“Liar,” she teases with a shaky smile, and then winces as she falls to one knee, her leg giving out. But even that she does gracefully. It’s a flesh wound. She knows to keep her weight off it. She’s smarter than I’ve ever given her credit for. “Don’t talk like that. We’re getting out of this alive. I can hear your cavalry. Keep your eyes open. You too, Benjy.”
She doesn’t look at her father’s corpse. The shooting continues. I hear Italians yelling, and then the Irish. More bullets crack the air around us.
“All my life I wanted to feel something,” Benjamin says, oddly lucid now. “Something real. I never did. But now I do. I feel proud. Proud that you found somebody to love, sis. Proud that you’re happy. Proud that …”
And just like that, he’s gone. That’s how a man dies. Speaking one seco
