“Inside! Gates are closing!” shouted a guard. Sergio slowly returned to his cell, along with Aldo and Karim. With the noise of clanking, clattering metal, the gates slammed shut. Soon they’d bring their dinners.

Just don’t give a damn about it.

IT WAS 8:30. ROCCO WAS RUNNING LATE. HE’D WASTED TIME calling Brizio and telling him the details of the pistol and the armed robbery and associated murder in Cinecittà. His friend had assured him that he would get busy and let him know. Though Brizio had to say, he’d never heard of this Neapolitan Scifù. Rocco was galloping toward his residential hotel, with Lupa trotting after him, tail wagging happily. He had to take a quick shower and get dressed. But the idea was already starting to surface in his head of calling Anna and standing her up at the last minute—a move of colossal oafishness. He entered the residential hotel and went to the desk to ask for his key.

“You’re unbelievably late!”

He turned around. Behind him, sitting on one of the sofas in the lobby, was Anna. Lupa ran straight toward her, barking. Anna greeted the puppy with open arms—“Lupa! Are you happy to see me?”—and she bent down to pet her, then looked up at Rocco. “She’s happy to see me. Take a lesson from Lupa.”

“It’ll take me three minutes, I’ll get changed and be right downstairs. Do you think the dog can come?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I can’t even bring the dog . . . Well, okay.” Rocco whistled, and Lupa followed him up the stairs.

HE OPTED FOR THE USUAL DARK-BROWN CORDUROY SUIT WITH a light-blue shirt and no tie and, of course, his Clarks desert boots. “Now you go nighty-night,” Rocco said, pouring the doggie kibble into the pink plastic dog bowl. “All right? I’ll be home soon.” Lupa lunged at the food. Rocco put on his loden overcoat, left the table lamp on for the puppy, and shut the door softly behind him.

“THANKS FOR COMING TO PICK ME UP HERE AT THE RESIDENTIAL hotel. I was running late.”

Anna looked Rocco up and down. “So you think that’s elegant evening attire?”

He made a poor showing compared with the woman’s getup: she wore a simple black tube dress, adorned with a necklace shaped like a grape vine with red stones peeping out among small gold grape leaves, a cyclamen jacket tapered at the waist by bone buttons, and a pair of black python ankle boots. “You’re dressed for the office.”

Rocco looked at himself in the reception desk mirror. He hadn’t even brushed his hair. “You think?”

“You didn’t even shave! Let’s go, or we’ll be late. Shall we take your car, or are you going to make me drive all the way there?”

“All the way where?”

“Outside of Aosta. Toward Rumiod.”

“Do you know the way?”