A young boy, slender as the man was thickset, slid from the seat on the passenger side: Francesco. He held himself in that way that boys do when they feel uncomfortable, his chin down low to his shoulders, his back hunched, flicking nervous glances from beneath the rim of his cap. He put his hands in his pockets and stood beside the truck, looking down at the ground.

‘Ciao!’ the man called, raising his hand as he strode towards us. The laces in his filthy boots were undone and his overalls were tied by the arms around his waist. He had a cowboy swagger. ‘Vito Barsi at your service!’ he said, touching the rim of his cap comically as he drew near. His accent was New York Italian.

‘Tell him to go away,’ I whispered to Joe.

‘Hi,’ Joe said.

‘Hey,’ Vito said, ‘good to meet you guys. Word is, you need to get your power hooked up and your boiler working.’

‘We appreciate you coming,’ said Joe, ‘but we’ve been recommended a business in Ragusa that…’

‘Ahh,’ Vito made a dismissive, swatting motion, ‘you don’t want to be bothering with no business in Ragusa. They charge over-the-top prices, bunch of crooks, the lot of them. I’m here now; I’m not even going to charge. I used to help my Uncle Gabriele with odd jobs here. I know this old place like the back of my hand and I’ll have you fixed up in no time.’ He nodded in the direction of the cottage at the top of the hill. ‘My Auntie Irma said you guys got off to a bad start. She asked me to come and see you as a gesture of goodwill and I like to keep my favourite aunt happy, so here I am!’ He grinned widely. The grey gum snapped between his yellowing teeth, a glisten of saliva. ‘I brought my assistant,’ Vito continued. ‘C’mon, Ciccio.’ He waited until the boy was level with him, then gave the boy a push forward. ‘This is my stepson. He’s not up to much right now, but I’m knocking him into shape. I’ll make a plumber of him yet!’ His hand gripped Francesco’s shoulder, the fingers digging into the boy’s flesh. Francesco did not smile.

‘Ciao, Francesco,’ Joe said.

‘Ciao,’ the boy said quietly. His hair had been cut very short beneath his baseball cap and the skin at the base of his neck was pale, apart from a smattering of tiny, dark moles.

I knew Joe didn’t want Vito Barsi inside our villa any more than I did. I also knew that he didn’t want to do anything that might cause trouble for Francesco. We hesitated, exchanging glances, and then Vito gave Francesco a prod to make him stand up straight and Joe said: ‘Right, this way; follow me.’

We trooped through the gates and into the gardens.