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Cocking his head quizzically he asked, “Such a strange title, no? It sounds so…so…” he trailed off, his eyes searching the space behind his guests as his thin right hand slowly circled, trying to pluck the elusive word from the air. “Fearsome.” He said the word clearly, a cold edge to his voice. He dropped his eyes in time to the word and stared intently at Paolo. His hand became still, suspended above the desk. Paolo gazed back, impassive. After a few seconds the deputy blinked, his face becoming once more that of the jovial civil servant. “Mah,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Silly men long ago making silly titles for themselves.”
    He smiled, inhaling with his mouth closed and nostrils flaring, quickly transforming his face as he had done before, now the serious man. Clasping his hands together, he leaned forward, his conjoined knuckles covering his mouth. Paolo looked at the small fleshy knobs of his elbows on the desk and wondered if they hurt. With a sigh, the deputy unclasped his hands and leaned back in his chair, defeated by the apparent emotional war he was waging.
    “Your brother Ciro,” he said, addressing Paolo. “Your son,” he said turning to Tomaso, “is dead. Murdered.” Neither man spoke, or even breathed, waiting for the deputy to continue. “And the other man,” he said, again searching the space above their heads.
    “Alessandro,” Paolo offered. “Alessandro Simoneti.”
    “Yes, the stizzador . Dead in the canal, his throat cut.” The little man waved a dismissive hand and Paolo clutched the sides of his chair. Alessandro had been with the family for thirty years, had been a part of the family as much as any of them.
    “The council has deemed this to be a matter worth looking into.” He looked expectantly at the two men, but was met with silence. “Ah,” he said raising his hands in feigned recognition, “but I imagine you have deduced this for yourselves, as you are here with me in the middle of the night.” He offered a smile filled with regret for the inconvenience.
    “This was no robbery, or even a revenge killing for some offense,” he continued. “We believe this somehow involves a risk to the security of the Republic.”
    Paolo leaned forward in his chair. Perhaps his father was right. “I don’t understand. The security of the Republic?”
    “Yes.” The deputy smiled, spreading his hands once more in supplication. “I am sorry but I cannot say any more at this time.”
    “But you will investigate?”
    “Oh yes, absolutely.”
    “We want whoever did this to be brought to justice,” Paolo said vehemently.
    “Oh he will be,” responded the deputy, thrusting forth his head and smiling in a way that exposed only his canine teeth. Paolo pressed himself into his chair, the hard back unyielding.
    The deputy continued to smile, said no more, oblivious to, or enjoying the awkward silence that had descended upon the room. Finally, loudly placing both his hands back on his desk and taking another deep breath, he signaled the end of the meeting. He turned to Paolo.
    “And because of the sensitive nature of the investigation, you will be removed from your post at the Arsenale. I am sure you understand.”
    Paolo didn’t understand. He couldn’t see the connection between his brother’s murder and his position at the Arsenale. He looked at his father in bewilderment, but only found Tomaso mirroring his own confusion.
    He turned back to the deputy, opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by a meaty hand on his shoulder. The man that had brought them there had returned. Paolo hadn’t heard a thing.
    “You may go,” said the deputy.

Seven
    T he knock sounded like more of an attack than the announcement of a visitor, rumbling through the small kitchen, rousing Paolo with a start. He had not slept since the encounter with the deputy, puzzling through the small hours of the night and early morning. Tomaso had returned to Murano once they left the