‘I don’t want it.’ I was still furious with him for giving the gun back to the old woman, a gun that had probably killed people, that might have killed us.

‘Edie, you’re shaking.’

I took the jumper crossly and pulled it on over my head. The smell and the feel of it, the warmth, were familiar. Immediately, despite myself, I felt better.

‘Nobody’s ever pointed a gun at me before,’ I said.

‘Me neither.’

‘We could have died.’

‘We were never in any danger.’

‘What?’

‘We weren’t. She never intended to shoot us.’

‘For God’s sake, Joe, you told me that that woman’s husband had killed loads of people!’

‘Three people.’

‘Oh, only three! That’s nothing to worry about then.’

‘Edie…’

‘I mean, that’s fine, isn’t it, three murders, hardly worth mentioning…’

‘Edie!’

‘No, no, let’s get this in perspective. Don-bloody-Corleone up there has killed three innocent people – three that we know about – for no good reason and then his mad, crazy wife comes down here brandishing a shotgun, probably the same shotgun that killed the others, and you act like it’s fine, like it’s completely normal, like it’s no problem! You’re still the same, aren’t you? Still refusing to acknowledge what’s under your nose!’

‘What does that mean?’ His tone was sharper, defensive.

‘You know what it means! You always think people are going to do the right thing even when it’s obvious that they aren’t! Criminals don’t pick up a gun for fun any more than alcoholics stop drinking because they’ve promised you they won’t touch another drop!’

‘Seriously, Edie? Seriously, you’re bringing that up now?’

We glared at one another for a long moment then I clamped my mouth shut, huddled inside his oversized jumper and walked away from him, the grass spiky and cold beneath my bare feet. I hurried back towards the villa, ran upstairs, found a sunny corner on the landing and I curled myself up in a ball and cried. I cried until my stomach ached and my eyes were sore. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more. I felt entirely alone, sensing no other presence. I hoped Daniel might come, but he didn’t, and if the DeLuca ancestors were watching me, they decided to keep out of my way.

While I was upstairs, Joe made a little fire in the courtyard behind the kitchen. When I came down, I found him crouched beside it with his sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. He didn’t look at me, but poured a steaming liquid from the pan he had balanced over the fire into a cup and passed it to me. I took it, sniffed. Coffee.

Joe poked the fire with a stick.