Her eyes lose focus momentarily. “My dad told me that, you know. When he found me there with their bodies.” She shakes her head as if to dislodge the image. “He told me what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He left out the part about how when you break like that, you’re never quite fixed. Fixable.”

“He was right. And you don’t need to be fixed. That damage is a part of you. A part of what makes you a survivor,” I say, needing time to get my thoughts about Geno Russo straight, and also in some way understanding I’m saying this as much about myself as her. “They’re long dead. And you’re still standing.” She looks down, not convinced. I tilt her head up. “Like a fucking dandelion. Dandelions survive when everything else dies. They’ll sprout up out of a fucking crack in the pavement. It kind of fits, you have to say.”

“Is that an attempt at a compliment?” she asks, a little of her humor coming back.

I shrug a shoulder. “Just trying to keep you out of your head. What’s happened, what you learned and remembered… it’s a lot. You’re going to need time to process. But you can’t disappear into your head alone. I don’t think that’s good for you.”

She shivers and hugs the towel to herself.

“Let’s get you dressed.”

“Do you know where he is, though? Amadeo?”

I shake my head. If I did, I’d be there. And I’m worried. Because he’s alone and they can hurt us when we’re divided. I know that well enough.

“I want to wait for him.”

I nod, then walk her into the closet to get her dressed in a pair of leggings and a comfortable, oversized sweater. She leads the way downstairs and curls up on the sofa, facing the front door. I bring the whiskey and pour some for each of us, but neither of us drinks as we keep vigil.

32

VITTORIA

Bastian and I sit side by side in the living room and wait. Neither of us touches the whiskey. He’s worried. I can see it. And he doesn’t want to let on.

It’s almost over. This nightmare at least finished. I don’t know that any of us feel better for it. I don’t. Does Bastian feel some satisfaction at the death of my brother? Because he is dead. I have no doubt of that. Do I for tearing out his eyes?

I look down at my hands, turning them over. I know why I did that after the dreams now. I was searching for blood. I couldn’t get it off at first even when I scrubbed the skin raw with bleach.

But Bastian has cleaned them well and with such care. The only evidence of the violence my hands did is in the broken, jagged fingernails.