‘Good idea. My brain’s fried,’ Piero said in English. A popular phrase when they’d lived in California, it had never fallen from the family lexicon and anyway the three of them moved between Italian and English almost without thinking. It was part of their shared family landscape, like the photo above Salvatore’s desk of their old red Ford Mustang outside the modern winery Salvatore had presided over in California and the framed photo next to the computer of Piero and Emiliano brandishing baseball mitts.

‘I think we’ve gone over everything anyway,’ Emiliano contributed. Then he broached what was at the forefront of Piero’s mind. ‘Papà … would you consider changing your password? I’m not comfortable with Graziella having unrestricted access to company files.’

Silence. Sometime in the afternoon the rain had stopped and a watery sun was burning through the cloud. Salvatore’s gaze flicked between his sons.

Piero held his breath.

Then Salvatore gave a single nod.

Zia and Ursula picked up the small glass unit for Piero then parked near the Minimetrò and enjoyed a glide through the tunnels to Perugia’s historic centre. It was a relaxing way to spend a Monday, eating gelato as they strolled past the medieval Palazzo dei Priori and the Gothic cathedral. They leaned on the city walls and took photos of the lowlands laid out like a toy-strewn carpet. Then they explored narrow winding roads between tall buildings and lunched at a restaurant within sight of a carved marble fountain, Fontana Maggiore.

When an approaching thunderstorm darkened the afternoon, Zia suggested they make a dash for the Minimetrò but the storm beat them there. They dived instead into a bar enoteca on the city wall.

‘Wow, awesome view,’ said Ursula, getting her breath after their sprint out of the rain and admiring the panorama through floor-to-ceiling windows. They enjoyed lattes while the lightning tried to crack open the sky and gusts of rain marched across the landscape like distant armies. It was so awe-inspiring they stayed for an early dinner.

When they finally turned off the hill up from Montelibertà, Zia said, ‘I’ll take the drive to Piero’s house and drop the glass straight off.’

Ursula stretched and smothered a yawn. ‘Great. I haven’t seen his place yet.’

It was almost dark but there were no lights showing in Piero’s house and his silver sports car was absent. Zia pulled up, conscious of a dart of disappointment. She realised she’d been looking forward to seeing the calm, confident man who’d not only given up time to sharing insight into Gerardo and family but done it so kindly that his thoughtful sentences had felt like hugs. It wasn’t often she trusted anyone so quickly. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s here. I’ll find somewhere safe to leave the glass.’