Page 6

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I keep them shut until my body finally ceases to tremble.

La Stregaglances up when I return to my seat, and she nods approvingly when she sees I've ditched my rags for a cowl-necked woolen dress with loose-fitting long sleeves and a skirt that swings around my legs.

"A lovely choice,"La Stregacompliments.

"Uh...thanks." It feels awkward to be polite to one's kidnapper, but since I've also been raised to always mind my Ps and Qs, it feels next to impossible to just be rude without reason.

Rita comes back to ask if I'd like anything to eat, and I tell her right away I'd love a sandwich if there's any. 'Empty stomachs often lead to stupid decisions'is another thing I've learned from being homeless, and I need all of my wits with me when dealing with a powerful real-life witch.

I can feel the older woman watching me as I take a bite of my sandwich, and I make sure to chew slowly even though I'm tempted to wolf the whole thing down in seconds. Hunger is a sign of weakness, and I still don't know her well enough to reveal any chinks in my armor.

"You still don't trust me,"La Stregacomments.

Will she kill me if I lie...or will she kill me if I tell the truth?

She'sLa Strega,after all, and I still remember every gruesome story I've heard about her from other homeless folks.

They say she was once a simple housewife in her fifties...when a group of men had gunned down her husband and son inan attempt to take over the Marchettis' billion-dollar empire. Everyone had thought she would quietly fade into the night after that...but instead she had been reborn from tragedy, and Potenziana had singlehandedly wreaked vengeance on everyone who had conspired against her family. It was only after everyone in her shit list was six feet under that she and the rest of the Marchettis had barricaded themselves in Boston, and since then people in the streets had liked to scare themselves with stories aboutLa Stregaand her "crazy" appetite for righting wrongs.

I nearly jump out of my seat when the older woman places her hand over mine.

"I'm not your enemy,bambina."

I look at her hand, which is smaller and frailer than what I imagined it would be like. This was not the hand of a witch, but of a woman who had lost the people she loved the most...like I have.

Give me a sign, God.

Please.

I don't know what to do.

Trust must be earned, but hope also springs eternal, and it's these two principles I've struggled to cling to day after day. That someone like me could be the reason forLa Stregato show her face in public after so many years seems impossible, but if what she's saying is true...

I look down at the photo of my parents, and I hear myself say, "The hit-and-run that killed my mom...it wasn't really an accident, was it?"

"No." La Strega's voice is quiet and grave.

"And my dad, he'snevertaken drugs, but they said he died of a drug overdose."

"They lied."

I only realize I'm crying when I see my tears splattering against the glossy surface of my parents' photo.

"Why?"

"Because your mama wasfamiglia."

I impatiently wipe the tears off my cheeks and force myself to concentrate on her words. 'Famiglia'can only translate to 'family',but what exactly does itmean?

"Are you saying she'smafia?"

The older woman's lip curls. "That term ismolto abusatothese days. It's very...misused.So I prefer we use the term 'famiglia',va bene?"

I decide to test the words by saying them back."Va bene."

La Stregagives me another approving nod, and even though I know she's not your usual 'Gran' in any way...I realize that it's still what I want.

I wish she can be my Gran, just so I'd feel like there's a home I belong to once again.