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The hum of the jet’s engines is a lull, almost comforting noise, but it doesn’t mask the chaos we just left.
My arm aches like a mother, the pain so intense that Bruno’s semi-gentle touch as he crisscrosses my skin back together is almost numb in comparison. Each stitch he makes is methodical, a necessary evil, but all I can focus on is the other little girl—the sister—dabbing the blood so Bruno can see better where to jab.
“What the hell?” Dante asks, judgmental as shit.
“What?” I ask, pretending that I don’t have a five-year-old holding a cigar like a pro, or a six- or seven-year-old deputized as a combat nurse.
“Dante, meet Sofia”—I point to the older one—“and Lili.”
“Hi, Sofia. Lili,” Dante says tenderly, his voice a gentle balm against the raw edge of their emotions.
He offers a warm smile to Sofia, who pointedly ignores him, then tries to coax little Lili into meeting his eyes with a small wave. She remains transfixed by the long ribbon of smoke curling from the cigar, her silence a fortress.
“I heard they weren’t talking,” he says, his brows knotting tight with concern.
“I have ways of making people talk. Ask anyone,” I quip, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Girls, this is my brother Dante, the man who saved your lives.”
I know they understand but they still don’t speak. Whatever horrific shit these kids have been through is evident in the shadows in their eyes.
Little Lili clams up, retreating into herself, while Sofia’s silence is defiant, her need to hyper-focus on a task her only lifeline in the storm.
I point to Sofia. “This one started thrashing her fists at Bruno when he began,” I say, taking another sip of Scotch before handing it back to Lili to hold. “Her tiny frame trembled with so much fury, Bruno actually took a step back.”
“In my defense,” Bruno adds, “the kid is stronger than she looks and came at me like she was possessed.” He winks. Her eyes dart to the floor.
“Why would she do that?” Dante whispers, though we can all hear him.
I shrug, instantly regretting it as pain shoots from my arm to my neck.
Bruno smirks. “I think she thought I was hurting the big guy.”
“Cazzo?” Lili asks, pronouncing the profanity with such cuteness that I can’t help but pat her head.
“You’re teaching them to swear?” Dante scolds, his eyebrows shooting to the sky.
“Yes, cazzo. That’s right, angioletta,” I say. She looks at me, curiosity shining in her eyes. “It means little angel.”
Dante rolls his eyes as I simply nod and grin. Her tiny hand wriggles into mine as she repeats the word. “Angioletta.” Then, concerned, she points to her sister. “Sofia, too.”
“Yes, Sofia too,” I assure her, giving Sofia a gentle nod.
Sofia’s hardened expression doesn’t change, but some part of me knows she doesn’t want to be left out. Just like I know she’s swallowing so many emotions inside her, she’s suffocating.
It’s what happens when you have no control over a situation. When things are done to you, and you’re defenseless to stop it. Becoming my combat nurse was the only thing that calmed her down.
It’s a tragic irony that such a young life knows the rituals of survival so intimately.
Now, she stands resolute, her eyes hardened by experiences no child should endure. She presses my wound just a little too hard, waiting for my response.
“Easy, diavoletta,” I seethe through a smile.
She barely peeks at me through the corners of her eyes, curiosity brimming to the surface.
“It means little devil.” When she frowns and presses agonizingly harder, I add, “The devil has strength. And determination. It’s a compliment,” I wrench out, my voice strained.
Her eyes flicker to mine, giving me a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval. She needs this, a tether in the chaos.
And maybe, in some twisted way, so do I.
