“Rumors going around. I’m sorry about Adele. How’s Seba?”

“How do you think he is?” Rocco broke in. “He’s fucking furious.”

“If I could do anything for Seba, I would. But for real, guys, I don’t know anything at all.” And he took a puff on his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and his index finger. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Rocco. “How did she die?”

“Eight shots, 6.35 mm, small caliber.”

More silence. Two young women walked out of an apartment house door, momentarily snagging Brizio’s attention. Paoletto flicked away his cigarette. The neon sign of the antiques shop, reflected off his bald head, gave it a pale blue cast.

“How’s your brother?” asked Rocco.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“About what happened up north?”

“I haven’t seen Flavio for a while. You know that, right? He lives with Mamma, poor old thing, she’s eighty-five, deaf, and not in the best of health. Anyway, now that I think of it, it was Antonio Biga who told me. You know him, right?”

Brizio nodded. He ran his hand through his hair. “Listen up a second, Paolè . . . If you hear anything, will you tell us? Either me or Seba?”

“Of course I will. You can count on it.”

Brizio stretched out his hand. The bouncer clasped it. Then he shook Rocco’s hand, too. “I’m sorry, Rocco.”

The deputy chief and his friend walked away. Paoletto went back toward the discotheque. As soon as he saw the two men vanish around the corner, he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Flavio . . . yeah, it’s me . . .”

His brother’s voice answered sleepily: “What is it?”

“How is Mamma?”

“Wait, you’re calling me at one in the morning to find out how Mamma is?”

“No, listen to me. Did you sell a gat, a 6.35 mm, a while ago?”

“So, what if I did?”

“Fuck, Flavio. You weren’t supposed to sell that one, and you know it. Who did you sell it to?”

“Hey, why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

“This is my own fucking business, you asshole! Who did you sell it to?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because whoever it was, they used it . . . probably to shoot Adele up north in Aosta. Well?”

“Oh, fuck . . . and I thought he just wanted it for an armed robbery.”

“Who?”

Flavio took a deep breath. “Enzo. Enzo Baiocchi!”

Paoletto rolled his eyes heavenward. “The cop is looking for him. Don’t say a thing. Keep cool. And if it ever turns up again, throw it into the Tiber.”

“You think they can trace it back to me?”