Dario was pacing up and down. ‘I understand why you don’t want me on the case, sir, but I vowed to Signor Moretti’s family that I wouldn’t rest until…’
His commanding officer looked him square in the eye. ‘Apart from the fact that there’s a conflict of interest here, you’re still in shock.’
‘But you agreed—’
‘That was before the fire. Heed my advice. Take some time off. Book a counselling session.’
‘I don’t need… With all due respect, sir, the best therapy for me is to see this case through to its conclusion. And we are so close. I have the background knowledge, the passion, the drive, I was there first, both at the crash site and the fire.’
‘Let me think about it.’
‘But we need to act quickly.’
‘That will be all, Officer Bianchi.’
Lucy stood on the doorstep, clutching a large bag of groceries. She rang the bell and held her breath.
The stairway lit up and Dario’s six-foot-two frame loomed through the stained glass.
Her knees began to tremble.
‘Buonasera.’
‘Hi, Dario. Remember me?’ She winced slightly, drinking in the first sight of him since…
Areas of his face looked lighter than before, and there were deep scars running along his right eyebrow and jaw, towards his ear – yet despite herself, she found his buzz cut and the scars gave him the rugged and roguish look of Tom Hardy.
‘Are you going to come in or stand out there all evening?’ he said, dark eyes twinkling.
‘S-scusa,’she stuttered, face flushingpomodoro-sauce red.
Brushing both her cheeks with a gentle kiss, he grabbed the shopping bag and stepped aside, holding the door wide open.
They climbed up the sweeping stone staircase, their footsteps ricocheting off the ancient plaster walls. Her insides plummeted as she noticed he was limping.
Stopping at the third floor, he opened the door to his apartment. The deep, raspy tones of some Italian singer’s voice boomed from the end of a long, narrow corridor.
‘Benvenuta.Welcome.’
Lucy followed Dario along the terracotta-tiled hallway, her gaze roaming left and right at the rows of bright modern art hanging on the wall.
‘Allora, la cucina,’he announced, placing the bag of groceries on the kitchen table.
She could tell he was still in pain, but pretended not to notice.
‘This is the most important room in the home, where Italianmasterpieces are created.’ Pulling out a bottle of red from the rack he continued, ‘And tonight we celebrate, for the first time, the creation of anEnglishmasterpiece.’
‘No pressure then?’ Lucy quipped.
‘May I suggest the Lacryma Christi to complement the… how you say? “Toad-in-the-Hole”?’
‘You remembered,’ she said, stifling a giggle at his pronunciation.
‘Ma certo.Of course.’
She cracked two eggs into the bowl then added milk and flour. ‘Do you have some olive oil?’
‘Do I have…?Ma certo! I am Italian,’ he guffawed, reaching inside a cupboard.
