“Carlo has your name on him,” Jazzy says, pointing to her father’s bare torso. “No, he doesn’t,” I’m quick to reply, raking my eyes over his body. And then I see it. Antonia. Written in script. It’s small and mixed in with the rest of the black-and-white ink that covers his skin. But it is my name. “Why?” I ask him. “Lots of people tattoo the names of people they love onto their bodies. It’s not a big deal,” he says.
