He waved his hands to shoo her from his presence. ‘Go away,’ he said, an air of disgust now plastered across his narrow face. ‘Tell your story to someone who’s willing to listen.’ He snorted in her direction then turned, bringing his cigar once again to his lips.
Lucia’s mind flicked back to Benedetta’s business card and the unansweredvery generous offeron the table.
‘I might just do that,’ she snarled, stepping forward until she was only a few inches from Gatti. The acrid tang of his breath from the cigar filled her nostrils, forcing her to withhold a gag.
‘Sixty-eight days, Lucia. Tick-tock.’
‘Vaffanculo, Vittorio!’
The walk home was an emotional one. Lucia found herself caught somewhere between disappointment and frustration, yet also felt weighed down by the realisation that Benedetta’s book offermight have to beher one-way ticket out of the muck. But, now that she didn’t have Tiziano’s €100,000, wouldvery generousstretch as far as she needed?
With the idea of that reprieve came a wave of sadness, followed by guilt. Selling her story would mean selling herself, in a way, and relinquishing her parents’ privacy. Their stories, their treasures. Their little private world. And, perhaps worse, it would mean feeding the media that had ruined her life. It would force her back into the public eye, time and time again, leave her open to being scrutinised, made an exhibit of. More than thirty people had died the night of that accident on the water, but it was Lucia, of all the family and loved ones left grieving, who the media had chosen to immortalise through that iconic photo.
There was only one person who could truly understand Lucia’s inner conflict. Someone who had been there from the start, and before it, too.
She pulled her phone from her bag and dialled. ‘Are you home? I need your advice.’
Mariella’s apartment in Cannaregio, not far from Santa Lucia station, was warm and cosy. Just like her. It was nestled on the second floor of a block, with the thinnest ofcalliseparating it from the next. With small windows, the apartment was dark at the best of times, but today, given the grey cloud cover, shadows had already taken up permanent residency – and it was only midday.
Mariella fussed around the kitchen, tending to a pot that was simmering on the electric stove. ‘Hungry?’ she asked. Lucia’s hollow stomach answered for her, and Mariella chuckled. Plucking the wooden spoon from the plate on the benchtop, she gave the pot’s contents a stir. ‘Brodo,’ she said. ‘Your timing couldn’t have been better.’
Like an exhausted teenager returned home from school, Lucia slumped sideways at the little kitchen table, and her fingers worried at the edge of the lace doily which separated the fruit bowl from the tabletop. ‘Grazie, Mariella.’
Mariella served them each a bowl and brought them to the table. ‘Here. Eat,’ she insisted, setting Lucia’s bowl down in front of her. The spoon slid its way around the inner rim, and Lucia righted it before it could slip under the broth’s surface.
‘It smells good.’ The salty umami headiness reached Lucia’s nostrils, and her mouth salivated in response. She smushed a few carrots against the bottom of the bowl with the back of her spoon, and picked at some of the chicken with her fingers. Taking in a few mouthfuls, she said, ‘Just like Mamma used to make.’
‘The same. I always make it her way.’
Lucia guzzled down a few more mouthfuls. ‘I needed this. I vomited in a canal.’
Mariella’s brows pinned together. ‘Why?’
‘From shock, I think.’ Setting the spoon down on the table, Lucia said, ‘I went to see Tiziano about his offer.’
Mariella’s shoulders rose. ‘And?’
‘He won’t give me the money.’ Her eyes closed and her hands rested in her lap. ‘On account of the social media post situation, and because he hada betteroffer.’
‘An offer from?’
‘Gatti.’
Mariella slammed her spoon down on the table with such force it caused both their glasses to rattle then tip, spilling water across the tabletop. Rising to her feet, Mariella’s face went bright red. ‘He did what?!’
‘Please, Mariella, sit down.’ Lucia had reached from her seat across to the kitchen bench to retrieve a tea towel, and was doing her best to soothe Mariella while also mopping up the spilled water. ‘I’ve already gone to see him. He’s the most horrible, miserable man.’
Lucia recounted the events of her morning. Mariella remained standing, her face still mottled with anger. ‘Why did you go alone? I could’ve—’
‘I think it’s the personal closure I needed. I wanted to confront him myself. And now I know for sure: two of the most powerful and wealthy men of Venice, both of whom profess to have the city’s best interests at heart, have room only for their own.’
Mariella finally returned to her chair, and reached across to take Lucia’s hand. ‘So, what else is left for us to do?’
Lucia found she was calm and collected, despite the stressful and seemingly hopeless situation she found herself in. ‘My savings and what I can safely borrow aren’t enough. That leaves only two options, really. The first is that we continue to plough ahead with theVenezia, Ovunque!project, earning what we can to take the edge off. But it’s only been five days and we need to keep making content to make it worth people’s while subscribing. It’s going to be a lot of work for slow and unpredictable returns, I think. The second option is that I sell my story and hope the advance will cover the remainder.’
Mariella couldn’t hide her concern. Her eyes darkened and her hands knotted themselves together on the table next to her bowl of broth. ‘Lucia . . .’
‘I know. It’s not at all what I want. But it’s either that, or we let Gatti in and pray for the best. Or . . .’ Her throat tightened. ‘Or, I sell him my share too and walk away.’
