“Mind your own business, Sergio. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep to yourself the things that you’ve seen . . . and . . .” But he didn’t finish the sentence. He shut his eyes again. Sergio stood, frozen to the spot. How could Omar know? How had he heard about it? he wondered. Then, suddenly, he knew. Sergio had mentioned it to his cell mate Karim, and sure enough Karim had then informed Omar. Everyone knows that prison radio, as they called it, could be as slow as a sloth or as fast as a cheetah. But the idea that two people knew now left a bad taste in his mouth. He went back to the door. Federico was waiting for him to come out so he could relock the door. “Sergio! That’s your name!”

“We’ve known each other for years and you only just now remembered my name? Ah, so you were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”

Tolotta smiled at him. “Did you tell him it’s beef?”

“Federico, that guy can barely even drink water. Send him a nurse to feed him, take it from me.”

Instead, Tolotta slammed the barred door shut with determination. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to talk to the unions? Go on, Sergio, go on back to your wing. And take care of yourself.”

Sergio stuck a cigarette in his mouth and walked away from the ward.

“And don’t you dare light that thing until you’re outside!” the guard shouted after him.

The inmate lifted a thumb and replied: “Got it. My last name’s Mozzicarelli, by the way.”

“DON’T EVER TELL ME FRIENDS AREN’T ANY USE TO YOU,” said Officer Italo Pierron, tossing a small-format newspaper filled with photographs onto Rocco’s desk.

“What’s all this?”

“Take a look on page twelve.”

Rocco leafed through the newspaper. It was a publication of an Aosta real estate agency. “Page twelve. So?”

“Look right here.” Italo stepped close. “Bedroom, living room, bathroom, kitchen, and office. Top floor in the city center for just six hundred fifty euros a month. Via Croix de Ville! It’s yours!”

The deputy chief lowered the newspaper. “Do you get a kickback?”

Italo turned pale. “Have you lost your mind?”

“So what you’re telling me is that you decided to find me an apartment?”

“Exactly.”

Rocco looked at the newspaper again. “All right. Do me a favor. Hold on . . .” And he pulled out his wallet. He extracted his checkbook from the wallet and signed one check. He detached it and handed it to Italo. “Here. It’s for the rent, the security deposit, or whatever else you need. Oh, Italo, that’s a blank check, do your best not to lose it.”

Italo nodded. “What if you don’t like the place, though?”

“Take Lupa. If she barks, the place is fine. If she won’t go in, forget about it.”

“I don’t really get along with Lupa.”