“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I sure did! Amelia is safe and sound!”

He was tempted to add, “. . . and locked up tight in a prison cell,” but he decided that wouldn’t help matters.

HE SAT WAITING FOR AMELIA IN THE VISITING ROOM IN THE Aosta prison, a room that Schiavone knew well. A damp patch of discoloration in every corner, a plastic chair, a flaking window up quite high, mold-green walls. He was starting to be heartily sick of prisons. He leaned back, with his legs stretched out, and didn’t move when Amelia Abela entered the room. She was wearing a pink tracksuit with a Swarovski rabbit design on the front. Pink running shoes without laces, her hair loose, and her eyes highlighted with an application of eye shadow, also pink. “Well, well, we meet again,” she said, without the shadow of a smile. She sat down. The scent of tuberose assailed Rocco’s nostrils.

“How are you, Signorina Abela?”

The woman laughed. “So we’re back on formal, official terms?”

“How are you, Amelia?”

“Quite shitty, thanks. Now then, if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon make this a quick chat, I’m not very interested in spending time with you.”

“Why?” asked Rocco, looking at her.

“Because you’re not very pleasant company.”

“No, what I was asking was, why did you get involved in the plot to eliminate Cuntrera?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What a pain in the ass,” Rocco huffed. “It’s always the same old tune. Come on, Amelia, your brother is in Varallo prison, and he’s been singing like a bird to the magistrates for the past hour and a half. All I want to know is why on earth you chose to get involved.”

Amelia scrutinized Rocco before answering. “I don’t believe you.”

“My ass, you don’t believe me.” He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and lit it.

“So smoking is allowed in here?” the woman asked.