“You understand that your father and mother are part of the group.”

“I know. But I didn’t give a damn. They can do what they want, but not with my life.”

“Are you sure? If they get tangled up in all this, what are you going to do?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m legally an adult. I could go to America and stay with my uncle. Or maybe I’ll finally graduate from high school. If there’s anything you need, you know where to find me. And don’t worry, I never saw you here!” With that he shut the window. Rocco smiled and quickly darted behind the bushes. As he was running toward the enclosure wall, he marveled at that young man in whom he hadn’t at first detected any noteworthy qualities. He regretted his hasty and superficial judgment of the young man. It’s typical of the old to dismiss and condemn the young. But it’s only jealousy of the things the old have lost forever.

How much had that decision cost Max? How many nights had he lain awake eavesdropping on his parents, their friends, and that whole clan of wrongdoers that were milling around in his home? They had forced him to mingle with people like Walter Cremonesi, Carlo Cutrì, and that asshole Luca Grange. Other young men would have looked the other way, interested only in getting a new car and a couple of credit cards in their wallet. But not Max. He’d made the decision to uproot his life, a change that he knew would soon turn into sheer hell. But at least he’d be able to sleep at night, in his own bed, and not sit up restlessly smoking at the window, eating his heart out.

“IT’S SIX THIRTY IN THE MORNING, SCHIAVONE!”

“Did I wake you up, Dottor Baldi? I’m already in the office . . .”

“You’re not a normal person. You either disappear for days on end or else you’re in the office at ridiculous times of the morning. I hope you have something really important to tell me.”

Rocco propped his soaking-wet Clarks desert boots up on the windowsill. “Well, let’s just say that I’ve found Carlo Cutrì. Is that sufficient?”

From the other end of the line came a moment of silence. “Where?”

“He works as the stable boy at the Turrini estate. He goes by the name of Dodò.”

“Are . . . are you certain?”

“I swear it, by all that’s holy. I need two warrants. Daniele Abela and Federico Tolotta. For the murder of Domenico Cuntrera.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on, what are you talking about?”

“The mastermind, and this is the most interesting thing, is none other than Carlo Cutrì. Through the agency of Amelia Abela, the prison guard’s sister, an escort by profession.”

“You’re vomiting a series of details that I—”