“Lissey,” he whispers. It sounds like a simple hiss, but it’s a name I remember. Connor’s sister. The one who was stolen and shipped here in a container ship. She died, or was killed, and buried in a dress my mother made.

When Dario pulls out of me. I almost fall, but he holds me up and tugs my underwear back into place. I stand, turn, straighten myself.

He looks up at the camera. “Rosemarie’s alive. That’s all I’m telling you, doc.”

He turns back to me. I have so much to tell him that I don’t have time to tap onto an imaginary keyboard. I love him. And choofing off. And Oria in the trunk of Sergio’s car. And I love him.

But I don’t have enough time for any of it before the door opens.

It’s Massimo.

“You buried one of ours. You just signed your death warrant, Lucari.”

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

SARAH

“No questions,” Massimo says. “No excuses.”

“Watching your sister while she’s alone with her husband is weird.”

He stops, turns on me with his finger raised. “I didn’t watch. I came in to stop him from hurting you.”

“He wasn’t.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. This isn’t going to work. None of it.”

“You can’t kill him. He’s my husband.”

“Not if I annul you. I can do it, Sarah. I have to.”

He’s right and I know it. My consent isn’t required.

He doesn’t say another word to me on the way up to the church. I have to gather my skirts and rush after him with Dario dripping down my leg. He hands me off to Nelson and stalks off with a dark cloud over his head.

I retreat to the bathroom to clean up, trying to calm myself. Sitting on the toilet, I turn the scene over in my head, but I can’t organize it.

Death warrant?

Because Rosemarie’s alive? Or because he didn’t say where she was?

Or for fucking me? Or the violence of it?

What have I done?

How long do I have to fix whatever this is?

Will they tell me before they kill him?

I flush. A loud scraping and rumble comes from the street below. The frosted window is cracked a few inches for ventilation. The sun is casting the sky in new blue and the traffic is heavier. The cold air hits my face as I scan the street and find the source of the noise.

A sanitation truck with a payload of brooms and solvents is parked by the frilly post. A man pushes a scraper on the end of a pole and shaves off the flyers. They peel down like dead skin.

A man turns the corner with a swagger and a sling I recognize.

Connor.