“In the end, more time was erased than ideal, but it was erased. Now as to my methods,” he says, changing the subject. I put a pin in it and watch as he directs our attention to the side wall, where a screen silently descends from the ceiling. “I use a specific type of hypnosis coupled with electroconvulsive therapy, ECT as you may know it…” he continues, but I stop listening because the room darkens, and an image fills the screen.

Vittoria.

My heart misses a beat as I take her in. She looks a lot like she does now just younger. So much younger. Her face is softer, more rounded, hair cut like a kid took scissors to it, and it looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days. She’s barefoot, wearing a hospital gown that is too big on her and she’s alone in a padded room with a cot in one corner. Everything is pristine white and too bright. And Vittoria is pacing, pacing, pacing and muttering to herself. Every few minutes, she stops to look at her hands back and front, back and front, like I’ve seen her do a few times. But I see how red the skin of her hands is, and the blotches look raw. Her lips move, and although there’s audio, we can’t make out the words.

Dr. Tilbury, looking much like he does now, enters with two men in scrubs, and it’s like a fucking horror movie. Vittoria stops dead, looks at him, then at them. She takes a step back and shakes her head. But then her expression changes. It softens. And I see Geno Russo come into the screen behind the doctor.

“Daddy.” She tilts her head, then looks at her hands again, back and front before scratching her head almost violently. When she looks back up, her eyes are wet with tears. Against the doctor’s orders, Geno Russo hugs his daughter, and I see him squeeze his eyes shut.

This is the same man who ordered his men to slice our faces, to smash my father’s knees. The same man to whom a human life, a child’s life, was worth fifteen hundred dollars. I can’t reconcile the two.

“Daddy. I can’t get them clean. I can’t,” Vittoria says, drawing back. “Tell them I need the bleach. Tell them I need it. I need it, or it won’t come off. Daddy, tell them…”

“That’s enough,” I say, turning back to the doctor. He’s watching as if entertained, as if all that’s missing is a fucking tub of popcorn. I’m going to fucking kill him.

“But my methods—”

“Shut it off!”

He pauses, surprised. Vittoria’s face freezes on the screen, and I can’t look at it.

“What happened to her?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize.

“That’s personal—”