The name Giovanni Lorenzo tasted like ash in my mouth. He was the man who had preached family values at Sunday dinners.
He was the one who had welcomed us when we were young and had nowhere else to turn. He was the man who Julian had trusted more than anyone.
Julian had left our home city because of Giovanni.
He believed in the old man's vision of a world that didn't have to be entirely dark.
Julian needed to believe that something good existed in our world, and Giovanni had played that hope like a violin.
And he sold us.
For a trading route. The specific worthlessness of that price was a special kind of cruelty.
A flashback forced its way through my defenses. I saw the warehouse from four years ago. I saw Julian's face, what they had left of it.
The recognition had required effort because of what they had done before I could get there. I remembered his last words. He had apologized.
