Mariella nodded a little too quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘Sì, sì.’ But her rigid stance and the way she tensed her shoulders as if held up by a coathanger suggested otherwise.
Lucia and Francesco’s eyes locked for a moment. ‘No you’re not,bugiarda!’ Francesco quickly fired back.
Stumbling over her words, Mariella finally admitted, ‘I’m concerned about involving Tiziano. That’s all.’
‘Why concerned?’ Lucia took a step back and leaned against the welcome desk.
‘Because men like Tiziano are too well connected in Venice. He knows too many people.’
‘I don’t have many other options, Mariella.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, waving her hands to clear the air. ‘I just wish you’d told me your plan first. Tiziano, he’s . . .’ She trailed off, and Lucia saw the familiar gleam of fear in her dark brown eyes. ‘Edoardo’s visit has just rattled me.Basta. Let’s get on with the morning. The students will be here before we know it.’
At that moment Stefano arrived, as he always did on Monday mornings to support La Scuola Rosa with any new arrivals.
‘Buongiorno,’ he announced, brandishing a large paper-wrapped parcel ofcornetti. His mid-length auburn waves were tucked neatly behind his ears and his usually fair complexion had taken on colour from the fresh morning air.
Lucia couldn’t help herself. Her eyes immediately flicked to Francesco, and she watched as the two shared nondescript, perfectly professional cheek kisses. All above board. She tried to stifle a delighted smile, but wasn’t entirely successful. Francesco, noting her attempt at restraint, gave her a covert shake of the head.
Lucia read this to mean,He doesn’t know that you know. She nodded her understanding. ‘Ti amo,’ she mouthed.
‘Grazie, Stefano,’ Mariella said, taking the parcel from him. ‘Preparo il caffé, allora!’ And she promptly disappeared up the stairs in the direction of Lucia’s apartment.
‘How many new students this morning?’ Stefano asked, flicking through some papers on the welcome desk.
‘Twenty-three. That includes that large group of English university students from Liverpool.’ Lucia drew his attention to a thick manila folder.
‘And the two families from California. The winemakers.’ Francesco pulled a stapled bundle of papers from Stefano’s pile. ‘They are also due this morning.’
‘Perfetto.’ Without thinking, Stefano took the pencil from behind Francesco’s right ear and began making notes. ‘I’ll get everything ready.’ He collected a stack of printed diagnostic tests from a drawer, and made his way upstairs to the second level where the new students would be assessed for their language level.
Once Stefano was out of earshot, Lucia whispered, ‘Ahem! You never letmeborrowthe pencil.’
With slightly flushed cheeks, Francesco replied, ‘That’s becauseyou’renot Stefano.’
Lucia gave him a friendly shoulder bump, and gestured that they should join Stefano upstairs. Just as she took a step forward, a voice from behind made her blood run cold.
‘You lookjustlike your mother.’
Lucia froze. Before she had even turned around she knew who she’d find standing there. The voice jolted her memories, bringing back the day she had watched this man lock La Commedia for the last time and strut up thecallewith that familiar smirk of self-approval. Steeling herself with a breath, she pivoted to face him.
‘Gatti,’ she said. It wasn’t a welcome.
‘Buongiorno, Lucia.’ Wearing an effortlessly stylish combination of slim-cut suit pants, polished black shoes and a knee-length charcoal coat, he exuded both money and power.
She swallowed, and Francesco returned protectively to her side.
Without conscious thought she tensed, and felt a knot of frustration turn itself around in her stomach. ‘What do you want?’ She couldn’t help but be direct about it. She had heard plenty of conversations about this vile man between her parents. Even decades old, the memories were still clear. As a little girl she had pictured a sinewy spindly man who dressed all in black and lived in a cave somewhere near the northern Alps, emerging every now and then to wreak havoc and torment the local townspeople. In truth, her imagination hadn’t been far off. Vittorio Gatti, now in his early seventies, was gaunt and rather bony, however his style conveyed his love of elegance and a lack of financial boundaries. She cringed inwardly, trying to appear unperturbed by this early and unwanted visit.
‘Now, now, Lucia. That’s no way to address an old friend of your parents.’
He’d gone there. And so quickly. As smoothly as she could, she said, ‘You were no friend to my parents. That much I know for certain. And, as it goes, you’re no friend of mine, or La Scuola Rosa, either.’
It grated at her to see him saunter through her front door. His gaze dragged calculatingly over the ground floor of the school. It lingered for a moment on the long bookcase, and he managed a short exhale of acknowledgment at the gondola oars which framed the sliding ladder. ‘Sweet,’ he said with a sarcastic twist. He approached the first of the two large mahogany tables and swept his right index finger over the top, as if to assess its cleanliness. ‘Well maintained. That’s a positive start.’
Lucia took a defensive step forward, but was pinned back by Francesco’s hook on her arm. ‘What do you want, Gatti?’ she repeated.
It was then that Vittorio turned to face the welcome desk. A fresh posy of pink roses was displayed in a handmade glass vase of a similar pink to the front façade. The business cards piled neatly next to it were of the same shade, as was all the paperwork and the folders. It was a sea of pink in a multitude of tints and tones.
