“Huh. Guess that’s why he’s looking at me like he wants to fuck me up.”

I smirk and turn toward him so he can see it. “Vigo would put your head on a stick for trying to sit at the head of our table.”

“But he ain’t here.”

He ain’t. I turn back to the painting.

“Vigo realized too many children would expose us to people who meant us harm. We stopped having so many children and isolated ourselves for our safety. He and his son Cleto built the church on top of the domes with the rest of this part of Manhattan, and no one was the wiser.”

A man’s voice booms in the space. “That was when we became inside, and you, Sergio Agosti, became outside.”

“Dr. Palmeri.” I offer the customary bow in the presence of a man of rank.

“It’s good to see you alive and well, Sarah Colonia.”

“And you.”

“Hey, doc.” Sergio rocks on the balls of his feet and keeps his hands in his pockets. “I told her grandma I’d bring her to the sewing circle.”

“My office is this way.” The doctor ignores him and leads me out one of the doorways.

“Uh…”

Sergio’s objection is lost in the echoes of the chamber as the doctor brings me to his office. Aunt Clara’s there, putting a file away.

“Keep him out,” Palmeri says to her as he brings me into the exam room and closes the door.

I know this room. I know the table with the staffa where I put my feet so that I could be exposed and proven a virgin. Giovanni Agosti inspected me so closely his breath made my vulva want to turn in on itself.

“It smells like fucking florist down here.”

It was meant as a compliment. I turn away from the memory.

“Sit.” The doctor leads me to a chair and straddles a stool in front of me. “How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

He doesn’t really listen, turning my jaw up so he can see under it.

“Hm.” Dr. Palmeri lets out a displeased sound as he examines my throat. “These will bruise.”

“It’s fine.” I say what we all say to prove how strong and pliant we are.

“Hm.” His hms are famously versatile. This one is doubt, and rightfully so.

“I’ve been through worse these past few months.”

“I bet you have. Dario Lucari stole my daughter, Rosemarie, when she was fourteen. She was promised to a very prominent gentleman, which was bad enough. But she was our world. When she was lost, her mother died of grief.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He takes his hand off my throat. I pull up my collar to cover the darkening bruises.

“Having him here is my only hope of getting her back.”

“Hm,” I say in lieu of an answer.

“Those are finger marks.” He puts his stethoscope to my chest. “They didn’t let you into the cell to see Lucari, did they?”