Uncle Gianni has approximately four seconds before Flavio addresses the basket injustice through direct, possibly structural, action. He uses all four of them wisely. One hand straightens Flavio's clip-on bow tie — the universal signal that Something Official Is Being Asked Of You — and then Gianni leans in and delivers, in a murmur of absolute gravity: *Flavio. Gli anelli. Tu sei la scorta.* The rings. You are the escort. Flavio does not know what a scorta is, precisely, but he understands tone the way toddlers and very old generals do: completely, and at once. He straightens. His small shoulders square. The boutonnière-wand shifts to his most ceremonial grip. Uncle Gianni sets him down with the same solemnity he gave Aurora — because this family has learned, in under ninety seconds, that ceremony is the only currency that works here — and Flavio steps toward the aisle with the expression of someone invested with great purpose. The basket situation can wait. He has escorting to do.