The truth was that Adele had died in place of Rocco. Those eight 6.35 mm bullets that someone had fired into her body as she lay sleeping peacefully in his bed on Rue Piave had actually been meant for him. For him and him alone. Adele had been his responsibility, and now she was dead. Yet another case.

Just like Marina.

HE WATCHED AS THE DAY WILTED LIKE A FLOWER CLIPPED from its stem.

Someone knocked at the door. Lupa, sprawled on the unmade bed, cocked an ear. Rocco didn’t move. He waited. Whoever it was knocked again.

Now they’ll leave, he decided.

He heard his visitor’s footsteps move off down the hallway. He drew a sigh of relief.

That pain in the ass had left, too.

He slowly sank back onto the bed, settling into the down quilt. Lupa snuggled into his armpit. Man and dog fell asleep, like a pair of shipwrecked passengers clinging together for safety.

“CAFFÈ MACCHIATO AND A DECAF!” TATIANA SHOUTED. CORRADO Pizzuti didn’t move, his eyes blank as he stared at the dishwasher tray loaded with demitasse cups and cappuccino mugs waiting to be run.

“Corrado, wake up, it’s seven in the evening! Caffè macchiato and a decaf!” Corrado snapped to and turned his gaze to the two customers at the counter. They were Ciro and Luca, two constables of Francavilla al Mare.

“What, did you fall asleep?” asked Ciro.

“Why don’t you make an espresso for yourself? You could use it!” chimed in Luca.

Corrado busied himself at the espresso machine.

“It was a beautiful day, wasn’t it, Tatiana? Bright and sunny. Why don’t we go get a nice seafood dinner together this evening?” Luca had been flirting with Corrado’s business partner, Tatiana, for three years now, getting nowhere. And he still hadn’t figured out that the Russian woman had been married to the CPA De Lullo, a childless widower, for the past two years. “Why don’t you take your wife out for a seafood dinner!” Tatiana retorted, with a courteous smile.