her eyes, "Who do you take me for?"
Ludovica left it unanswered, but it was hard to say whether she wanted to stay away from the trouble or if the trance took a stronger hold. She shrugged and turned the last card without thinking at all.
La Torre.
Foreboding crept into the donna’s bones, snaking into the tiniest fractures and swelling within like a wet sponge, growing in size. She had already been prepared to dismiss any premonition that might unsettle her, but the sight of this card left no room for denial. The tower stood jagged and crumbling, struck by lightning, and the very air around it seemed to tremble. Ludo had lapsed into silence, her bulging eyes poring over her mistress.
"Speak," Scianel commanded as coolly as she could, though she had already guessed the meaning.
"Destruction."
A moment of stasis. Everyone in the room seemed to have been petrified by this one word, and even Patri, the most reserved and collected of all, appeared affected and bewildered. Her composure was restored in a couple of seconds, but the trepidation that distorted her visage still nestled in the depths of her pupils. She was the one to break the silence.
"Or a change," she spoke quietly, her eyes glued to the greasy picture. "Quick, drastic, unexpected. Everything will lie in ruins, no one will have enough time to react, but it will give way to new beginnings." Bit by bit, her voice gained strength. "To new empires."
The fortune teller kept observing the table, not seeing it, as if blind. Her face drew a blank—Patrizia’s words had no impact on her, she’d barely heard them at all. The others, much more impressionable, felt too sheepish to participate in the conversation and simply shifted their eyes from Patri to Scianel and back.
The donna’s visage smoothed. She stood up and approached the woman with a sinister grin playing on her lips.
"New beginnings, you say," she hissed, her face inches away from Patrizia’s. "New empires. Whose those empires might be, Patri?"
Patrizia felt a pungent stink of smoke enveloping Scianel’s figure, mingling with a suffocating redolence of her perfume. She had been accustomed to that smell, but now it seemed overbearing, stretching its tentacles over to her and bringing her closer to the bloodthirsty demon who would stop at no sacrifice.
"What is it, Patri? Are there indeed any new beginnings?" Scianel muttered, softly raising Patrizia’s face to the light with the tips of her fingers that still preserved the warmth of the cigarette. "New empires? New prospects and new worlds?"
Staring directly into the yellow eyes of the tigress, Patri mulled over her answer—she had to be smart to pull that off, come up with a decent reply, please L’Imperatrice, and fortify her own positions.
“Yes,” the woman replied slowly and quietly, maintaining eye contact, her posture straight as ever. “Empires fall because they fail to adapt. They latch onto outdated ideas and obsolete principles,” she paused, letting the words sink in. “And that’s where L’Imperatrice comes in. Creation requires space, and she takes it all. La Torre is a warning for the Empress, but if she’s reasonable enough, her sacrifice will be repaid.”
Scianel’s eyebrows arched, the corners of her mouth tugging into a wry smirk. She scrutinized Patrizia’s tired face and tilted her head to the side.
“No man deserves you, Patri,” the donna finally uttered, her raspy hiss gaining a smarmy note. “It’s good to have you here. In a place where your skills can truly be appreciated. T’appost’. T’appost’.”
Her fingers lingered on the woman’s chin for another second, and then she brusquely turned back to the table.
“Jatevenne, mo’. I’m done with your idiot games.”
The women obeyed. Chairs scraped against the floor, and the guests hurried out of the salon—all but one, the silent observer hidden in the dark.
Due figure femminili che hanno fatto gli onori di Sky Atlantic e continuano a farli sono Scianel di Gomorra - La serie e Sole de Il miracolo . Gli sceneggiatori e le attrici che hanno dato vita e voce a questi due mostri (sacri e non) del nostro schermo hanno raccontato in prima persona come sono nati. Mostri sempre bicefali: a due teste, anzi, ad almeno cinque o sei, viste le loro infinite sfaccettature. Ecco cos'è successo lunedì 17 settembre a Milano durante il Series Day, precisamente durante le masterclass del pomeriggio e della sera
Dopo le proiezioni in anteprima del primo episodio della seconda stagione di Insecure - la serie che segue le imbarazzanti peripezie di una donna afro-americana contemporanea (interpretata da Issa Rae, anche creatrice e produttrice) che si ritrova a vivere sullo schermo tante sfaccettature di tematiche sociali e razziali dell'America di oggi - la giornata Series Day che si è tenuta a Milano all’Anteo Palazzo del Cinema lunedì 17 settembre ha messo l’accento sulla donna in Italia. Non certo una donna modello né, fortunatamente, un modello di donna che va per la maggiore nel nostro Paese: stiamo parlando della donna appartenente al "sistema", al centro di una delle più apprezzate produzioni di Sky Atlantic che va sotto il nome ormai "onnicitato" di Gomorra - La serie.
A poche ore dal gran finale di Gomorra 3, l’attore Gianfranco Gallo racconta la sua esperienza a BollicineVip. Link in Bio 🔝 #gomorra3 #gomorra #gianfrancogallo #gomorra3laserie #gomorralaserie #napoli #gomorra3tistiamoaspettamdo #skyatlantic #gennysavastano #gomorrha #skytv #gomorramaserie #teatro #fotografia #stamturnann #salvatoreesposito #citazioninapoletane #gomorrah #sangueblu #cirodimarzio #cinema #serietv #sky #shopping #scianel #vacanzedinatale #talebani #stammturnann #sscnapoli #skyatlantichd Powered by @TagOmatic
