Once everything was settled, Giovanni released us to clean up, assuring us he would send the physician to tend to our wounds. I didn’t even want to look at myself in a mirror. In twenty-four hours I’d been hit by a car, had my head slammed into metal bars, and had been beaten with a belt. Domenico didn’t look much better. I hadn’t really gotten to focus on much but the presence of him, and I had a feeling there was more to be seen under his clothes.
When we stepped out of his office, a woman in slick black heels and tears streaming down her face stomped toward us.
“You murderer!” I recognized her as Renata Ferrante, Giovanni’s wife. Domenico stepped in front of me, but when I watched her pull her hand back to strike him, I moved in front of him and grabbed hold of her wrist.
“Don’t you
