The first time I see Santino, I don’t know how old he is, but I am twelve, and he is a man. Though I expect him to carry all the subtle and seductive dangers of men, his menace is controlled, with the direction and force of gravity.


He comes to my uncle’s house, where I’ve lived since I was a child, after my parents were shot in the streets of Naples.


He stands at the door. Sunlight behind him. Silhouette of a god. Perfect. Michelangelo’s David, saying my uncle’s name—Guglielmo—with an accent that sounds like the wind in the grape vines and the voice of a volcano consciously choosing not to erupt.


My zia Madeline hustles me into the kitchen, but Santino has already let himself in, and for the moment he’s in the doorframe, daylight is shut out. The shadows become the light, and I see him with eyes still tightly closed against the sun.


A girl cannot cry hard enough to summon a devil like him. All her pain won’t be enough to drive him out of hell.


I’m different.


When he lays eyes on me, Zia pulls me away, but a part of me stays where his attention pins me. He’s powerful enough to separate me from my ghost. So even though I’m behind a closed door with Zia, I’m also in the hallway with him, in that moment forever, when the darkness in his eyes recognized the darkness in mine.