I shrug. “If that’s the case, then it must’ve been Gino.”
“Tread lightly, Hawkins,” Cec murmurs, but I ignore him.
“The only person besides Francesca who knew we were in town was Gino, a man who you pay to make you aware of any Blackshirts lurking at his establishment.”
Bes bows his head. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s been like a father to me and—”
“Then maybe you should talk to your actual father instead of trusting a stranger.”
Cec sucks in a breath.
Bes’s teeth click together audibly. “You know better than anyone that just because someone’s your father by blood, doesn’t mean they love you like a father should.”
So, Bes knows about my father too.Why does that not surprise me? Arturo must’ve imparted plenty of information from my nonna about our family onto his nephews. She certainly knows how to overshare.
What actually interests me more, though, is that Bes hasn’t mentioned his father until now. He could be absent like mine.
“I told you I didn’t think we should go into that pizzeria, and we went anyway,” I continue. “Then, later, the Blackshirts show up at the secret club we went to? That’s not a coincidence. So, either Francesca betrayed us—”
“Which, again, is impossible,” Cec adds in.
“—or Gino did. Going to Pizza Segreta was a poor choice, no matter your relationship with the owner. How could you think we’d be safe there, knowing that, not only is henotone of your uncle’s friends, but you also pay him to warn you about the Blackshirts? Why wouldn’t he also take money from the Blackshirts themselves, or be prone to their threats, especially with his daughters’ safety to consider.”
Cec cuts in again before I can continue. “Now children, let’s try to get along.”
Bes, however, won’t be put off. “I was assigned to the port in Civitavecchia for six months; I got to know Gino and his family intimately. There’s no possible way he could’ve betrayed me.”
Before I can argue the point, he continues. “I don’t connect with people easily. Not when I’ve been treated differently all my life: I’m the poor lad who needs glasses, the foreigner living in a country utterly unlike his own, the sad brown boy with no parents…”
He drifts off after the last point.
The moment he loses the fight in his words, ice douses the fire in my veins. My heart suddenly and acutely aches for him.No parents?I want to prod, to peel off another layer of the man that is Bes. But I don’t, not yet. Not when it won’t help the situation.
I can’t begin to understand some of the trials Bes has gone through. I know I’m privileged as a person simply by the way I look; I’ll never know exactly what it’s like to be Bes. I’ve certainly never had to experience the prejudice he has by being forced tomove to a country that couldn’t be less like his home. Even more so: living in the very country which currently holds a heavy hand over that same home.
I lost both my parents, too, in different ways. Yes, I had Nonna, who became my legal guardian, but Bes has his uncle and Cecilio, and the many acquaintances he’s learned to trust over the years.
“You and I aren’t so different, Bes.” He cricks his head to the side, eyes wide though he can’t meet my gaze due to his injury. “My struggles were different than yours; I know that. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t have my own. I’m the girl whose mother died and whose father doesn’t love her, the girl who has barely any friends because she’s been dragged along on digs and expeditions since before she could walk.”
Cec clears his throat pointedly, reminding us of his presence.
I can’t help smiling. “And we all know how greatly Cec has suffered for being an idiot.”
Cec grimaces.
Anders flinches when I pat him on the shoulder. “I’m sure Anders here hasn’t had it easy either. So few have since the Great War.”
Finally, I place a hand gently on Bes’s shoulder, mindful of his wound. He meets my eyes for a split second before glancing away.
“You’ve been dealt a shit hand, but you have to do what you can to own it. Otherwise, it’ll take everything you have and end up owningyou. And that means recognizing that some of the people who you thought cared about you, only care for themselves when it comes down to it.”
A dense quiet fills the car despite the air thundering through the open windows. I lean back in my seat again, pretending not to care if Bes has an answer for that or not.
Nonna regaled me with a similar speech when I was twelve, and a boy at school said my parents left me because they didn’t love me. I gave him a black eye for that and got sent home for it. Nonna was angrier at him than at me, and made sure to tell his parents what he’d done.
She didn’t let me get away with what I’d done, either. She reminded me that my education is far more important than anything some ignorant boob who doesn’t know the first thing about me might say. And if I kept getting sent home from school every time someone said something that upset me, I’d never get the chance to show them what I’m capable ofdespitethe circumstances they mock. Not because of them.
And here I am, crammed into the back of a stranger’s automobile with no knowledge of where I’m going or who I’m truly with or if I’ll live to see another week.I sure showed them.
