I had been thinking about it since the recording.
Since sitting on the sofa in the Paris apartment and listening to Liam's voice describe me as manageable and biddable and hearing the specific, practiced warmth of a man who had been performing one version of himself while running another, and since hearing Matteo say I am sorry to his brother with the specific weight of a true thing said out loud, I had been thinking about what I wanted from the conclusion of this.
Not what Matteo wanted. Not what Antonio Salvatore wanted. What I wanted.
This was not a question I had been in the habit of asking myself. My life had not historically been structured around the asking of it. What I wanted had been, for most of my twenty three years, either irrelevant to the people making decisions about my
