We are brought to a long, high, empty room with beautiful markings on the ceiling, the corners etched into concrete peaks of whipped cream. Mama would love it here. The chairs are like giants’ chairs, tall and straight-backed. There is a fire in the centre of the room and I watch the flames dance as wind from outside blows down the chimney. Sammy comes up beside me, with a glass of clear liquid that sparkles in the reflection of the light hanging from the ceiling. This is where Magda said she would bring me: to a place of crystal lights, soft carpets and rich men ‘who will want not so much to hurt, as to pleasure you’. I can hear her voice wafting on the air.

‘Champers,’ Sammy says. She drinks back a mouthful. ‘Go on, it’ll help take the edge off.’

I think of the smell of alcohol on Victor and Sergiu’s breath and shake my head, but then Magda’s shrieking voice, the last time she called out to me, rings in my ears: ‘Stop Nico. Come back’. I reach for the glass. I’m the one who is responsible for wherever she might be. The bubbles help soften the sore when I swallow.

Six men walk into the room, all Papa’s age, smelling of spice and tobacco and wearing crisp suits and polished shoes. They act as if they do not see us as they talk among themselves, pouring amber and clear alcohol into chiseled glasses, patting each other on the back. Their voices are loud and echoing. Sammy and I have moved to the edge of the room, away from the light. After some time the men settle themselves into the armchairs and turn their attention to us.

‘Well hello,’ one of them says. ‘We didn’t see you there, hiding like shadows. Come on out and let us have a good long look at you.’

I wonder why they are lying. ‘Turn around,’ the same man says.

We do. There are claps and Sammy starts to bend her body from the waist, like a strange dance. The men clap even more. I stand tall and stiff, like Luca used to before the brothers would put him in the barrel. I think of him standing by the door, watching me leave, his hands tightened into fists, his muscles straining against his clothes.

The men gesture at us to sit on the edge of their chairs and one of them puts his hand on my thigh. I want to kick him off, but I think of Magda’s words: ‘Do not resist, it is easier that way.’ Mama appears for a moment. There is no fighting with fate. No point. A thin, wailing sound is coming from deep inside her.