[Here comes the smile again in a brand new iteration, wry, almost bittersweet, his lip curling up only on one side. There's no real pride or mirth in it, just a very human sense of self-deprecation.]

Very little. Most of my information came from my mother, and she . . .

[Was not a strong woman. Was drawn habitually to unpleasant or dangerous men. Didn't want to talk about Giorno's father, not really, because what was there to discuss? How do you talk to your son about an encounter like that, about escaping an ecstatic death with the barest chance?]

[His laughter comes again, soft.]

She was biased.

I have the picture, as I said. I learned . . . enough to sketch a picture. To know where I could learn from him, and where I wanted my path to diverge.

I know he was a monster. I know that. But I imagine you might know better?