A subtle tilt of the chin, and then, quietly, he said, ‘Isn’t the answer obvious?’

‘He sacrificed himself so that you would have parents to raise you.’

‘One right doesn’t remedy a thousand wrongs.’

‘You should write a book of quotes.’

He wasn’t smiling. I supposed it was obvious then. Glaringly obvious, if you knew where to look – Luca had abstained from the role handed down to him by his father, the role they all wanted him to undertake. He had given it away, but not entirely. He was still the underboss. Conflicted, dreaming, but ultimately trapped. What was there to smile about?

‘What do all the numbers mean?’ I read his grandfather’s Roman numeral aloud. ‘One hundred and thirteen? Is it some kind of ranking system?’

Luca stood up, the earlier exhaustion fading from his face. ‘You can read Roman numerals?’

‘I’m pretty smart, I’ll have you know,’ I said. ‘Not a nerd, like you. But smart, in the ways that matter.’

He traced the number with his forefinger. ‘This is my grandfather’s kill count.’

The room seemed to darken all of a sudden. I stepped backwards and stumbled against the bench. One hundred and thirteen people. One hundred and thirteen funerals. One hundred and thirteen grieving families. So that was what it meant to be the boss of all bosses. Suddenly Luca’s words took on a whole new weight. He was Gianluca II, his grandfather’s prodigy; the butcher’s legacy. ‘And your family want you to be just like him?’

‘Yes, they do.’ An emotionless answer.

‘And, just how like him are you already?’

Luca glanced sidelong at me, his lips twisting. ‘You really think I’m going to answer that?’

I moved away from him, to another, sparser wall, where there were just two plaques and I didn’t have to think about Luca’s Roman numeral. Or Nic’s. The sign on the right was Felice’s, his death-date yet to be marked. The sign on the left simply read:

EVELINA FALCONE

‘Who’s this?’ I asked.

Luca came to stand beside me. His arm brushed against mine. I could feel the static on my skin. ‘This is Felice’s wall.’

Between the plaques, a ruby encased in silver had been inset into the stone. Protruding from the silver in swirling calligraphy were the letters F on one side, and E on the other. Beneath the ruby it said Sempre.

Luca brushed his fingers along the words, translating. ‘Always.’ And then in a quiet voice, he added, ‘Felice wanted to be interred next to his wife.’ He traced the ruby, reverentially, softly. ‘He engraved her tomb the day he engraved her ring. Every dime he ever earned went into those two rubies and then one of them went with her and it broke his heart.’

‘Where?’ I asked, looking for dates and failing to find them. She wasn’t dead. Yet.

‘She disappeared. She was eight months pregnant with their daughter, and one day she went out and never came back.’

‘Why?’ I asked, though in truth it was not hard to imagine. Felice was, after all, a terrible human being.

‘He’s never said.’ Luca shrugged. ‘He still believes she’ll come back to him some day.’

‘Do you?’

His mouth hardened into a thin line. It sharpened his cheekbones and the clean cut of his jaw. ‘He’s a fool.’

‘A romantic, maybe,’ I tempered, wondering at how bad things must have gotten for an eight-month-pregnant woman to walk out on her husband. Still, being married to a sociopath is no easy feat.

‘No,’ said Luca. ‘A fool.’

I got the sense the topic was closed. I let it be, thinking on Felice with fractionally more empathy than before. Emphasis on fractionally. I guess no one can be painted with just one brush. There is light and shade in all of us, pain and hardship, and some of us rise from it while others are darkened by it. Evelina, I thought, wherever you are, you are probably better off.

Luca sat down on the bench again, his legs stretched out and crossing at the ankles. He was watching me. ‘You’re pale.’

‘I’m always pale.’

‘You’re translucent.’

‘It’s the lighting.’

‘You can go now,’ he offered in what I assumed was his attempt at politeness. It needed work. ‘Millie will probably combust if you leave her out there any longer.’

‘How do you know Millie’s out there?’

His laugh was low and breathy. ‘You’re kidding, right? I could hear you coming from a mile off. You bring a whole new dimension to the word “unsubtle”.’

Why was I still stalling? I backed into the doorway, studying him the way he was studying me – unashamedly. But what was he looking for exactly? I watched the way he slumped his shoulders, the way his elbows balanced on his knees, how his dark brows cast shadows over his bright eyes. In that moment he looked exactly the way I had been feeling. Tired, defeated. Alone. Troubled. ‘Do you … spend a lot of time in here?’

He cocked his head. ‘Why? Are you worried about me?’

‘No!’ I practically shrieked.

‘Good. I’d hate to think you were going soft.’

‘Never.’ Well, that’s where giving a crap gets you. With as much haughtiness as I could muster I marched through the doorway, but something stopped me and I dug my heels in. I couldn’t help it; I had to know. I peeked around the doorway, curiosity bubbling up inside me.