Her evening with Francesco had been a welcome distraction, but now, alone in the dark, coldcalle, she remained the victim of the cruellest kind of limbo.
Theunknownof all the events throwing her life into chaos.
She trudged back to La Scuola Rosa’s door. Running her fingers over the glossy paintwork, she eventually allowed her forehead to rest against it, careful to avoid her bandage.
When is the universe going to give me a brea—
‘Locked out?’ came a voice from behind her.
Lucia turned, surprised to find a man, likely in his mid-thirties, standing by La Commedia’s door. He was dressed properly for the weather in a long tailored coat, flat cap and leather gloves, and was holding a small food parcel. Even with his coat on, Lucia could make out the defined lines of his torso; broad strong shoulders gave way to a narrower middle.
She stood up a little straighter. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she asked, stepping forward with wide eyes.
‘Youwho?’
‘The man. The person.’ She took another step, noticing the cinnamon tint to his brown eyes. She swallowed.
‘I am both a mananda person.’ Locks of his wavy chestnut hair peeked out from the side of his hat as he adjusted it.
‘The person who’s been in . . . in there.’ She indicated the building behind him.
The man looked up at La Commedia. ‘Well, considering that this is where I live—’
‘Live?’ Lucia asked, looking up at the broken downpipes, green waterlines, and cracked windows. ‘But it’s falling apart.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘What are you doing here?’
The man’s brows pinched together. ‘I was hungry, so I left to get some breakfast. And now,’ he pointed to the locked door, ‘I’m coming home.’
‘You mean dinner? It’s after ten.’
‘That’s my business.’
Despite herself, Lucia huffed. ‘Yourbusiness? What happens in the backcalliof Venice is everyone’s business. And what happens across from my home and my school isabsolutelymy business.’
The man let his gaze rest on her. ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’
‘Excuse me?’ Who was this stranger to probe her like that? So sarcastic and childish. ‘Mylife is—’
‘None ofmybusiness?’ He pressed a melodramatic hand to his chest and winked at her. ‘Funny that. Goes both ways.’
Lucia frowned in exasperation. His eyes really were a beautiful colour.
Ugh. Why must he be so handsome!
Lucia noted how his accent seemed slightly askew. It was Venetian, yes. But there was something pulling down his vowels that she just couldn’t place. Her trained language teacher ear had heard it immediately. For the moment, she put this curiosity aside.
‘Whatever it is you’re doing in there,’ she pointed up to the windows, ‘is of great concern to me.’
His eyes widened disingenuously. ‘Why?’
Stone-faced, she asked, ‘Are you working for Vittorio Gatti?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t know who that is.’
She swallowed past the anxious lump that had balled itself in her throat. ‘Do you work for one of the papers? Are you a journalist?’
