Her gaze shifted to Fiorella and Roberto, beaming at their son, nodding along to his conversation like the fond parents they obviously were. Had they really been such disapprovingly devout people that an eighteen-year-old Gerardo had been frightened to face up to his responsibilities? Or was he just weak in comparison to Tori who’d given birth then driven back across Europe to show him his baby?

His baby the inconvenience. He hadn’t wanted to get married nor to face the next eighteen years of paying child support. He’d seen Zia not as his daughter but a life-altering negative. Mechanically, she smiled when everyone else laughed but the noise of her blood rushing in her ears was so loud it half-drowned it out.

Gerardo, whatever kind of man he was, obviously held Lucia in affection, kissing her cheeks when he bade farewell to her and his parents. Zia’s eyes followed his progress as he went off to join another group – not his wife and children but a bunch of men with a cooler full of beer.

Zia turned to listen to Fiorella, who had fallen into her usual rapid rate of speech. As she tried to follow, she found herself wondering whether Fiorella and Roberto would have accepted Zia if Gerardo had owned up about her. Vicky had not only accepted her but fought for her, apparently.

When the elderly couple finally drifted away to pitch their chairs before every inch of space on the cobbles was taken, Lucia pressed Zia’s hand across the table, squeezing her fingers almost painfully. ‘There. It is done. You didn’t choose it but perhaps it was the best way. Like a tooth that needs to come out – oof, all at once.’

Moistening her lips, Zia nodded.

‘And?’ Lucia prompted gently.

Zia shrugged. Dimly, she realised that the hand Lucia wasn’t holding was shaking and she glanced down at where it lay on the table. Perhaps Lucia noticed too because she signalled to the waiter and ordered wine. When he’d hurried off, Zia croaked, ‘You’ve avoided inviting your family to your home. I’m sorry. Maybe I should ask Sister Paola and Sister Priscilla whether they have any vacancies at the monastery.’

‘Zia-Lucia,’ Lucia crooned as if Zia was still a baby, stroking the back of her hand. ‘It is not your fault. Nothing of this is your fault.’