Rocco leaped like a hooked bass and opened his eyes wide. Despite the scream of the cell phone on his nightstand, he was still able to gather his thoughts: it was morning, he was at home, in his own bed after spending the night out in the snow. He wasn’t actually lying underneath Eva Mendes, and she wasn’t actually wearing nothing but a pair of dizzyingly high stiletto heels and dancing like a sinuous serpent, tossing her hair to and fro. That image was nothing but a cobweb that the telephone had scorched with its deranged shrieks. “Who’s busting my balls at seven in the morning?” “Me.” “Me who?” “Sebastiano!” Rocco smiled as he ran one hand over his face. “Sebastiano! How you doing?” “Fine, fine.” And now his friend’s croupy voice had become recognizable. “Sorry if I woke you up.” “I haven’t heard from you in months!” “Four months and ten days, but who’s counting?” “How are you doing?” “Fine, fine.” “What are you up to?” “I’m coming up north.”
