‘I’m sorry, Lucia. We had finally found some peace between us. I didn’t want to ruin that by dredging up the past because I didn’t know how you would take the news. The longer I waited . . . I didn’t want to risk . . . Because I, actually really li—’ He stopped himself. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
Lucia had heard enough. ‘Alex, thank you for last night.’ She gestured to his unmade bed. ‘And thank you for sharing the truth. Better late than never.’
She hurriedly collected her things, and bolted down the stairs to the rear service entry.
‘The truth?!’ Alex called, right before she dipped outside to the service canal landing. ‘You want the truth?’
But she was already gone.
A few hours later, Lucia pressed the buzzer and waited, and within moments she could hear Francesco’s feet padding to the door of his apartment.
‘Buona Pasqua . . . quasi!’ he announced, flinging it wide open.
Lucia’s vacant expression and paler-than-usual colour made him dramatically retreat a pace, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘What’s wrong with you? How did last night go? I texted you, did you see my messages?’
‘It was Alex.’
‘What do you mean, “It was Alex”?’ Francesco welcomed her inside, and Stefano, who had slept over, joined them in the kitchen.
‘It was Alex all along. The kisser.’
‘WHAT?!’ Francesco’s face erupted with shock. ‘The man? The kisser?’
Stefano looked from one to the other, his hands over his mouth in surprise.
Lucia nodded. ‘It was him. He was there. He had the mask . . .’ She could feel perspiration break out on her brow and her breath grow more laboured.
Sensing her rising panic, Francesco pulled out a chair for her and helped her sit down. ‘Dio. . .’ he breathed, pouring her a glass of water.
‘And there’s more.’ She took a sip, then set the glass down on the table. ‘Alex lost his family in the same accident that killed my parents.’
Both Francesco and Stefano dropped to their chairs, and Francesco too was growing paler by the second. ‘No . . . this . . . it isn’t . . .’
‘He lost hismamma,papàand brother. And he saw the moment that the . . . the godforsaken photo of me was taken!’
With trembling hands, Francesco shimmied to the edge of his seat to catch Lucia’s bouncing thighs in his hands. ‘No . . .’
‘And Checco . . . he asked the photographer not to publish the photo. He tried to help me. To save me from that. But we know how that played out.’
Francesco flew back in his chair, stunned by the revelation. ‘Aspetta. . . So you are connected. And have been for decades.’
Lucia nodded again, then succumbed to tears. ‘All this time.’
Francesco’s head dropped into his hands. ‘This is incredible.’ Returning her gaze once more, he said, ‘Are you ok? How do you feel about this?’
‘Confused. Relieved. Angry. It makes no sense.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stefano asked kindly, reaching across to stroke her forearm.
‘Confused because . . . I just didn’t see this coming. Relieved because it’s all out in the open. And angry . . . because he lied to me.’
‘About what?’ Francesco asked, eyes narrowing.
‘I asked him point-blank that night I invited him over for dinner. Breakfast. Whatever. “Do you know who I am?” He said he knew nothing of anything. I’m just Lucia Trevisan. But he had worked out how he knew me by then.’
Stefano and Francesco locked eyes and shared a knowing look.
‘Did he explain why he lied?’ Francesco asked.
