ia

not a narrative but a collection of sensory poisons: the iron-tang of a nail being pried from its be

t behind me, the sound a dull re

ed pavement, shiveri

ream but a swarm of buzzing insects, gna

idled by the curb, a

n, revealing my brother's

d plastic bag holding a torn sweater and a grim

ed, his voice edged with the una

he front door h

something dangerous in his eyes. "The passenger

nct from the night air, spre

and climbed into the back,

ologne and cordite-a scent that once mea

m the curb, his eyes catching

e prison, my knuckles white around the crust. A few dry crumbs scatter

ose habits you acquired in the

over his knuckles stretched to a translucent, parchment-like white. "Remember your place a

at was

ou are the Don. You broke Omertà. You f

umped alon

e. "Your sponsorship was a display of privileged condescens

e mirror again, his expres

was a necessity. It is the only w

e city lights smearing into

e from the brutishness of t

s of couture gowns, their tags still attached, had been thrown open for her use

e. They had left me exposed, to stumble and fall, driving the weight of my body down onto the leg whose

grinding ache then

s a

massive iron gates of the Estate,

and got out, not both

, my right leg a dea

aircase, wanting only th

dark, the silenc

ed my bedroom

ies of low, intimate sounds-the rhythmic creak

s world had already taken my freedom, my title, and my dignity. Now, they were about to take the last thing I had left-t