Just watches me with those blue-green eyes.
"My father was a soldato," I continue. "Low-level. Sicilian. He worked for a family in New York before we moved to Chicago. My mother was American. They met at a restaurant where she was waitressing. She didn't know what he was until after they were married."
The words come easier than I expected. Like they've been waiting to be spoken for twenty-four years.
"I had a little brother. Lucio. He was seven."
"Dante—"
"Let me finish."
She closes her mouth. Nods.
I take a breath.
"My father made enemies. That's what happens in this life. You do your job, you follow orders, and somewhere along the way, someone decides you're a problem that needs solving."
I can still see it. The front door splintering inward. The men in masks. The sound of my mother screaming.
"They came at night. Four of them. My father tried to fight, but he was outnumbered. They shot him first. Then my mother, when she tried to run with Lucio."
My voice is steady. Flat. Like I'm reading from a report instead of describing the worst night of my life.
"Lucio was hiding under the kitchen table. He was crying. Calling for me."
I stop.
The silence stretches.
Marina hasn't moved. Hasn't breathed, it seems.
"They found him," I say. "And they shot him too."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. See her hand come up to cover her mouth.
"I was in the closet. My father had shoved me in there when he heard them breaking down the door. Told me to stay quiet no matter what. So I did. I stayed quiet while they killed my family. I stayed quiet while they searched the house. I stayed quiet while Lucio called my name and I didn't answer."
The guilt is old now. Worn smooth like a river stone. But it's still there. It will always be there.
"They found me eventually. Dragged me out. One of them put a gun to my head."
I touch my temple. The scar is faint now, barely visible unless you know where to look.
"He pulled the trigger. The gun jammed."
Marina makes a sound. Small. Wounded.
"His partner told him to finish it with a knife, but they heard sirens. Neighbors had called the police. So they left me there. Bleeding from where the gun had cracked against my skull. Surrounded by my dead family."
I look at Marina.
Her hand is pressed against her chest, fingers curled into a fist.
"I was in the hospital for two weeks," I say. "Foster care after that. Bounced around for four years until I ended up on the streets. That's where Bruno Sartori found me."
Marina doesn't speak.
She turns and walks toward the kitchen.
