Ricciardi dedicates this tenth novel to two wonderful mothers, who both passed away just as he was assembling ideas for his investigation: the mother of Antonio Formicola, who is the strategic mind behind every story, and the mother of Giulio Di Mizio, his green-eyed gaze upon death. He is grateful, to these departed mothers, for these two pillars without whom his stories would never have existed.
He’s grateful to Severino Cesari, first and foremost, because it is from him, through him, and with him that these stories go, thus it has been, thus it is, and thus it always will be. And like always, he is grateful to Francesco Pinto and Aldo Putignano, his noble sires.
He is deeply grateful to Stefania Negro, skillful and unique weaver of research and custodian of the memory of his life and the existence of the other characters. He is grateful to Roberto de Giovanni, for the medicine of the living, and to Sabrina Prisco of the Osteria Canali, who prepares the foods of Cilento. He is grateful to Nicola Buono of the Fattoria del Campiglione, a historian of cuisine and a refined chef, who nourishes souls and bodies.
He is grateful to the Einaudi team, Rosella and Daniela, Chiara and Tommaso, Riccardo, and above all, Francesco Colombo; he is grateful to them for the magnificent work that they do, and because they heroically manage to put up with Paolo Repetti. And he is grateful to Paola, Manuela, Simonetta, Stefania, and Stefano who take him everywhere around the world.
He is grateful to Luisa Pistoia and Marco Vigevani, without whom none of all this would have been possible.
These are the people who invent Ricciardi, and that world. The author, on the other hand, has been imagined, invented, and constructed by another person to whom goes the loveliest rose of my heart: my sweet and delightful Paola.