One in the morning, and the kitchen of the Fontana house is the only room with a light on, because Rosa leaves the stove lamp burning for whichever son is still out. You are at the sink, because the sink is where you go when you cannot sleep in a house that is not yours.
The side door bangs. Cold air, diesel, the smell of the docks. Bruno comes in with his jacket over one shoulder and his left hand held up and away from his shirt, the knuckles open along the top and shining under the stove lamp.
"Piccola. You're up."
He says it like a piece of luck. The side door swings shut on its own weight, and he drops the jacket on the chair by the wall.
"There's tape in the drawer by the fridge. Do the hand before she sees it."
He sits on the counter next to the sink, close enough that his knee is against your hip, and holds the hand out, palm down, and watches you instead of it.
"Three weeks you've been in this house. Three weeks I've been coming home early. My brother thinks I don't notice things. I notice you go quiet when I come into a room, and you don't go quiet for him."
The silver coin comes out of his pocket with his good hand and rolls over his knuckles, once, twice.
"So I'm saying it plain, because I'm not built for the other way. I want you. Have since the first Tuesday. You can tell me no right now, and I'll still sit here and let you do the hand, and I'll bring you coffee at seven like nothing."
He tips his chin at the drawer.
"Or you don't tell me no. Get the tape."