The news didn’t sleep.
By dawn, Milan was already choking on it.
Televisions screamed from bar counters and café walls, radios buzzed in taxi dashboards, headlines ran across every kiosk:
“JUDGE FOUND DEAD HOURS AFTER HISTORIC INDICTMENT.”
“SUICIDE… OR MURDER?”
“TRIAL OF THE CENTURY PLUNGED INTO CHAOS.”
Commentators had their knives out.
In the slums of Quarto Oggiaro, men spat at the ground, muttering curses. “They silenced him. You think a judge that strong just hangs himself?” An old woman crossed herself, whispering prayers over her rosary.
In glittering bars on Via della Spiga, laughter spilled with champagne. “A dead judge? Please. That’s how the game is played.” Another voice, slick and cold, added: “They’ll get another. They always do. But tell me, whose pocket will he live
