valeria

I grabbed Lorenzo’s hand—carefully, so careful not to press on the fresh bruises or pull at the bandages—and dragged him a few steps away from the open front door, around the corner of the house where the old lemon tree blocked us from view. My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat. Every second out here felt like a risk, like the driver’s eyes might follow us, like Dante’s reach might already be stretching across the city.

“I’m working on it,” I whispered, ...