Page 60

I cross the room on shaky legs and wedge myself between them, which is, in hindsight, deeply stupid with a man whose fist is still cocked.

Valentino's chest is heaving. Elio isn't fighting the grip on his collar. He just looks at me, calm in that flat, trained way of his, like he's already made peace with whatever comes next.

"Somebody talk," I say. "One of you. Anybody. I'll take charades."

Neither of them says a word.

The radiator ticks in the corner.

I turn on Valentino. He's the one with the fist, so he's the one who gets it.

"What did he do?" My eyes go to those ruined knuckles, the scabs split open fresh. "What could he possibly have done that's worth bleeding for again?"

Valentino doesn't look at me. His jaw works, swallowing down whatever he wants to say. His eyes stay locked on Elio.

"Go to the kitchen," he says. "Wait for me there."

"Excuse me?"

"Kitchen." Still not looking at me. "I'll come to you."

Part of me wants to dig in my heels and refuse. To demand answers. To remind him that whatever is happening, it involves me too.

But that part of me is exhausted.

That version is so tired she could lie down right here on the ugly rug and sleep for a year.

So I don't fight. I let the argument go limp inside me and step back.

"Fine." I point at the inch of air between Valentino's fist and Elio's jaw. "But you don't touch him. I mean it. Whatever this is, you don't hit him."

His eyes finally come to me. Dark, unreadable, taking inventory of my whole face like he's checking for damage.

"Promise me," I say.

A muscle flickers near his temple. He doesn't promise anything. He just lowers his hand, slow, and lets go of Elio's collar like he's setting down something he might still decide to break later.

It's not a yes. But it's not a fist either. I take it.

I leave them standing there and head for the kitchen. The floor still feels a little unsteady under me, but at least it's holding.

The kitchen is small and yellow and lit by a single bulb. There's a chipped enamel sink and a table with two chairs that don't match. I find a glass on the drying rack, cloudy with hard-water spots, and fill it from the tap because my mouth still tastes like a penny.

I drink half of it standing at the sink, both hands wrapped around the glass.

A few moments later, I hear footsteps in the hall. When I glance up, Valentino is standing in the doorway, filling it without seeming to try.

"You didn't hit him," I say. It's not quite a question.

"No."

I set the glass down on the counter, the soft clink sounding louder than it should in the quiet kitchen.

"Are you going to tell me what that was?"

He lets the question hang unanswered. Instead, his gaze moves over me, taking in whatever damage he's looking for.

"Can you eat?" he asks.