Under The Tuscan Sun Novels & Stories

“Say it.” “Deacon,” Vincent said. “Sunset. Chess. He ran. Friday is a walkout, a records shed, three dead trucks. Not a crane. He has men who come up stairs.” Russo looked at my palms. Glass grit. “You climbed a pipe.” “The door closed itself.” Vincent took my hands and turned them, checking without asking. A sliver sat under the skin of my palm. He pulled it with his teeth because we had no tweezers and no time to be delicate. I hissed. He did not apologize.