Pietro recovered his smile. “And you can’t tell me what—”

“No,” the deputy chief interrupted him. “I’m afraid not. The less you know about it, the better. Just one piece of advice, and this is as a friend, not as a policeman. Go home, be with your family. You can’t even begin to imagine how lucky you are. And keep an eye on Chiara. Take care of her. Not like a drunk, not like an angry nut. Like a man.” Rocco headed for the door. When he got to the middle of the room, he turned and pointed to the box and the wrapping paper. “This perfume . . . throw it away, or give it to your wife. Even if you didn’t buy it for her, she still might like it. Obviously, by the way, I was never here.”

“Obviously,” Pietro agreed. “But what am I supposed to do, Dottor Schiavone? Should I call my lawyers?”

“Clearly you haven’t understood a single thing I said. Don’t do anything. You trusted me once, right? Do it again.”

He left the office. He got back in the elevator. On the ground floor, the lights suddenly turned on. A man in the uniform of a security guard with a flashlight in his hand stood looking at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Schiavone didn’t even dignify him with a glance. “Sure, don’t worry about it . . . good night!” And he left Edil.ber.

He had just disgusted himself. All that false optimism, where had it come from? That surge of love toward the Berguet family? What were they to him? Little more than a case solved. People he never wanted to see again as long as he lived. And so? He’d felt like an idiot, after speaking words of wisdom to that desperate fool, who was half in the bag. What was becoming of Rocco Schiavone?

“Are you turning into a sentimentalist, Schiavò?” he asked, glancing into his rearview mirror as he started the car. “Damned springtime . . .” he muttered, as he put it into reverse.

LUPA WAS SLEEPING AT THE FOOT OF THE BED. NOT ROCCO. He had decided it was time to get back to reading some healthy books. He held the book upright on his stomach and smiled at every page.

“WHAT ARE YOU READING?”

“Carl Hiaasen. Ever hear of him?”

“Tourist Season . . . No, I’ve never read it. How is it?”

“Not bad . . . what about you?”

Marina is lying next to me. She has her cheek braced on the palm of her hand. “I’m looking at you.”

“See anything interesting?”

“Especially these wrinkles you’re getting around your eyes.” She extends a finger. It seems as if she’s about to touch the wrinkles. Instead, she retracts it, the way snails retract their eyes. “Are you moving to that apartment where Lupa marked her territory?”