Signora Bruschi looked flustered.

She sat at the kitchen table with her arms folded. An unfinished crossword from La Settimana Enigmistica lay open in front of her.

When Bianchi and I walked in, relief washed across her face.

“Is something wrong, Signora Bruschi?”

“You’ve just missed Sandro,” she said. “Cola’s friend in the carabinieri. They’ve known each other since they were little boys.”

The name rang a bell. I remembered meeting him on Braccobaldo Beach the previous summer.

The look on her face suggested his visit had been anything but social.

“Sandro is a good boy,” she continued. “A good Catholic boy. He has grown into exactly the sort of man I always knew he would.”

She spoke as though she were trying to convince herself of something.

There was coffee simmering on the stove. I poured three cups while Bianchi, unusually quiet, sensed there was more to come and waited.

Signora Bruschi crossed to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. She took out a well-worn photograph album and laid it on the table before us.

Inside were photographs of Cola as a child. In one, he stood beside another boy, both grinning broadly, both missing their two front teeth.

“That’s Cola and Sandro on their first day at school,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Cheeky little devils. Now look at them. Two strapping young men.”

The smile lingered only briefly.

“Why did Sandro come?” I asked.

She sighed and glanced towards Bianchi, weighing whether to trust him.

After a moment, she made up her mind.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she said quietly. “Sandro told me because Cola won’t listen to him. He hopes I might be able to make him see sense.”

“What did he say?”

“He wants Cola to stop working for Signor Valenti.”

Bianchi, absent-mindedly snapping the rubber band around his wrist, froze.

I wasn’t as surprised.

If Sandro had sought out Cola’s mother, it meant he was frightened enough to abandon discretion.

“Sandro says Signor Valenti is coming under scrutiny from the authorities,” Signora Bruschi continued. “He says Cola should cut all ties with him while he still can.”

“Zio pera,” Bianchi muttered.

“What exactly did Sandro tell you?” I asked.

“As you know, Signor Valenti is a wealthy man. He owns vineyards and olive groves, and everyone knows about his property developments around Verona. But Sandro says there are rumours he has connections with the ‘Ndrangheta.”

A chill settled over the room.

I knew enough about the ‘Ndrangheta to understand what that meant.

They were Italy’s most powerful criminal organisation, trafficking drugs, extorting businesses and washing vast amounts of money through legitimate investments across the country.

When I had first met Pietro Mancini, the police had already executed twenty-six arrest warrants and seized fifteen million euros in assets connected to the Verona network. Antonio Giardino—known as Totareddu—had eventually been sentenced to thirty years in prison, yet rumours persisted that someone else had quietly stepped in to fill the vacuum.

“Sandro is taking a tremendous risk by warning Cola,” I said. “If his superiors discover he’s discussing an active investigation, he’ll find himself in serious trouble.”

“And if Cola suddenly walks away,” Bianchi added, “Valenti will wonder why. Men like him don’t like people asking to leave.”

His words did nothing to steady Signora Bruschi’s nerves.

“Do you really think so?” she asked.

The truth was, I did.

What worried me most was how much Cola already knew.

From everything I had seen, his work seemed limited to maintaining Valenti’s estate, yet I still didn’t know how the two had become acquainted in the first place. If Sandro was right, perhaps the gardening was only what could be seen from the outside.

“Cola and Sandro argued about it,” Signora Bruschi said. “My son refuses to believe him. He says he’s not walking away from good money because of rumours.”

“What do you think, Signora?” Bianchi asked gently.

She lowered her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Sandro has nothing to gain by inventing this,” I said. “He’s trying to protect his friend. If he’s willing to risk his career, then he believes the danger is real. We have to persuade Cola to leave.”

Even as I said it, another thought gnawed at me.

If the rumours about Signor Valenti were true, where did that leave Valentina?

Her generous offer of work suddenly looked different. Had it been simple kindness—or had I been drawn into something without realising it?

I was no innocent. I’d cut corners often enough in my own life. But the mafia was another world entirely. Once you crossed paths with people like that, walking away wasn’t always an option.

Across the table, Bianchi chewed thoughtfully at his lip, waiting for me to say something else.

Being the oldest seemed to carry an unspoken responsibility.

I searched for words that might ease Signora Bruschi’s fear.

None came.

Instead, all I wanted to do was put my arms around both of them.