“That’s what you think, Cremonesi. But you see? That might be true for Turrini, for his wife, for the city commissioner, and even for Grange. They’re members of the upper middle class, they have political connections, they’re still members of the respectable citizenry. But you? Where are your friends from Rome and Milan? They don’t count for shit anymore, otherwise you wouldn’t have come all the way up here to make wine. You’d have stayed in your apartment over near the Colosseum, am I right? Nobody’s got your back anymore, asshole. And you’re going to pay every last cent for that fact.” He stepped closer to the criminal. “Here at the prosecutor’s office they’re a little vicious, you know that? They’ll kick your ass to ribbons. And believe me, you’ll get old in prison.”

“I’ll get out and I’ll come fuck your wife.”

“But you have some kind of obsession, Cremonè!”

“You’re pathetic, Schiavone.”

“Keep on trying to piss me off, and maybe that way I’ll put my hands on you, now that you’re handcuffed, and you can see what you can do with that before the judge. But here’s the thing, Cremonesi, you’re going down. And you’re staying behind bars this time. And even if you were ever to get back out, I swear to you, I’ll make sure I kick your ass black and blue and then straight back into a cell. By now, you’re at the center of my thoughts.” He opened the door. “And trust me, that’s not a place that you want to be. Because I literally have nothing else to do with my time!”

A TUMBLEDOWN LITTLE CHURCH ON THE STATE HIGHWAY, houses scattered, seemingly at random, a crossroads, and an old streamer hung up between two trees, advising the citizenry of Pitocco, a small village near Vico nel Lazio, in the province of Frosinone, that in July the Sagra degli Aborti would be held. The Abortion Festival. Or at least that’s what Flavio Buglioni thought he’d read on the rumpled, faded streamer.

The gas station attendant, a man with a gut that could easily accommodate the contents of an entire mini-fridge, explained that this wasn’t the Sagra degli Aborti, luckily, but rather the Sagra degli Abboti, a type of tripe roulade that in July must have been a rare delicacy. A mistake that anyone could have made.

“I’m trying to find the house of the cousin of a friend of mine. My friend’s name is Enzo Baiocchi. But the cousin is a lady, and I don’t know if she has the same last name.”

“Don’t you even remember what her given name is? What was she baptized?” asked the gas station attendant, chewing on the toothpick that he kept wedged between his black incisors.