"Chocolate?" I ask.
"Yes, it's my comfort food. None of the bitter dark chocolate stuff. I prefer milk chocolate or white chocolate. And if you can warm it up so it’s a little melted, that’s even better.”
“Sure,” I say, looking at her with amusement.
A few minutes later, Enzo brings us an assortment of chocolates. She's quiet as she devours half a chocolate bar.
"This is the good stuff," she says, beaming at me.
"I'm glad you like it." I scratch the back of my neck.
She takes a few more bites. I catch sight of the tattoo over her wrist. They branded her like an animal.
My vision blurs. I start seeing red.
She puts down the chocolate bar.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I nod.
"You don't look okay,” she says.
There's so much turmoil inside me, and I can't keep it contained. And the nights have always been harder.
“Ask me what you want to know," she says.
"Names," I say. "I want names. Can you give me a list?"
"What will you do with the list?"
"I'll behead anyone who's involved," I answer honestly. "Man or woman. It's what they deserve."
She looks at me for a moment. I can't tell what she's thinking, but there's a heaviness inside her that doesn't belong in someone so young.
"They went to great lengths to keep their identities hidden," she says. "I'm certain that most of them used fake names."
"Do you remember what their faces looked like?" I ask. "I can bring in a forensic artist to draw them using your memory."
"It's not that simple." She plays with the edge of her blanket. "There are layers to it, Signor Mancini. Just because you see someone working in the organization doesn't mean that they're there of their own free will. Most of the staff were coerced and threatened into joining the network. Some were even drugged."
"What about the people at the top?" I ask. "Have you seen any of them?"
"Grace's mother was one of them," she says.
"Did you ever see anyone else with Malorie Thorne?" I ask.
She blinks. “Now that I think of it, yes. There was this man who was always with her.”
“What did he look like?” I ask.
“He was a tall man,” she says. “He also had ghostly pale skin. It almost seemed unnatural.”
Alarm bells ring in my head.
There have been whispers about a forgotten Italian mafia clan resurfacing from the dark. God, I hope I’m wrong about this.
“Did his eyes seem strange to you in any way?” I ask.
