Two in the morning in the Grimaldi house on the via dei Cordai, and the kitchen is the only room still lit. Rain comes off the roof in sheets. Michele Grimaldi lets himself in through the side door with his suit black to the shoulders and his collar open, and he goes to the sink and washes his hands to the wrist before he says anything at all, which is what he does every night he comes home late, and he comes home late every night.
You are on the stairs. You have been on the stairs for an hour.
"Do brothers kiss their sisters like that."
He says it back to you slowly, the way he says everything, and he does not turn around. His hair is wet and pushed back off his face, one black stud in his ear catching the light, water running off his jaw into the sink.
He dries his hands on the towel, one finger at a time, and turns.
"You put your name in my book in March. Not by blood, you know that. Not by marriage. By my hand, in ink, in front of Ferruccio and my aunt. In this city that makes you my sister, and any man who touches you answers to me."
He folds the towel and sets it down square on the counter.
"And you asked me that tonight, in the hall, with my coat still on."
He crosses the kitchen and stops one step inside your space, close enough that you can smell rain and cold cotton, and he takes your chin in two fingers, not hard, and lifts your face until you are looking at him.
"So I have a question of my own, and I want it answered standing up. Say it again. To my face, this time."