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The kitchen seemed to narrow around us.

“But he was already dead.”

I pictured him kneeling on the road in his father’s blood, bargaining with a man who could no longer hear him.

Demitri pushed away from the counter and crossed to the sink. He turned on the tap and shoved his hands beneath the cold water. For a moment, I thought he was washing away the blood from the café. Then he began scrubbing the stained cuff of his shirt. The fabric would not release it.

“What happened after?” I asked.

His hands stopped.

“I found the men responsible.”

The words chilled the air between us.

Demitri resumed rubbing at the blood.

I watched the water turn pink beneath his hands.

“What did you do?”

He looked at me through the warped reflection in the dark window above the sink.

“I killed them all.”

No apology could have softened the answer.

“How many?”

“Enough that no one from that family would ever cross Cavalho land again.”

He shut off the water. He reached for a cloth and dried his hands.

“That’s when you left?”

“I drove until the car ran out of fuel. Then I walked.”

His mouth tightened at the memory.

“I reached a church before dawn.”

He turned toward me. I jumped down from the bench until I was standing near him, facing his grief.

“An old priest found me in the last pew,” he continued. “My clothes were stiff with blood. He looked at me for a long time and asked me whether I wanted to confess.”

Demitri gave a hollow laugh.

“Did you?”

“I told him enough to damn me.”

He leaned back against the sink.

“He listened. Then he gave me clean clothes and bread.”

“And you stayed.”

“The Church gave me a place where no one needed DeMarco Cavalho.”