Death is indiscriminate. Death does not come knocking and ask who is least needed. It does not notice if you have a family; it does not care that you are one of the gears that turns the very world. Death does not take the slowest, the weakest, those separated from the pack. It reaches its hands into the heart. It pulls out something essential. It does not ask you to continue on, but you do anyway.

You cannot help it.

—

Sofia and Antonia hold on to one another as the wind picks up. It blows their clothes against their bodies. It cannot worm its way into their embrace. They are saying thank you, thank you and they are mourning everything and they are not just talking about this moment but their lives, their whole lives side by side, the incomprehensible blessing of it.

Behind them, Saul and Paolo stripping a sheet of plastic from a nearby pile of bricks. They will cover Tommy Fianzo Jr.’s body with it. They are already plotting how they can make this seem like an accident, like Eli’s fault, like a casualty of conflict, rather than a catalyst for war.

Paolo and Saul turn to look at Sofia and Antonia. Every moment they are alive, they have more to lose.

—

Antonia pulls away from Sofia and looks down at her right hand.

The gun is nestled there; her finger still brushing the trigger. They are locked together now, it and she, part of something. They are at the beginning, and the end. They are a choice, and they are the aftermath.

Antonia moves her gaze out over the East River. Carlo is there. It is the first time Antonia has been able to picture his face since she was a child. He looks at Antonia. All my life I’ve wanted you to see what I’ve become, Papa, she tells him. He sees everything. He smiles. And then he disappears into the river.

—

“Thank you,” says Sofia again. If you can see me.

Thank you, Antonia does not say, but Sofia hears it. If I can see you.

—

It begins to rain.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Before I was a writer, I was a reader. It’s an incomparable privilege to contribute a volume to the libraries I love so much.

This would still be a Word document I kept open behind my other work without Dana Murphy, who loves this family like I do. I am in awe of the compassion, honesty, and thoughtfulness you put into your work, and I feel so lucky to do this alongside you. Thank you, my friend.

Tara Singh Carlson has nurtured the seed at the center of this book; it has grown bigger under her care than I ever imagined it could. Thank you for your bold vision and for the trust you put in me. Working with you has made me a better writer.