He narrowed his eyes over a contemplative drag on the cigarette. ‘Nobody gave me money.’ He blew the smoke out again then flashed a boyish smile, giving Zia a hint at what Tori might have once seen in him. ‘My parents talked to me.’

‘Your parents suggested you help me without asking for money?’ she clarified. A chill trickled down her spine.

‘Yes.’ Looking hurt that she had to be quite that blunt, he cast a longing look back to his table full of buddies and a fresh round of drinks that had appeared in his absence.

She went on quickly in an attempt to keep his attention for a few more seconds. ‘But it was Piero who suggested you ask me for money originally. Yes?’

Gerardo turned back to her. ‘Piero who?’ One of his eyebrows jumped higher than the other in his puzzlement and her stomach lurched as she recognised that quizzical lift from her own repertoire of expressions.

The chill trickle became a cold sweat. ‘You said my man had suggested you ask me to pay you to acknowledge me.’

His face cleared. ‘Yes, your English boyfriend. Brendon. On the phone he said he wanted to grant your wish for an Italian passport. He also said he wanted to compensate me because one day I might be his father-in-law and if you had Italian citizenship it would make it possible for him to live in Italy too. He was going to send a thousand euros by PostePay but then he said PostePay wouldn’t work because he was in the UK so couldn’t have a Poste Italiane account. He said you would give the money to me if I ask you.’

Zia stared at him in shock, unwilling to believe her ears. ‘Brendon got in touch with you? How did he get your number? And he told you to ask me for a thousand euros? Why would he do such a crazy thing?’ Jeez, Brendon and Gerardo didn’t have a moral compass between them.

‘It was meant to make you happy,’ Gerardo replied sullenly.

‘I doubt it,’ she answered grimly. Any further questions she might have conjured up were interrupted by a young man in his early twenties sauntering up the street, dark hair curling above dark eyes. He gave her a fleeting, awkward smile then took Gerardo’s arm. ‘È ora di cena, Papà.’ It’s time for dinner, Papà.

‘Riccardo.’ Gerardo tried to shrug him off but the young man nudged Gerardo around and began to propel him up the street repeating, ‘È ora di cena, Papà.’

Gerardo’s cronies around his table laughed and slapped the table, sing-songing after them, ‘È ora di cena, Papà!’

Zia, rooted to the spot, watched them go, Riccardo keeping a firm grip on Gerardo. They turned a corner and out of sight, Gerardo still sulkily protesting and Riccardo resignedly coaxing him along.

She’d just watched her half-brother fetch their father home from the pub.