Time went by quickly. The night sky was beginning to dance and the terrace outside the pizzeria was becoming noisier. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. Soon it would be time to leave and Joe and I had hardly said a word to one another and I still couldn’t think of a way to explain to him how the prospect of selling the villa had become almost painful to me.

While I dithered, Joe took out his phone and checked his texts and emails and while he was doing this, one of our fellow diners, an older man with a handlebar moustache, stood up and began to sing. Those who knew the words of the song joined him and those who did not clapped along. The terrace took on a convivial atmosphere, even more so when Valentina came round offering complimentary shots of limoncello. I took a glass. The limoncello was ice-cold and so sweet it made my teeth hurt. Joe pushed his glass towards me and I drank its contents too.

The moustache man had a rich voice, deep and powerful, and each time the ballad reached its chorus, the crowd joined in with increasing gusto, some swaying their arms, others banging out the rhythm with the flats of their hands on the tabletops. All the while, Valentina bobbed between the tables, bringing drinks, coffees, small bowls of ice cream, and Francesco cleared the empty glasses and took away the dirty dishes.

There was too much noise on the terrace for Joe and me to have any kind of conversation now. I stood up and made my way into the restaurant, heading for the Ladies’. I passed Vito leaning on the bar, his eyelids and jowls heavy with drink, his expression ugly. He did not move when Valentina tried to squeeze past him, carrying an armful of dirty dishes. As I waited, I watched her giving instructions to Francesco and he nodded and did whatever it was she had asked of him. It was almost midnight; Francesco must have school in the morning, his exhaustion was written on his face. Vito, meanwhile, was picking an argument with one of his drinking buddies. By the time I came out of the restroom, the argument had escalated.

I went back towards the door, giving Vito and his friends a wide berth; still I saw the ugliness in Vito’s face when Francesco went past him with a carton full of glasses. I saw Vito slap the boy on the back of the head, jolting him forward. Francesco ducked to avoid a second smack.

‘Hey!’ I cried. ‘Stop that!’

I pushed through the tables to get closer.

‘Vito Barsi!’ I called. ‘I saw what you just did! If you think you can…’

I felt a hand on my arm. Joe.

‘Vito just hit Francesco!’ I cried.

‘I know!’

‘We can’t let him do that!’