“I’ve never heard them, but I can tell you what Sofia’s laugh looks like,” I say, remembering a short clip of them in a park that one of my brothers managed to get.
“She looks just like Lucia, laughing with her whole body, throwing her head back. Charlotte copies her as little sisters will do, though she likely doesn’t know what she’s laughing at.
“Caterina did the same with Lucia,” I murmur, lost in the memories. “Followed her around the house like a puppy, wanted to dress like her, eat the same foods. Had a fit when Lucia went off to middle school and left her behind. It annoyed Lucia to no end. But I think she secretly liked it, and I think she missed it when Caterina stopped.”
I look down at my fish; its appeal is gone. I signal for them to clear it and bring dessert, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to stomach it. But it’s not for my sake; it’s for Elena’s.
“Have you…” I can’t bring myself to finish, wanting to ask and afraid to.
But I don’t have to. She understands.
“Once,” she says softly. “Before you were released. We had the condition that we would inform her if and when. She is animportant factor, and well, Nick Dixon has a lot of influence, so we were willing to oblige.”
“You spoke to her?” I ask, trying to imagine what she sounds like, even over the phone.
“I went to see her.” Elena clears her throat and looks down.
My eyes whip to hers at that.
“You’ve seen her?” The words leave me before I can school them correctly. “Just her or…?”
“Her daughters were there too,” she says, eyes dropping to the tablecloth.
A cart rolls in, and I have to bite back a sharp command for everyone to get the hell out.
Dessert lands between us: thin wedges of torta di ricotta al limone, baked till just-set and satin-smooth, dusted with powdered sugar. On the side, warm blueberry compote, a few macerated strawberries, and a twist of lemon zest. They top off Elena’s spritz and vanish.
I ignore my plate and lean closer. “Tell me,” I say. “Please.”
She hesitates.
“They’re my grandchildren,” I plead. “I’ve never held them. Never heard them laugh. It’s just crumbs, Elena.”
She cuts a small corner of her torta, lets it sit on her tongue a second before answering.
“She looked good,” Elena says carefully. “Healthy. The only reference I had was the pictures from the file, from when she was a teenager. Her hair is longer.” She shakes her head, letting a strand loose. “Sorry, I’m sure you know that.”
“No, no. Tell me everything. “Did she—” I stop, try again. “Was she happy? Is that… man treating her right?”
“She was a bit protective,” Elena says. “Focused. It wasn’t an easy visit, you see. But yes. He practically fawned over her. That man would move mountains. I promise. Their house was full of light and love and laughter.”
She sets the fork down, and a small smile ghosts her lips. “Sofia laughs with her whole body. You were right about that.”
“And Charlotte?”
The name echoes in my mind. I remember the day Giovanni came to see me to tell me that Lucia had just had another girl, and that she’d name her Charlotte.
For a second, I couldn’t hear anything else. The room shifted and blurred. Carlotta’s name, filtered through another language. Every part of me wanted to fold over the table and just give in tothe grief. Out in the open, where anybody could see it and use it against me. I didn’t move.
In there, you couldn’t move. You couldn’t let them see. You don’t give a guard or another prisoner something to whisper about, something to joke about. I nodded once, slowly, like he’d told me he was out of razors and had to pick some up on the way home. “Good,” I said.
That was all. Good.
Giovanni kept talking while I counted breaths and kept my face stoic when all I wanted to do was break down.
Then the guard tapped the clock.
On the walk back, I put my hands behind my back, looked at the floor tiles so I didn’t have to see my reflection in the glass.
