Rocco carried me all the way to the abandoned pier in the south of the city.It was the same place where I had taken a bullet for Miles five years ago.He rented a berth on a dilapidated fishing boat at the end of the pier.No one knew where he was going. And no one dared to ask.The boat sailed into the darkness of the night.From then on, the name Don Rocco Corrini was never heard again in the underworld, only scattered rumors.Some said they saw a disheveled man in a Central American port bar, clutching a small, sealed casket, ready to kill anyone who touched it.Some said that on a small island in the Mediterranean, a mad foreigner sat on a cliff every day, talking to himself, shouting a woman's name to the sea.Others said he was long dead. Died in some nameless alley, still holding that casket.No one knew which was true.Only an old servant who had followed him said on his deathbed, his words slurred, "The Don never let her go. He combed her hair every day, changed her clothes,
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