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Nothing.

Enzo finds his rhythm. He doesn't rush. Each strike gets the full draw, the full force, enough space after it for my body to know what happened before he gives it more.

He knows how to spread the damage.

I go to Bruno.

Bruno in the wheelchair those two years, furious at the chair, the doctors, the stairs, the men who looked at him with pity. I flew to Chicago and sat beside him anyway because family gets the worst of you and stays. He cursed at me for breathing too loudly. I stayed. He threw a glass at the wall once because I asked if he wanted coffee. I made the coffee.

Then he stood again.

He'll be tearing Italy apart by now. Nico too, quieter but worse. My mother will be lighting candles in Chicago. Aria will be pretending she isn't crying.

The thought holds me upright.

The rope hits again.

My vision jumps.

Still no sound.

I go to Chiara.

Not the alley.

The cove.

Sixteen years old, knee-deep in water, yelling at me because I told her the fish were smarter than she was. She threw a shell at my head and missed by a meter. Laughed so hard she had to sit down in the shallows.

Wherever you are, Chiara, I hope there's sun.

Another strike.

My hands go numb.

Enzo's breathing fills the room now. Rougher than before. He is getting tired, or I am running out of places to put the pain.

Maybe both.

So I spend what is left on Amanda.

Amanda in the doorway of the Milan café before any of this, gold and sharp and laughing at me. Amanda dancing to a half-dead radio when she thought no one was watching. Amanda in my shirt. Amanda with blood on her face, screaming at men twice her size because they dared to touch me.

Bella.

The next strike barely reaches me.

Her face does.

Everything else drops away.

Amanda

Francesca's mouth is split at the corner. One eye is deep purple, swollen almost shut.

I still want to hit her.

"You told me to listen," I say. "So talk. Why were you working with Aldo?"