A beat. Then Win glanced at him. Sat up. “York, brother, you’re brilliant. Who says you’re not a storyteller?”

Then he stood up and he walked away, headed for the house.

York watched him go.

He hoped not. Because he dearly wanted to believe that the happy ending he hoped for was back home waiting for him.

And not some kind of fairytale that would break all their hearts.

Chapter 6

Chapter 12/Portami a casa: un ricordo della resistenza italiana

Tory is out again. It is not like I don’t know—our house is old, and one can’t breathe without everyone knowing, so of course I know he’s sneaked out. And with whom.

The attacks are becoming bolder. And, the SS is searching. Just last week they raided the house of Bernatello D’amico, pulled him and his oldest son out into the street and executed them.

Just like that.

In front of Maricelle and her daughter.

We have an informant in our community, and I fear Tory is next.

The moon is up, gilding the vineyard, the Orto, and I can’t bear one more moment waiting in the darkness for his safe return.

There must be something to be done—weeding in the garden by lamplight, perhaps.

It is there, rooting out the weeds that will choke my tomatoes, my onions, the peppers, and ripping the invaders from the earth, that I hear the steps.

I freeze because I have heard stories, and not just of the Waffen-SS, but Nazi soldiers who crawl through our hills, even at night. Soldiers who think nothing of taking what doesn’t belong to them—food, supplies, rooms, even the women who tend them.

But I am unprepared tonight, lost in my thoughts of Tory, my memories of father, tears upon my face. The man is nearly upon me when I turn.

I barely make him out in the cresting moonlight, but he crouches beside me, puts a finger to his mouth. “Let’s go.”

My own mouth opens, shock rippling through me. But Fred puts his hand in mine, weaves his fingers through mine and pulls me up.

Still, he stays low.

I’m not sure why, because we are alone—

Then I see it. Lights flash through the trees.

A car is heading up the hill, and Fred must have spotted it from his place in the grotto.

But how did he see me, alone in the garden?

He douses my light, then pulls me away from the grotto, away from the house, into the hills above the house.

“Get down.” His voice is low and soft and yet takes command of my body. We settle into a grove of twisted, feral olive trees that we’ve left to the wild. Silvery leaves and thick, low branches shroud us as we hide, a view of the house below.

I gasp as an SS car pulls up.