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until he was out on deliveries. But the mother was in the back, cooking. Turrido’s father took off when he was five. I don’t think Turrido ever had a girlfriend. Mamma and the bakery were his world. I went to her funeral. One of Gambini’s captains came in. Gambini hadn’t intended killing the mother. He wouldn’t come himself, but his man tried to press an envelope on Turrido. Turrido ripped it to pieces, torn lira spilling all over the floor.
    “Afterward, Turrido wandered the streets, lost. I always wondered what happened to him. I was a teenager the last time I saw him.”
    “A courageous man,” Pino said. “It makes sense that he’s here. The proprietor also disdains the mob. If his father hadn’t been one of them, this place would have been trashed a long time ago.”
    Natalia remembered asking, when she was small, why Turrido lived with his mother. And didn’t have children. Because he’s a good boy, her mother had insisted. An only child. So he couldn’t leave his Mamma.
    “Me too,” Natalia had said. “I’m an only child. So I can’t get married either, or ever leave you.”
    Her mother had laughed and kissed her, saying, “No. It’s different for girls. Besides, I have your father.”
    Yes, different, Natalia reflected bitterly nearly thirty years later. A woman was still not considered much of anything if she is without a man. Yet it couldn’t have been easy for Turrido. What if he’d wanted a wife and kids? What if he’d been in love? And after the tragedy, he’d been like a madman. What woman would have settled for him then? Was he still bitter? How could he not be?
    “At least he’s baking again,” she said.
    Pino beckoned the waitress over. He smiled at the girl. “We have a few questions about the photograph you identified of Teresa Steiner to our colleagues. How is it that you know the man who came in with her?”
    “Benito? We grew up together. I heard he was becoming a priest, so I was surprised to see him with a girl.”
    “Has he been blind from birth?”
    “He can see a little. He got sick when he was fifteen. A virus.”
    “Are you sure it was Benito—the man with her?” Natalia asked.
    “He knew me, all right. I said, ‘It’s me, Tina.’ He pretended he didn’t know me. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I said, ‘My mistake.’ It didn’t seem like he and the girl knew each other that well, but.…”
    “When was this?”
    “Months ago. He didn’t come back, either. I figured it was because I was here. Did something happen to Benito?” “No. To the girl.”
    “The girl in the crypt,” Tina gasped. “Oh, my God.” She made the sign of the cross, then kissed her fingers—a proper daughter of Italy, despite appearances.
    “What can you tell us about him?” Natalia asked.
    The girl bit her lower lip.
    “Anything you can tell us will be in confidence,” Natalia reassured her.
    “I don’t know.” She scraped at her thumb. Green nail polish flaked off.
    “A young girl is dead. And there may be others if we don’t catch her killer.”
    “Even before he lost his sight, he was teased a lot because of his thick glasses. Plus he was short. And he didn’t talk much.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “I was his friend. For a while. Excuse me. I have customers.”
    “Please take my card,” Natalia said. “We may need to talk with you again.”
    “I don’t want Benito in trouble,” she said, taking the card, frowning, and the next second smiling at Pino. “I’m Tina. Prada, like the designer,” she added, flouncing away.
    Natalia’s partner seemed oblivious to the flirtation.
    At a table near the door, the owner enjoyed a cup of his own coffee.
    “Your baker, Turrido,” Natalia said, “I knew him as a child.”
    “Vesuvio’s. Best bread in Naples, I have to concede.”
    “Do you know where he lives these days?”
    “Off Piazza Gaetano, by the docks. He’s got a room there. He could afford better, but.…” He shrugged. “Did