Antonio Marsina

We lost our Antonio on Monday, but the warmth he brought into this world hasn’t left us. To us, he wasn’t the swaggering gunslinger from *Keoma* or the intense figure from *Vatican Conspiracy*; he was Zio Antonio, the man with the crinkliest laugh lines and the softest hands from a lifetime of gardening right here in Nardò. I can still smell the tomatoes and basil from his little patch behind the house, and hear him arguing good-naturedly with Nonna about the proper way to make orecchiette. He traded the bright lights of Cinecittà for the quiet glow of our family table, and we were the richer for it. His love for his family was his truest, most constant role. To his beloved wife, he was a partner for over fifty years—a quiet anchor who showed his devotion not with grand gestures, but by making her coffee every morning without being asked, and by listening, truly listening, to everything she had to say. To his children and a swarm of adoring grandchildren, he was a gentle giant with endless patience, a secret stash of sweets, and a wallet always ready for a gel