Nonfiction | January 06, 2012

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I followed Edoardo up to his office on the second floor. He told me the previous tenant had been a Mafioso. In one corner hung a large cutout of a tree with head shots of men—Libero Grassi, Giovanni Falcone, Paolo Borsellino (the two anti-Mafia magistrates assassinated in 1992)—pasted on its branches. Above them arched the words, in Italian: “You are not alone anymore.”

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