DOWNSTAIRS, JUDGE BALDI, SITTING IN THE EXCEEDINGLY luxurious living room in the Berguet home, was stirring his espresso, tiny spoon tinkling against the porcelain of the demitasse cup that the housekeeper, Dolores, had just brought him from the kitchen. Pietro and Giuliana were eyeing him.

“I’m happy to see you looking well, Signora Berguet,” said Baldi.

“Yes, thanks, at last I’m getting some sleep.”

Then the judge turned to look at Pietro. Unlike his wife, he was pale, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still, and he was lighting one cigarette after another.

“All right, then, I’m here to get something straight. Your company was in the running for a contract with the regional government. Right?”

The judge had touched a nerve. Pietro’s face had gone from pale to bright red. “They eliminated us!” he exploded. “They kicked us out of the competition! Mafia infiltration, they say. Do you understand, Dottor Baldi? My daughter kidnapped by that . . . that bastard Cuntrera and then I’m the Mafioso? I tried to explain it to the commission. Those pieces of shit blackmailed us!”

“Pietro!” his wife exclaimed. But Pietro wasn’t listening to her. “And now Edil.ber is a ‘company at risk of Mafia infiltration’!?”

“And what did they say to you?”

“They told me: ‘Don’t forget about Cerruti, your right-hand man . . . he was a member of that organization’ . . .” Pietro Berguet lunged to his feet from the sofa where he’d been sitting. “And they have a point, Dottor Baldi. They have a thousand points! Cristiano was in it up to his neck, my own right-hand man, and what could I say? There was Mafia infiltration, and how.”

Baldi sipped his espresso. “I understand that the company that won the competition is called—”

Pietro beat him to it: “Architettura Futura. They’re young, they only went into business a couple of years ago.” He went to the window. “They’ve never won a contract this size before, though.”

“Do you mind if I ask what’s involved?”

“A new wing of a hospital and two medical clinics, in Cervinia and in Saint-Vincent.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“A lot, Dottore. A lot.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

“I’ll try to file an appeal. But I’m sure I’ll just waste a lot of money on lawyers.”

“This Architettura Futura . . . who’s the owner?”

“Luca Grange.”

“Of Aosta?”

“Of Pont-Saint-Martin.”

The door to the living room swung open and Max appeared. The boy had a sad demeanor, like a dog that’s been beaten.

“Hi . . .” he said, as if under his breath.

Giuliana smiled at him. “Dottor Baldi, this is Max . . . Chiara’s boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes, I know him. And I know his mother very well, too. How’s it going, Max?”

“Just so-so . . .”

“Did you say hello to Chiara?” asked Giuliana.

“Yes. Well, thanks and excuse me. See you soon.”