He didn’t grab her. He simply touched the edge of her sleeve, his fingers gripping the cheap, reflective fabric of her warehouse jacket as if it were the only anchor keeping him on the earth.
You were six, Clara, Vincent choked out, the name tearing through twenty years of scar tissue. You were six, and you wouldn’t sleep without the hall light on because you thought the harbor fog had monsters in it.
The woman let out a broken sob, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. Vincent.
He pulled her into him.
The guards at the gate looked away, Martin suddenly clearing his throat with immense, focused interest in the treetops, while the feared head of the Raldi family buried his face against his sister’s shoulder on the stone driveway, weeping with his whole body. Twenty years of silence, twenty years of blood and marble and cold, empty
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