Translation by Antony Shugaar

      Original title: Cuccioli per i Bastardi di Pizzofalcone Translation copyright © 2020 by Europa Editions All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is available ISBN 9781609456054 de Giovanni, Maurizio Puppies for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone Book design and cover illustration by Emanuele Ragnisco www.mekkanografici.com

      To Francesco Colombo, the real Aragona

      I

      Before falling asleep, Lara dreamed.

      It wasn’t a real, full-fledged dream.

      Instead, it was one of those flashes, midway between consciousness and unconsciousness, that flit through your mind as sleep creeps in. Images and faces and perceptions that don’t even filter through the coherent structure of reason, that are strangely exempt from the demands of story or plot; a senseless tangle, devoid of the developments that logic demands. Sensations.

      She saw her home, in winter. A desolate expanse, the untilled field behind the apartment building. There was lots of snow, perhaps because that’s how her mind translated the actual chill that it felt on her skin as she slipped into unconsciousness. The sky was leaden, as always. Lara even thought she could smell the aroma of burning wood that rose from the chimney pots of the scattered homes, few and far between.

      She saw a black dog running. It was playing, because it darted from side to side, in an unpredictable zigzagging course. She wanted to call to it, but she couldn’t remember its name, and anyway her voice wouldn’t come out. Lazily she thought that maybe the dog was chasing something; a rabbit, a mouse, or a cat. Its prey, though, must have been white, because she couldn’t make it out against that frozen blanket.

      She saw her mother. She didn’t look like she had when Lara had left home: she was young in the dream. She was smiling and leaning over something; maybe it was actually a memory from her cradle. She was beautiful. Lara could see her mother’s teeth, which were actually nearly all missing now, her lips pulled back in a kind and glowing smile, her eyes filled with fondness and pride. No deep-carved wrinkles, no creases on her face, the legacy of so much grief and sorrow, the punches and smacks, the bottles drained. Hi, Mama, thought Lara. How pretty you are. Her mother said nothing in reply, just went on gazing at her sweetly. Then she said: What a pity, my little one. What a pity.

      But these were flashes, just scattered images before falling asleep; so Lara didn’t answer her, and she didn’t even ask her what she meant. She had already moved on to the next flash.

      Now she was seeing Donato. He had his back to her, he was sitting in front of the television set; the glowing screen was a flickering staticky mess, there was clearly some problem with the broadcast. She wanted to touch him, shake him to let him know there was nothing to watch, but she lacked the energy. Besides, she was about to fall asleep. And in any case, her voice was stuck in her throat, once again.

      She vaguely considered the thought that if only she had been able to summon his attention away from that stupid, empty screen, Donato might have been able to help her. After all, it was him that she turned to every time she needed help. Certainly, Donato was what he was; there were many who feared him and she herself, having seen him in action, would never have wanted to go up against him. Beneath the blanket of unconsciousness, thicker and thicker as she gradually slipped down into sleep, she wondered whether instead she shouldn’t be wary of Donato, whether she shouldn’t be afraid of him and turn to someone else for help. Donato with his powerful hands. Donato with his unexpected gentleness. Donato with his untroubled voice that could make shivers run down your spine.

      But Donato, his back turned as he faced the empty screen, gave way to another fleeting flash.

      This time,