The next morning, Falco returned. The permit was ready. Signed, stamped, embossed. Falco almost wept with relief.
"Is incomplete." Ricci repeated the phrase with the reverence of a prayer. Then he let his pen hover. A pause. In that pause, as familiar as breath, he picked up a paperclip, examined it, and dropped it into his drawer. A tiny, metallic clink . la bustarella
He walked away, eating chestnuts one by one, the smoke of the cart curling after him like a half-finished sentence. Above, the bells of the duomo rang noon — indifferent, golden, and utterly unstoppable. The next morning, Falco returned