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Eleni I stand on the wrecked stage of Piacere and turn in a slow circle. The two bars glisten under thick drifts of broken glass, and puddles of spilled alcohol drool away from them. Not a table stands upright. More than half of them are splintered. Under the brilliant daytime lights of the club, goosebumps pepper my skin. It feels like looking at a ghost. It feels like looking at The Greek Corner, the day after Baba’s murder and my rescue, when Tony took me back. Dante storms up the stairs. “They took a good f*****g chunk out of the basement, but either they couldn’t find the secret door, or they couldn’t get through.” His eyes dance with rage. I step over one of the poles, ripped from its mooring to lean against the stage, and close the distance between us. Still, I don’t touch him.