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I took a sip of tea. Neither Samira nor I spoke. Izzy’s expression changed. Her eyebrows rose. Her body shifted forward before the weight of her stomach forced her back again.
“Oh, dear God. You’re serious.”
“I ran into his church looking for help.” Her biscuit stopped halfway to her mouth.
Samira went still.
“Demitri helped me escape the men who were following me.”
Izzy looked from me to Samira.
“This happened a week ago?”
“Yes.”
“And since then?”
“He hid me. He helped me leave Rome. He took me somewhere he believed I would be safe.”
The words sounded simple when I said them aloud. They did not capture the gunshots, the fear, or the way Demitri had placed himself between me and death without once asking whether I deserved the risk.
Samira’s gaze snapped toward Marigold.
The little girl remained bent over her picture, but the stillness of her pencil revealed that she had heard every word.
“Demitri helped me out of a difficult situation,” I corrected.
Marigold looked up.
“Why do you call Uncle DeMarco Demitri?”
The question caught me off guard.
“It’s his name.”
“Everyone calls him DeMarco.”
“I should probably get used to doing the same.”
“Or you could call him Demi,” she said brightly. “That’s what I call him.”
Something tightened beneath my ribs.
“Have you met him before?”
Marigold shook her head.
“No, but Mama talks about him. All the time.”
I looked at Samira. She offered a small, knowing smile.
“Tone may have been furious with him for leaving, but she never allowed the children to grow up believing he was not part of the family.”
Marigold selected a blue pencil.
“Mama says Uncle Demi used to put frogs in people’s beds.”
I stared at her.
