“You’re going to have to get in line.”

Once she’s on her back again, Bastian pulls her legs apart. I am relieved not to see any bruising, blood, or anything that might suggest they’d gotten as far as that. But we won’t know for sure until she wakes up.

“It looks like we were in time to stop that at least,” Bastian says.

I breathe a sigh. It’s been a long fucking day. Bastian and I clean her with wet, soapy cloths, and I slip one of my shirts on her.

“I’ll take her to your room,” I tell him when I see the state of the bed.

Bastian nods, and I lift Vittoria. She’s light and so fragile. The thought of those men with their hands on her fills me with a rage I’m not sure I’ll be able to control when I see them.

Once in Bastian’s room, he pulls the blankets on his bed back, and I lay her down. She doesn’t move as I cover her and turn to the door just as Jarno appears.

Bastian and I step out into the hallway and pull the door closed.

“Six of our men are dead,” Jarno says. “Bullet to the back of the head.”

I grit my jaw.

“The ones from the basement?” Bastian asks when I can’t because all I can see is the unconscious woman just beyond that door with my handprint burning red on her cheek.

“On their way to the ruined barn,” Jarno answers.

“We need more soldiers on-site here and at the Ravello house,” Bastian says.

“Already working on it with Bruno.”

“Good. Let us know when it’s done,” Bastian says.

“Where is my uncle?” I ask with a snarl.

“Positano. At the woman’s house,” Jarno says.

“Make sure he stays there. I don’t fucking care what it takes.”

3

BASTIAN

It’s been a very long time since I’ve slept beside someone. Since I was a kid. The nightmares began soon after Hannah’s funeral. The visit by the Russos. Mom kept me with her when they came, which was so often it forced my father out of their bed. I wonder if that wasn’t another moment in the deterioration of our lives that I’m responsible for. But it would help. Mom would whisper to me that I was all right. That those men weren’t coming back.

By the time I was twelve, though, that stopped. I was too old to go running to Mommy with every nightmare. Sometimes I’d go to Amadeo’s room and sleep on the floor there. He made a game of it, acting like it was just a normal sleepover. He’d leave my sleeping bag in the corner so I never felt embarrassed or ashamed. Never felt like I was a pussy for having the nightmares or not being stronger like him.