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that morning.
    Alessandro’s name had led her to another site, and she clicked on it, although there just seemed to be more stuff about his father and his father’s businesses on that one as well. But she hadn’t had a chance to read more than the opening sentence before it struck her as too risky to go on using Florinda’s computer.
    Ten thousand people had died in southern Italy because of the Mafia in the 1980s alone—three times more than in the Troubles of Northern Ireland over a whole twenty-five years.
    She didn’t know how many of those victims could be chalked up to the Carnevares and Alcantaras. Today she was going to meet many of the men and women responsible for the massacres carried out by Cosa Nostra. Men and women who had made decisions and given orders back then. It made her kind of nervous, as if she’d been invited to attend a serial-killer convention that afternoon.
    My God, what am I going to wear?
    She smiled to herself, because that question had probably been on Zoe’s mind for days.
    By now she was in the middle of the olive groves, and she walked downhill past the distorted tree trunks. Florinda’s men must be on patrol somewhere near—the property was surely guarded the whole time—but she saw no one, and was glad of that.
    Back at the airport Alessandro Carnevare had offered to drop her off at the palazzo. Not far out of their way, he had claimed. Nonsense. The village of Genuardo, where the Carnevares had their headquarters, was over an hour’s journey from here. She knew that now. Had Alessandro just wanted to use her as a pretext for getting to the heart of an enemy clan, so that later he could boast of it to the sons of the other bosses, the capi ? She didn’t trust him a bit.
    Which brought up her real problem. She couldn’t trust herself anymore, either. She’d learned that a year ago, and now she had to come to terms with it, because there wasn’t any other option. It was easier to shift her distrust to other people than face herself in the mirror, gaze into those eyes that looked mascara-rimmed even without mascara, and tell herself: It’s you. You’re the problem.
    Something moved to her right.
    Rosa stood still and looked at the pattern of sunlight and shadows. A rustling sound hissed through the leaves. Beyond the tangle of prickly pear cacti, she heard a growl.
    She tried to make something out. But there was nothing. Only dark and light in harsh contrast, as if she had accidentally stepped out of a color TV program into a black-and-white photo.
    The hissing again. That wasn’t the wind.
    Out of the striped pattern of light and dark, a tiger came prowling.

BESTIARIUM
    H IS MOVEMENTS WERE so fast that the next moment he was right in front of her, yellow-and-black head raised, mouth slightly open. He was looking right into her eyes.
    Nothing moved. It was as if the world were frozen solid. Everything Rosa had just been thinking was unimportant. The animal dominated her mind and her feelings. She and the tiger were here. Nothing else.
    His paws were as big as her head, and his muscular hind legs were broader than her torso. His fangs shone with the saliva that was gathering on his black chops. He smelled like a locker room after a football game.
    Something was definitely wrong. She didn’t know much about Europe and the world outside the States, but the tiger in front of her didn’t belong here. Feral dogs and domestic cats, yes. Not tigers.
    A ripple ran through his body. He was crouching, ready to pounce.
    That dizzy feeling came back. It was even worse than on her arrival at the airport. This time there was no hot car for her to lean on, so that the pain could clear her head. It’s a dream, she thought. It can’t be real.
    She swayed, almost fell, heard a voice. Zoe’s voice. From somewhere or other she was calling Rosa’s name.
    I’m here, she thought.
    Here with the tiger.
    But then her vision cleared, and she was alone. Whatever had been standing in front of