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“Your brother’s here, signore.”

He feels as though there should be paperwork, but there isn't. The cell door opens. Lorenzo helps him to his feet. Bright lights, empty desks, cigarette smoke.

Someone's laughing in the street. Drunken voices, muffled disco. A hand settles lightly on the small of his back. Inside the car, Lorenzo starts the engine, turns on the heat, and passes him a bundle from between the seats. Gigi unwraps it to find an orange, some bresaola, and two slices of pane casereccio spread with chestnut cream.

“Let’s go home,” Lorenzo says, turning southward.

The cell door opens.