Lucia scoffed and gave him a sarcastic sideways shove.
The double-storey building across Calle del Leone boasted large windows either side of the front entrance. The windows had been lined with newspaper when the restaurant closed fifteen years ago, and with time the paper had yellowed and the ink had faded to shadows – much like the memories of the stories that had once patchworked the glass. It pained Lucia to recall how the scene used to look, when the windows were open and inviting, revealing a full dining hall of Venetians. The wooden double doors, painted forest green and sporting a tarnished lion’s head knocker, had been locked for longer than Lucia could bear. The smaller windows on the upper level had been left newspaper-free, with the internal window dressings simply pulled closed by the Rigon family who had once called it home.
Lucia’s thoughts returned to the surveillance scandal that had erupted the week of the tenth anniversary of her parents’ death. La Commedia had always been such a safe space for her, and for her family, but that had been tainted by the press and used against her.
‘I can’t believe I never saw the journalists’ cameras, Checco.’ Her eyes were fixed on the windows of the upper floor. ‘I still feel so stupid not to have noticed. The building had been vacant for five years at that point . . . And the way the curtains must have changed positions throughout the day. They were watching my every move. Plotting that sick and twisted story about my “tormented childhood”. Ugh!’
‘You couldn’t have known, Lucia. That level of cunning “journalism” . . .’ His hands formed a perfectly sarcastic pair of air quotes. ‘Notknowing is exactly what they wanted from you.’
She sighed. ‘And they got another story for their trouble. Just when I thought I had been able to move on from all that mess and lead my own life. What’s next,eh? Thisdisastrowith Vittorio Gatti.’ She scowled. ‘If he’d never run the restaurant to ruin, if he’d never closed it down, then it wouldn’t have been left here abandoned. I despise him.’
Turning her by the shoulder, Francesco gestured back inside her school. ‘Thisis all you need to worry about now. That history across thecalleis none of your business. Channel your energy here. Into all this. Savingthis.’
‘Hai ragione. Like always.’ Just then, a flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder split the air. Lucia glanced up at someone’s laundry, forgotten on the washing lines zigzagging between the buildings above, which was beginning to flap and jerk in the rising wind. She checked her watch. ‘Right on time. They said a storm would arrive around now.’
Francesco looked down at his jumper and Lucia knew he was thinking of his cold commute home to Mestre. ‘Vado.’
‘I bet you wish you had your coat now.’
‘I’m tough.’
‘Do you want to stay?’
‘I’ll be fine. My new pothos needs watering.’
Lucia rolled her eyes. ‘What’s his name?’
‘You know I don’t name my plant babies, Lucia.’
Lucia’s eye-roll morphed into a fond head shake. ‘You knowexactlywhat I mean.’
Francesco’s cheeks flushed a little. ‘I never kiss and tell.’ He placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
‘Checco, tomorrow is Saturday. The weekend isyourtime.’
‘No. I’ll come for a few hours in the morning to help you go through the school’s finances and paperwork for the sale. You don’t need to do that alone.’
‘Are you sure? Really? It can wait until Monday.’
His lips puckered momentarily. ‘It really can’t. The ninety days have started.’
‘Uffa!’ She felt dread closing in on her again.
‘We’ll work out the ownership issue, Lucia.’ He tapped the school’s front door. ‘The universe will make everything fall into place.Buonanotte.’
Waving him off for the night, she muttered to herself, ‘The universe has never been there when I needed it. Why should it suddenly show up now?’ She exhaled and leaned back against the doorframe.
It had been a day of great distress and loss of control; two things Lucia had always struggled with. She felt as if her heart had been gripped by a fist that would not let go, and her eyes were hot and stinging from the hours of feigning calm and content with her students. All she could do for now was breathe and control what she could control, which, admittedly, was very little.
A gentle mist of drizzle had begun to baptise Venice, and she welcomed its presence. Despite her worries, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the refreshing tickle against her skin. It was cooling and settling, and she drew in a long breath.
A second clap of thunder drew her eyes to the sky.
A storm was always bad news for Venice – a bad omen, a signal of shifting tides and rising troubles. She wanted no part of it.
Just as she was about to surrender herself to the thought of bed, Lucia took one last look at the derelict palazzo across thecalleand saw something that made her breath hitch and her hair stand on end.
On the upper level of La Commedia, muffled by the curtained glass, a light flicked on.
