Liam Salvatore was taller than I expected.
I had constructed him from the wheelchair, from the image of a man defined by what he could not do, and the man standing in the doorway of the Rome apartment in dark trousers and a grey shirt with his feet on the floor and his weight balanced evenly and his eyes moving from Matteo to me to Dane with the rapid, comprehensive assessment of someone who was taking in all available information simultaneously was a different construction entirely.
He was like Matteo in the way that brothers were like each other, which was fundamentally, in the bones, in the particular set of the jaw and the quality of the eyes, dark like Matteo's, intelligent like Matteo's, carrying the same depth of attention that Matteo's carried. But where Matteo's eyes did the thi
