“Elena,” I say slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable. “Are you all right?” She remains perfectly still. “I don’t like planes.” “You don’t?” Shaking her head, she lets out a breathy laugh. “I know Riccis are supposed to be fearless. At least that’s how Papà tried to raise us, why he put us in self-defense classes when my sisters and I were kids. You should’ve seen the way his eyes lit up the first time I put those skills to use.” I think of the bruised knuckles and bloody lips she seemed to sport each time I saw her in passing over the years, how the broken flesh seemed a permanent
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