Uncle Gianni executes a slow, dignified rotation in the doorway — one twin under each arm, like a very well-dressed weathervane — and scans the congregation for the evidence. Twenty-seven guests. Twenty-six full lapels. It takes him exactly three seconds to find the exception: Luca, aged approximately three, perched upright on the pew bench with the posture of someone who has lodged a formal complaint and is awaiting a formal response. His navy suit is immaculate. His bow tie is clipped at a careful angle. His lapel is mortifyingly empty. He has already located the boutonnière from across the church, and his dark eyes are tracking it with the focus of a small, well-dressed hawk. Flavio, cradled in Gianni's right arm, becomes aware of being tracked. He looks at Luca. He looks at the boutonnière. He gives the boutonnière one very decisive wave — as if conducting a very small orchestra — directly at Luca. Luca's expression does not change. It simply deepens. Somewhere behind the organ, Birgitta starts the prelude.