“It’s lies,” he said quietly.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t understand anything here—what these people are like.”

“I thought they were friends of yours. The one you helped—he’d speak for you, wouldn’t he? Or was he in the house that burned?”

“You—” Not finding the word, sputtering.

“Of course, they didn’t know about your other friends, over at Villa Raspelli. What are you going to say that was?” I shook my head. “It’s a great cover until the Germans talk. You know how they are, keeping track of everything. Reports to Berlin. Duplicates here. Verona, I guess. Everything that happened. All their little hopes and dreams. Their friends.” I stopped. “You don’t want this trial. They’d knock you off before you were halfway through. I don’t want any part of that. Not that you don’t have it coming. But I’m not going to be the one to do it. Make the truce.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“Make the truce.”

“Cazzo, make it yourself,” he said, throwing up his hand as he brushed past me so that it accidentally caught my shoulder. I reacted by flinging up my arm to push it away. A flicker of motion, but enough to trigger an alarm in his head. I didn’t even see the hand come up, just felt it on my chest as he pushed me back in a fury, banging my head against the wall. “Don’t you dare raise a hand to me,” he said, panting, holding me.

“Let go,” I said, seeing only the blur of his white front, his hand coming out of a starched cuff. Then his face, clearer now, eyes glaring at me.

“You think I wouldn’t do it? Bah.” He loosened his hold, then dropped his hand. “And make more trouble. So you can run to Mama.”

“That’s right,” I said, staring at him. “You like someone else to do it. Even better when it’s official. When it’s the right thing to do.”

“Go to hell.” He started toward the door, smoothing back the sides of his hair, then turned. “I warn you.”

We stared at each other, a standoff, broken suddenly by the front doorbell. For a second neither of us moved, not yet jolted out of ourselves, then I stepped away from the wall.

“Fix your tie,” I said, brushing past him.

“Cazzo,” he said, spitting it, but he went over to the mirror to adjust himself, public again.

I opened the door to Claudia, looking worried, her hair a little scraggly in the moist air.

“So you are here,” she said. “The lights are out upstairs.”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“Yes, but it’s late.” She stopped, seeing Gianni in the hall. “Oh.”

“Ha, the whore,” Gianni said. “Now everything is complete. The cazzo and his whore. A perfect couple.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Why is he here?” Claudia said.

“To listen to nonsense. Now I go.”

Claudia looked at me. “What nonsense?”

“Nothing,” I said, drawing her in. “Just a little talk.”

“Talk,” Gianni said. “Nonsense.”

“You’re right,” I said, turning to him. He was elegant again, his hair back in place. “It is nonsense. Why bother? I don’t want a truce either. Not anymore.”

“No? What do you want?”

“I want to nail you. I want people to know.”

“At my so-called trial.”

“That’s right, at your trial. I’m looking forward to it.”

“What trial?” Claudia said. “What are you talking about?”

“More drama for you,” Gianni said. “You like so much to make scenes. Now you can tell everybody where your bed was at the camp. All your special privileges—how you earned them. He wants you to tell everybody. He wants people to know.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“My lawyer will ask the questions. I guarantee it. At this trial you want.”

Claudia moved from the door, backing into the hall. He followed her with words.

“You think I don’t know about you? Someone attacks me, I ask questions. I find out. Vanessi, the man at the camp—you think he would keep a woman out of pity? No. And not once, months. Not forced, a mistress. Someone who liked it. Who liked him, maybe.”

“No,” Claudia said softly.

“So, an actress. Maybe still acting.” He turned to me. “This is what you want? A wonderful witness. The camp whore.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t stop, once it starts. How can you stop it? Hold up your hand, like traffic? You think I won’t fight back? You make this trouble and then you think you can stop it. No, not when you like. So you shame her and it doesn’t stop there. Until everybody’s dirty. Then what? Nothing. You will win nothing.”

“I don’t have to win,” I said. “I just have to let them see you.”

He stared at me again for a minute. “I’m not going to let you do that,” he said finally. “Understand that. Never.”

His voice was low and steady, the same calm menace I’d heard in the restaurant, and I felt a prickling. It had already started, beyond fixing now, any polite truce.

“That’s what you think,” I said.

“Never,” he repeated, his voice still low. “Go home.”

“I’m not leaving her. Not with you.”

“You don’t know how it is. You don’t know anything. A fool. Like the father. Just like the father. He saw nothing. Under his nose, still nothing.”

“Saw what?” I said, feeling clenched, as if his hand were pushing me again.

“You think it’s the first time, with your mother? You know nothing. The father’s son. Another fool.”

A snap in my head, like the click of a safety.

“Shut up,” I said. “Just shut up.”

“Both of you, fools.” Each word like a prod with a stick.

“Shut up,” I said, my hands springing up without my being aware of it, pushing him back, away from me.

The shove caught him off-guard, so he staggered before he could catch his balance, his weight pulling him back toward the wall, his head hitting the edge of one of the sconces.

“Adam!” Claudia said, somewhere out of my line of vision.

Gianni put his hand to the back of his head, then looked at it, streaked with blood. I saw the white of his dress shirt, his blank expression, the smeared hand, everything utterly still, and then the blood seemed to jump, alive, as he lunged for me. I reared back, keeping my throat out of reach so his hand struck my chest. Then we were both falling, his hands now pounding at me, wild. The smell of blood. Claudia yelled something.

“Cazzo!” Gianni said, punching me.

I had never fought anyone hand to hand. Combat had always been a few kilometers away, even across a field. Now I could feel his breath on me, that close. I rolled away, not thinking, instinct. Protect your eyes. Get up. Now. No pattern to it, a blur, slaps and grabs and sudden bursts of pain.

I pulled at his shirt, the stiff white front, to draw him closer, immobilize his arms, but he pushed me away, landing one hand on the side of my face. I felt a dull burning and moved back. One of his shirt studs had popped out, opening up a patch of hairy skin in the evening clothes, suddenly primitive, what was real underneath.

I looked at the furious eyes, the disheveled hair, and saw that he was right, it wouldn’t stop now. His hand caught me again, my ear went hot, stinging, and I punched back until both of us were wrestling, close in, falling to the floor again in a heap, pulling each other down the hall, trying to find a position, any kind of advantage. Then his grip loosened and I grabbed a chair, pulling myself up away from him. In a second he was on one knee, then pitched forward, pounding me in the side, a throbbing ache that didn’t go away, that would bruise.

“Stop it!” Claudia yelled, following us.

“Whore!” Gianni said, as if he were punching her too, finishing all of it.

I grabbed at him again, pushing, but he was ready this time and instead caught me and knocked me down. I dodged a kick, sliding away from his foot, then scrambled up and moved back toward the water entrance, the sound of my own breathing loud in my head. He followed, arms reaching out, implacable, the moving line at bayonet practice. No time to hesitate. Do it.