“Grieving widower loses his young wife and her parents inside a month.

Tragic.

No one looks twice at a man that unlucky.”

I have tried, since, to describe what happened in me on that stair, and I don’t think I can.

It was not only that they meant to kill me.

It was that they meant to kill my mother and my father — my kind, ferocious, generous father, who had built an empire and still called me every single night — and that they had already put men on a mountain to do it.

My whole family, gone in a month, so that these three could drink better champagne.