My Children Threw Themselves at the Beggar This Town Calls a Killer

The bell for the Madonna del Cavatore had just stopped when Bianca let go of my hand.

She's five. She knows better. She went up the church steps anyway, past the dry fountain, where the whole town had already decided what that old man was, and put both arms around his neck like she'd done it a hundred times. Nino followed - three years old, straight for the tobacco tin in the coat pocket, as if it belonged to him.

The crowd stopped talking.

Nine years of Marbolina's good opinion stood behind us in braziers and chestnut smoke, all of it watching my children love the man they say cut the fuse that killed their father.

"Bianca. Come here."

Marco Ferretti didn't wait for me. His hand closed on my daughter's forearm and pulled, and his phone was already at his ear. "Carabinieri," he said into it, loud enough for the steps to hear. "Via Cavour. Now."

The old man has not stood up in nine years. Not once that anyone can remember. He stood up.

"Silvietta," he said - my childhood, out of that mouth, in front of the whole feast.

My hand locked on Marco's wrist. I still don't know which of them I was holding.

Then he said he would name the man who cut the fuse, if Marco let her go.