Lucia turned, and the reddened whites of her eyes conveyed all the pain and heartbreak she felt in one solitary look. ‘It was completely terrifying.’
‘If I could take it all back, I would. But I can’t. As soon as I worked out what had happened, I deleted the post. It’s gone. But others had already shared it. It’s . . . it’s gone viral.’
Lucia drew in a long breath. ‘But I asked you not to post anythingat all, and you did it anyway. I just never thought thatyou, of all people, would do that, Checco.’
Francesco walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking Lucia’s free right hand into his. She didn’t resist. ‘I am so completely sorry,’ he said.
Seeing his eyes well with tears, Lucia knew he was being genuine. While she understood that he hadn’t intended for the post to reach the general public, she still felt betrayed. And that would take some time to move past. ‘Checco. We will get through this. I know we will. For now, please just give me some space.’
Francesco seemed relieved; Lucia noted how his chest caved a little as he exhaled the breath he had been holding. ‘Certo. I can do that. But school tom—’
‘Mariella has asked Stefano to cover my classes. Just let me be for now. Let’s speak tomorrow night. They will be discharging me soon.’ She winced, pressing her fingers to the bandage across her forehead. ‘I’m just waiting on one scan.’
Francesco nodded and gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Mi dispiace tantissimo.’
Lucia forced a thin smile and said, ‘I know,’ before turning her foggy gaze to the window once more.
Returning to La Commedia’s top central window from where he had watched the crowds swell that morning, the man was relieved to find thecallealmost empty. Just half an hour before he had seen the well-dressed man with curly hair who worked in the school, who often slept over and who frequently held the dark-haired beauty in his arms, leave a bunch of soft pink flowers by the door.
Now, he noted the way a few journalists still lingered at either end of the street, but the TV crews and curious locals had long gone. They had dissipated after the arrival of thecarabinieri, who had moved everyone along and assisted to remove the collapsed woman from the building.
It was almost eight, and by rights, most of Venice would soon be sitting down to dinner. For him, however, it was the start of the day, and breakfast time. He had managed to sleep through the majority of the chaos and noise, despite the initial unwanted wake-up call. Just as he was about to head downstairs to settle in for a night of work, he caught sight of something that piqued his interest: the woman who lived and worked at the school was returning. She was accompanied by the same older woman who had helped evacuate her, and who he had also seen working there – this much he had deduced through his discreet observations. The younger woman had her left arm strapped in a sling, and the older woman was doing her best to collect the flowers, open the door and let them inside as quickly as possible.
A few camera flashes flickered down the street, reflecting off window panes and metal fixtures. But it was too late. She was already inside and out of view.
The man’s eyes followed the trail of lights which turned on in the building, moving slowly upward, signalling that the pair had finally reached the apartment on the third floor. Peering into the window which faced his, he could make out their shadowed figures, backlit by the low lighting within. Then, the older lady appeared briefly at the window. She gave the little black dog sitting by the sill a scratch behind the ears, then closed the shutters. And they were gone.
Taking this as his cue to get on with more pressing business, he collected his earplugs from his nightstand. Despite the rumbling of his stomach, he walked through the kitchen and made his way down the stairs to where he worked. His studio. He didn’t have time to stop and eat – Carnevale was just a week away and he still had a list of orders to fill. His interrupted daytime slumber had caused him to sleep longer than usual, and his time was precious – and expensive. Distractions that broke his rhythm, slowed him down and interrupted his long-standing routine. He was safe behind its structure, its constancy. It was a predictable security, the most logical form of foretelling he allowed himself to believe in.
As if to mock him, the vision of the dark-haired woman with long legs attempted to creep back to his mind’s eye, but he was quick to swat it away. He rolled up the sleeves of his navy knit, revealing a degree of muscular tone which could only be achieved by decades of intricate fine-motor work. Collecting what he needed from his kit of tools and materials, he sat down and tried his best to draw together some logical thought. But his mind clouded and thickened, then wandered again to the woman across the street.
This distraction was unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
It’s just the broken sleep.
But Alex Scarpa could only keep telling himself that for so long.
quindici
Listening to Stefano conduct her classes that Monday had been a paradoxical joy for Lucia.
His enthusiasm and passion practically reverberated up through the floorboards and into her apartment. She listened from her perch at thecalle-facing window with Foscari in her lap, laughing in time with the students and relishing the quiet pauses, knowing they were hard at work. Despite it all, she longed to be the one steering the ship.
She wondered what Francesco had told Stefano about the viral Instagram situation, and what Stefano thought about it. Would he have approved of Francesco’s actions, or berated him for them? Lucia suddenly caught herself worrying that her current state might drive a wedge between the two, and she certainly didn’t want their new relationship to suffer on her account.
That set of worries only reminded her how much Francesco meant to her. He had always been there for her.Always. They had been inseparable since the day they met. From pubescent pimples to his coming out, they had been through so much, but this situation felt different. She was furious and deeply hurt by his actions, and knew it would take time to move past it together.
It’s ok to feel betrayed by this and still miss him. You do love him.
At one o’clock came the sound of chairs scraping against floorboards and feet shuffling down the staircase. Foscari’s little head rose and turned to Lucia. She gave him a gentle rub behind the collar, and he pawed at her sling. Even Foscari knew Lucia had been hurt.
Mariella eventually came and went, not before making sure that Lucia would be able to fix herself something decent for dinner.
Francesco’s only contact for the day had been a text with a solitary hug emoji. Lucia’s instinctive response was to reply, but she held off. She wasn’t ready to talk yet.
The bandaged wound on her forehead resonated a dull ache, but it felt significantly better than yesterday. All day Lucia had sat quietly, allowing herself to rest and keeping a close eye on Calle del Leone from her window. She was glad the crowds hadn’t returned, and that her disinterest in most forms of modern technology kept her away from the stories and photos which would otherwise torment her. Thankfully, La Commedia had also provided no drama: windows closed, curtains drawn, and no distractions to add to her flooded cortisol levels.
Pulling herself from the ledge, she set Foscari down on the floor and made her way to the top of the stairwell. Here she paused to listen.
