“You are not as I imagined you, you know?” I admit. At her questioning look, I add, “No pigtails.”
A tiny smile pulls at her lips as her gaze moves up to the top of my freshly shaved head. “You’re not as I imagined you, either. No hair.”
I chuckle. The sound seems strange. There aren’t many things that have made me laugh in the past decade and a half.
“Promise me you will be careful,” I whisper. “Please.”
“I will.”
Charily, I bow my head. “Make sure Peppe comes with you when you move to Leone’s. Keep him close.”
Her eyebrow arches. “He’s one of yours, then?”
“Yes. If things go south, he’ll know what to do.”
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t question. We just stand there as I drink her in. Yesterday, Nera told me that Zahara has vitiligo. That’s what the skin discoloration on her face is.
