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home from grad school was on her break several months earlier. That had been normal; she always returned home on her breaks.
    Her grandfather had asked her to take a case of his reserve to one of his oldest friends, Don Miguel, a man his age who often graced their table, played dominoes with her and spent a great deal of time laughing. She was very fond of him. She’d stayed at his home for an hour, played their favorite game before kissing his cheek and leaving. She left for school the next day. Her first day back to school, her grandfather called her and told her that Don Miguel was dead. She hadn’t asked how because the man was in his eighties. Everyone knew he had a bad heart. She should have asked.
    She bit back a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth again. The second visit she’d been called home because her grandfather was ill. The flu, it turned out. He’d asked her justbefore she left to deliver a case of his best reserve to another friend, Carlo Bianchi, a man who had actually worked for him for a long time. He’d started his own businesses and become very successful, but the two men remained good friends. She’d stayed an hour, laughing and joking with him. She liked him too. He was her grandfather’s age and always treated her like a granddaughter. Three days later she learned he had died—that someone had broken into his home and shot him.
    Siena had come back home for his funeral. Her grandfather had spoken at the funeral, in fact, he’d gotten so choked up that Siena had gotten up and taken over his talk for him. He had quietly wept through the entire service. She had stayed close to her grandfather, worried that he might become ill at the death of such a close friend on the heels of the first that had come only a few weeks before.
    She found a bottle of water in her gym bag, rinsed her mouth and spit, wishing she hadn’t removed her gym clothes when she had gone upstairs to change before she had left the house. Then she pulled her camisole up over her breasts, trying to smooth out the material with shaking hands. The fabric was torn, shredded around the cups, but she managed to cover up. She rinsed her mouth a second time, trying to keep her brain blank, but she couldn’t.
    The third time she’d delivered her case of reserve was to Luigi Baldini, a man in his sixties, one she didn’t know as well as her grandfather’s other two friends, but he came often to the house to consult with her grandfather on several business dealings. He was always very polite. She’d stayed a few minutes, given him the congratulations from her grandfather on his latest business coup and left. She didn’t know he was dead until two months later when she came back for another short weekend.
    She pressed the water bottle to her throbbing head. She was in no state to drive. Her body felt used up. Shaky. Achy. She hurt in places she didn’t know she had and worse, shecould feel him inside of her, stretching her, leaving skid marks. She knew she would carry Elijah’s mark on her. She also knew she never wanted to see him again. She never wanted to repeat what happened between them with anyone else.
Ever.
She couldn’t get his voice out of her.
The worst I ever had. Don’t even know how to suck cock.
    The fourth time she’d delivered wine had been to Angelo Fabbri. Angelo was the son of her grandfather’s best friend. Angelo had taken over his father’s restaurant when his father had a massive stroke a few years earlier. She’d known Angelo since she could remember. He had bad luck in his relationships and she could never figure out why. He seemed like a good man. She had met him at his restaurant after hours to give him the wine, had coffee, talked for a while and then hugged him good-bye.
    Angelo had been on his way home, the day’s take in his car, when someone who had been hiding in his backseat shot him in the back of the head. The