Category Archives: Verona

Shadows of Verona: Better That You Leave

Leave a reply


Via delle Argonne is a pleasant street, largely made up of fashionable apartments for Verona’s young professionals and a step up from the area where Signora Bruschi’s house lies. It was also a short cut to the hotel where Bianchi worked part-time.

Cola had spent the day moping around. Cinzia had been working and he was reduced to wandering between floors without any real notion of what he wanted to do. I had been writing in the shade offered by the balcony, only to be interrupted every half hour by Cola’s footsteps and his inevitable appearance beside me. He would slump into the same chair and rest his feet on the railings. A few minutes later he would wander off again.

When the light began to fade, he suggested that we walk to Hotel Italia and meet Bianchi as he finished his shift. Not so long ago, he would have jumped into that bright yellow Abarth 500 and been there within minutes. Now he seemed to regard the walk as the highlight of his day.

“I need to get a job,” he moaned as we strolled down Via delle Argonne, parked cars lining both sides. “I am going slowly mad with boredom.”

A little girl came out of a gateway riding a small scooter. She came to an abrupt halt when she noticed us. Then she turned around and shot back inside to the safety of the small yard, shielded by horse chestnuts and linden trees.

I felt sorry for Cola.

His life had been turned upside down by Sandro’s revelation that it was in his best interests to leave Signor Valenti’s employment. Cola was certain that he would land a warehouse job at Interporto Quadrante Europa. He had turned up for the interview only to be told that they couldn’t employ him without suitable references. He wasn’t in a position to ask Signor Valenti and, as I pointed out, the Agenzia delle Entrate would have no record of his employment because Cola had been paid cash in hand.

“The mighty have fallen on hard times,” Cola lamented.

“But you have somewhere to live and a mother who feeds you well.”

It was no consolation to him.

The street light hanging above the intersection with Via Rovereto flickered on.

“And in two weeks you will be leaving Verona,” Cola complained.

I regarded Cola as a little brother. I had watched him grow from boy to man. I was someone he loved and trusted. I would miss him when I went back to the UK.

We waited on the curb to allow three motor scooters to pass. They came to a halt at the crossroads and hesitated as though deciding which direction they should take. The small engines puttered; the riders looked at us, their faces hidden behind the visors of their crash helmets. One by one they killed their engines and lowered the scooters onto their kickstands.

Then they walked towards us.

“Mannaggia,” Cola muttered under his breath. “I knew this would happen.”

Perhaps I knew it too.

There was always going to be a leader. He turned out to be the tallest of them, a muscular man wearing a turquoise T-shirt. He had a metal chain wrapped around his wrist; so did the others, for that matter.

When they reached us, the leader flicked his wrist and unravelled the chain in one swift movement. He swung it at Cola, who tried to duck but was too slow. It caught him on the side of the head and immediately drew blood.

I tried to help Cola but was prevented by an equally forceful blow. One of the other riders swung his chain and smashed it against my cheek.

And then there were repeated metal links whipping through the air with a high-pitched metallic rattle.

Cola was on the floor trying to protect his face, but there was no mercy. I followed and ended up on my back. Blurred silver arcs cut through the light, the links catching the glare. My clothes were being ripped. There was the sudden shock of heavy impact crushing bone and muscle, followed by the cold, biting pinches of metal links wrapped tightly around skin.

And then it was over.

A haze through which I could see nothing clearly.

Blood splatter.

Stinging pain.

Nausea.

Moans and sobs, but whose were they?

I knew that the three riders had returned to their motor scooters, kick-started them and sped away.

I did not think that I would die. It was that I wanted to die.

And then came the two-tone sirens that I had come to recognise across European cities. I found them reassuring. Not like those wailing noises that the UK had adopted from the States.

They were coming for us.

I woke up in a brightly lit room, which hurt the one eye that I was able to see with. The swelling on the other had closed it shut.

Somebody was holding my hand and I had to turn my head to see who it was.

It was the face of an angel.

An angel with beautiful curly black hair, warm eyes that were teary, and a delicate nose. The angel had soft stubble on his chin and needed to shave.

The angel smiled.

“You are going to be fine,” Bianchi whispered.

But behind the angel was the devil, slouched in a chair.

A nurse walked into the room and noticed that I was awake.

“Fuori tutti,” came the instruction.

Bianchi and Lorenzo did as they were told.

Bianchi waved on the way out. Lorenzo nodded and muttered something.

“Ci vendicheremo.”

We will get revenge.

The nurse checked my blood pressure and stuck something inside my ear.

“Sei inglese?”

When I nodded, it hurt, as though something were banging around inside my head.

“You will live,” she said. “You are very lucky. A lot of cuts and bruises, but you will mend. You were sedated when you came in, so you will feel woozy.”

“And my friend?”

“He will also live,” she smiled. “But he has a broken arm that will take time to mend.”

Police officers came to interview me in the afternoon and asked me to provide a description of our attackers. I narrowed it down to every male who rode a scooter in Verona and wasn’t much help.

And then they asked about Signora Valenti.

I told them very little and was informed that I wasn’t being helpful by refusing to tell the truth.

I found out later that Bianchi couldn’t hold his shit.

He had already told the Carabinieri and the Polizia di Stato everything that had happened. He wanted to put the blame entirely on the Valenti family.

But not at first.

When Bianchi arrived home from work on the night of the attack, he found Signora Bruschi in a panic.

“Bianchi. Something terrible has happened. They have called from Ospedale Borgo Trento where Cola and Miles have been taken.”

Bianchi immediately called Cinzia and the three of them arrived to find that we were being treated in the Pronto Soccorso. They waited for six hours before being told to come back in the morning, when they would be allowed to visit.

Bianchi then telephoned his brother and accused him of being involved in the attack. After all, even if it wasn’t true, Lorenzo blamed me for taking Bianchi away from the family home.

Lorenzo denied any knowledge.

“Te lo giuro su mia madre!”

He turned up at Signora Bruschi’s and was told about Cola leaving his job with Alessandro Valenti and my having turned down Valentina Valenti’s offer of work.

Much to Bianchi’s surprise, Lorenzo listened patiently and became convinced that the Valenti family was responsible.

He brushed aside protests from Cinzia and Bianchi and vowed to get revenge. Lorenzo was no match for them, they said. But Lorenzo liked Cola, less so me, and he was also fearful for his little brother’s safety.

Lorenzo joined them the next morning.

Only two visitors were allowed in each room. Signora Bruschi and Cinzia sat with Cola, leaving Lorenzo to join Bianchi in my room.

At least Lorenzo is warming to me, I told myself.

Signora Bruschi, Cinzia and Bianchi took turns visiting each of us. Cola appeared to be in much worse condition, but his mother thanked the Lord that there would be no long-term effects.

Shit! I thought later. I don’t have travel insurance.

In the evening, when everybody had left, a doctor visited and said that we would both spend a few days in hospital before being allowed to go home. It was a precaution and would allow us to get the necessary rest.

He left me alone and told me to sleep.

As I was about to drop off, I was visited by Sandro, the handsome Carabiniere, who had started the night shift. He had seen Cola already, and I asked how he was.

“I have known Cola for a long time and he is headstrong. Don’t be surprised if he walks through the door at any moment.”

Sandro paused. He sat down in the chair that Bianchi had occupied for most of the day.

“How are you? I am sorry and feel responsible for what happened.”

“Do you think that it was the Valentis who were behind it?”

“Almost certainly, but it was only a warning.”

“A warning?”

“The Valentis are clever people. When Cola quit his job and you turned down an offer of work, they immediately became suspicious as to the reasons why. They realise that the Carabinieri will be behind it and will leave nothing to chance.”

I seemed to be caught up in a mafia story. The painful injuries reminded me that I wasn’t dreaming.

But, I thought, Sandro was extremely handsome.

I knew then that I was already on the mend.

“Your fiancée is very lucky.”

It was a poor attempt to flirt with Sandro, and he brushed it aside.

“It was a warning for you both to say nothing to anyone. If they thought that you had already done so, then the situation would be far more serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would both be dead. But that would attract too much attention.”

“That might be too late,” I told him. “Bianchi has told me that we have already featured on RAI news and ANSA.”

“But it will soon be yesterday’s news.”

“Will you arrest them?”

“There is no evidence to do so and, if I can say it politely, you are both insignificant and not worth jeopardising our investigations. Better to let things die down and be forgotten.”

I laughed.

It was almost a relief that things would not escalate further. I longed for the peace and quiet and comfort of Signora Bruschi’s home.

But Sandro hadn’t finished.

“I understand that you are returning to England.”

“Yes,” I replied, although I wasn’t certain that I would be fit enough.

“Then make sure that you do,” he warned. “It is better that you leave.”

Shadows of Verona: The Weight of Silence

Leave a reply


Sometimes I underestimate how good I can be. When all seems lost, the unexpected can happen.

The night before, Cola had argued with his mother. It had been loud and vocal, the sort of argument that made the walls seem thinner. Bianchi and I escaped outside while the exchange continued in the kitchen. Bianchi nervously bit his lip. I was glad not to be involved.

The cause was the Valenti issue.

Signora Bruschi had pleaded with Cola to leave his employment. Cola, with typical teenage stubbornness, had refused to listen.

There had been no winner.

When it was over, Signora Bruschi slammed pots around the kitchen while Cola came outside to sulk.

“What do you think about it, Miles?”

My opinion wasn’t expected to count.

“I’d rather you didn’t ask. What I say might not be what you want to hear.”

“You think I should quit working for Signor Valenti?”

“I do.”

“And so do I,” Bianchi added.

Cola looked first at Bianchi, with his familiar air of innocence, and then at me. I waited for the rebuke.

Instead, he looked defeated.

“Then I shall leave,” he announced.

There was something inevitable about it, as though he had already reached the decision before asking for our opinions.

“Good friends will always protect the ones they love,” I said, although I still didn’t quite believe him. I expected him to change his mind.

But Cola had been as good as his word.

He telephoned Signor Valenti to tell him that he was quitting and would return the car immediately. It was difficult to hear what was being said from the Torricelle, but Cola’s face suggested that the conversation had not been pleasant.

Meanwhile, Signora Bruschi could be seen smiling through the window.

She had heard everything.

“He understands,” Cola announced when the call ended.

I doubted it.

I went with Cola to return the Abarth, but the house was empty. He parked the car and left the keys on the bonnet.

Then we faced the long and uncomfortable walk home.

As we approached Montericco, a familiar car appeared in the distance. It sounded its horn and pulled alongside us.

It was Antonio, driving his old Fiat Panda.

It was a welcome sight.

Bianchi was beside him, looking concerned and relieved to have found us.

We didn’t say much on the way back.

From the back seat, I watched Antonio and Bianchi exchange occasional looks. They were brief but deliberate, as though they were sharing a secret.

The exchanges unsettled me.

For the first time, I wondered if there might be more to their friendship than I had realised.

Antonio, the typical grubby teenager, seemed far removed from the sort of person I imagined Bianchi being attracted to. Bianchi, with his clean-cut looks, would have aroused interest from almost anyone.

So far, I had done little to encourage Bianchi’s infatuation with me.

But Signora Bruschi was aware of my weakness, as she liked to call it, and I had allowed her to put that distance between us. Whether she had done it for my benefit or to protect Bianchi, only she could say.

I was forced to admit that I was jealous.

Cola interrupted my thoughts.

“Now you must do what is right.”

I took out my phone and messaged Signora Valenti. I thanked her for the offer of work and explained that I had to return to England and would not be able to complete my side of the arrangement.

Then I blocked her number.

Signora Bruschi treated us like returning war heroes.

She fussed around the kitchen table and poured wine for everyone.

“I have spoken to Signora Scala,” she announced, “and she knows of a vacancy in a warehouse at Interporto Quadrante Europa. It would suit you, Cola.”

“Does it come with a car?” Cola asked, with just enough sarcasm to make his feelings clear.

“It will pay well,” she persevered, “and we shall have peace of mind knowing that you are doing an honest day’s work.”

Cola was about to say something, probably something he would later regret, but I kicked him beneath the table.

I signalled for him to say nothing.

The bell to the front door sounded.

Bianchi volunteered to answer it.

“Who is calling at this time of night?” Cola wondered.

The expression on Signora Bruschi’s face suggested that she already knew.

Moments later, Bianchi returned with two carabinieri officers.

They removed their caps and bowed.

“Buonasera, Signora Bruschi,” Sandro said. “I received your message and came here as soon as I was able.”

She gestured for them to sit and poured them both glasses of Aranciata Rossa.

Sandro was no longer the small boy I had seen in the photograph. He had grown into a tall, muscular young man, his blond hair cut fashionably short. He was everybody’s idea of a carabiniere.

His colleague, Michele, was older and probably the senior of the two, but seemed content to let Sandro take the lead.

Signora Bruschi noticed my interest.

Or perhaps she spotted my weakness, as she liked to call it.

“Sandro is about to be married,” she revealed. “His fiancée is a lovely girl from Valdonega. They make a perfect couple.”

It was a warning.

Leave well alone.

Sandro momentarily blushed before turning to Cola.

“You are my best friend, Cola, and somebody I care about a lot. I am glad you have stopped working for the Valenti family. It is a huge weight off my mind.”

“I worked on his estate,” Cola protested. “I had nothing to do with the things people are talking about.”

“But you would have been implicated when the authorities caught up with Alessandro Valenti.”

“It was a good job.”

Michele looked at him.

“You must trust us, Cola. Big things are going on. You will be shocked when the truth comes out. But for now, I must ask you not to say anything. And that goes for everyone else in this room.”

He looked around the table.

“As far as you are concerned, we have never had this conversation. We have risked our careers by coming here. If word gets back to the Valenti family, everything could be ruined.”

“Signor Valenti is dangerous,” Sandro added. “But Signora Valenti is even more dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Valentina is a member of the Rossi family from Milan. They are feared by many. She married Alessandro, but it is suggested that she is the brains behind the Verona operation. She can be manipulative and incredibly vindictive.”

“Which is why you must have no further contact with them,” Michele said.

What have you got us into, Cola?

I didn’t sleep well that night.

The heat was stifling and a thousand things went through my mind. I must have eventually dozed off because I was woken in the early hours by the sound of somebody creeping into the room.

I expected to see Bianchi.

It was Cola.

“I cannot sleep,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to be alone.”

He lowered himself onto the bed and rested his head on my stomach.

It reminded me of the times he had done the same thing as a child.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispered.

I waited.

“I met Signor Valenti because I was selling drugs for somebody around Porta Nuova railway station. The guy I was working for double-crossed Signor Valenti. I don’t know what happened to him.”

He paused.

“I guess Alessandro liked me because I ended up working for him instead. But I only did manual labour around his estate.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I think I was the son he wanted and never had.”

“You knew what he was doing?”

“Please don’t tell my mother.”

“Cola, I thought you were better than that.”

“And I’ve seen things. Heard things. Things I didn’t want to be part of. I convinced myself that what I was doing was honest. But nobody else will see it that way.”

If Cola expected words of comfort, he didn’t get them.

Not because I didn’t want to comfort him, but because I simply had no idea what to say.

“Ti voglio bene, Miles.”

Cola fell silent.

A few moments later I realised he had fallen asleep.

I lay awake, staring into the darkness.

Outside, Verona was silent.

But somewhere in the city, the Valenti family was still awake.

Shadows of Verona: Those We Trust

Leave a reply


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.

Shadows of Verona: An Offer Too Easily Accepted

Leave a reply

Cola returned from Torricelle with important news. Signora Valenti had asked him for my mobile number. Why she wanted it, he had no idea, but he had seen no reason not to give it to her.

I could think of several.

“She will contact you,” Cola said before tucking into the meatballs his mother had prepared. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the matter.

Bianchi sat opposite, his bare foot brushing against my knee beneath the table. He hadn’t quite followed the conversation and raised an eyebrow, waiting for someone to explain.

Signora Bruschi stood at the hob, stirring a pan with her back to us. Even so, I knew she was listening to every word.

She was a wily woman.

When Cinzia had pleaded for Bianchi to stay with me because Lorenzo was making life difficult for him at home, Signora Bruschi had seen straight through the lie. She allowed him to remain, but not with me. While I had been banished to Cola’s room, Bianchi had temporary use of mine. Now she was clearing out a room in the attic that would soon become his.

Signora Valenti wasted no time.

Later that evening a message arrived asking whether I was free to meet her for coffee the following day.

I read it aloud and was about to reply that I wasn’t available when Signora Bruschi wiped her hands on her apron and joined us at the table.

“It would be rude to refuse,” she said. “After all, you have no reason not to go.”

Signora Bruschi invariably had the final word.

“But,” she added after a pause, “I think it would be better if Bianchi came with you.”

Bianchi’s face lit up.

Cola grinned.

“She wants your body,” he said.

At eleven the following morning we arrived at Liston 12 on Piazza Bra, its terrace overlooking the Roman Arena. It was crowded with tourists, most of whom had no idea they could have paid half the price simply by walking a few streets farther.

I scanned the tables until I spotted Signora Valenti sitting in the shade. She raised a hand to attract our attention.

She wasn’t alone.

Edoardo sat beside her.

Valentina Valenti looked effortlessly glamorous. Her long blonde hair was tied back and oversized designer sunglasses concealed much of her face. She wore a pale pink summer dress and white Jimmy Choo heels.

She rose to greet us, kissing each of us lightly on the cheek. Bianchi’s appearance seemed not to concern her in the slightest as she motioned for us to sit before signalling a waiter for four espressos.

Edoardo remained where he was, idly turning the pages of a menu. He looked profoundly bored by the ritual of introductions.

After I introduced Bianchi, Signora Valenti inclined her head politely.

“I had expected you to send me samples of your work,” she said. “When you didn’t, I was forced to find it online. It wasn’t easy.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I write under a pen name.”

“I know,” she said with a faint smile. “But I am well connected. I know people who are very good at finding whatever I need.”

She reached into an expensive handbag and produced a leather notebook filled with beautifully handwritten notes.

“I know you’re a travel writer. I’ve read several of your articles. They’re well written…” She looked up. “If a little dull.”

Across the table Edoardo gave a quiet snort of amusement.

His dark hair was slicked back as though he had only just stepped out of the shower. A faint scar ran across one cheek. The moment he realised I had noticed it, he covered it with his hand. It was his eyes that lingered with me, however—cold, watchful and instinctively unfriendly.

“I’d like to offer you a job,” Signora Valenti continued.

“A job?”

“My husband’s business has become extremely successful and is expanding internationally. I want you to write the history of the estate—from its modest beginnings to what it has become today.”

“Why me?”

The waiter arrived balancing our coffees with exaggerated care, placing each cup before us as though performing on stage. Signora Valenti dismissed him with an impatient flick of her hand.

“Why not?”

I searched for a polite way to decline without giving offence.

“Everything you need will be available to you,” she continued. “There are boxes of historical records at Torricelli that must be sorted through. Edoardo has agreed to help.”

Judging by the expression on his face, Edoardo had agreed to nothing. He was here because his mother had decided he would be.

The project held little appeal. Neither did the prospect of spending weeks in Edoardo’s company.

“I’m delighted that’s settled,” she said brightly. “I should have been very disappointed had you refused.”

She waited, knowing perfectly well no objection was coming.

“Excellent,” she concluded. “Then it’s agreed.”

A cigarette appeared from nowhere. She lit it with practised elegance and leaned back looking entirely satisfied with herself.

Bianchi looked equally pleased.

“This means you’ll stay in Verona longer.”

“Which creates one problem,” I said. “The rules say I have to leave Italy soon. I’m only here as a tourist.”

“Problems like that don’t exist in our world.”

It was the first time Edoardo had spoken. His voice was flat, almost bored.

“Exactly,” said his mother. “Now, let’s discuss your fee.”

The offer was generous.

Three thousand euros was considerably more than I had ever been paid for a commission, and although the project would take time, it would still leave me free to accept other work.

An Alfa Romeo belonging to the Carabinieri was parked outside Signora Bruschi’s house when we returned.

“Che ci fanno qui?” Bianchi asked.

Two uniformed officers were just leaving. The younger of the pair held the front door open as we approached, taking a moment longer than necessary to look us up and down.

He seemed vaguely familiar.

Tall. Handsome. Short-cropped hair.

Our eyes met for several seconds, as though each of us felt we ought to recognise the other.

“Buongiorno,” he said quietly.

Shadows of Verona – Where I Belong

Leave a reply

Cinzia had come up with the solution to a problem that Signora Bruschi had created. 

I slept with Cola while Bianchi slept alone in my bed.

Cola was now nineteen, tall and slim, and drove a bright yellow Abarth 500 that sounded loud, throaty and aggressive when he arrived back home in the early hours after spending the evening with Cinzia.

He had climbed into his own bed, almost forgetting that somebody had gatecrashed.

“I thought that the bed would be empty,” he teased. “I was certain that you would have crept upstairs to be with Bianchi.”

“And suffer the sharp tongue of your mother? Not likely. I half expected her to be sitting outside the door to make sure that we didn’t.”

Morning brought little relief. Cola’s room was much smaller than my apartment and the heat of the night had been unbearable. Neither had slept well. Cola kicked me to make sure that I was awake and whispered in my ear.

“It is time to get up. I must go and see Signor Valenti and would like you to come along with me.”

“Who is Signor Valenti?” I groaned.

“He is the man that I work for,” he explained, “and he will have a list of jobs that need doing.”

During the night I wondered whether Bianchi had explored my apartment. He had always been curious, the sort of boy who wanted to know everything. I hoped I hadn’t left anything incriminating lying around. Then I remembered the crumpled copy of Le Pénis beside my bed. I had little doubt he would have read it from cover to cover. 

“I’d expected to spend the day with Bianchi,” I muttered.

“That is not going to happen. Cinzia and Bianchi have arranged to go to the summer festival at Gardaland today and will not be back until late. Unfortunately, they do not have tickets for us and so we shall be left behind to drive one another crazy.”

I was disappointed.

“We must go to church,” Cola announced.

I pulled a face.

“Why?”

“I have things to confess.”

Cola burst out laughing and hit me hard on the arm. 

Bianchi was subdued at breakfast. He refused to eat or drink while he waited for his lift that would take him to Gardaland. He made polite conversation but his usual brightness had deserted him 

“Is everything okay, Bianchi?”

He nodded but didn’t reply.

I’m not sure why it is, but silence makes me feel uneasy. But when he held his gaze a moment longer than necessary, it suggested the problem might not have been with me.

We waited on the pavement for the arrival of his friend, Antonio, who, Cola had explained, was Bianchi’s best friend. 

He turned up in a noisy old Fiat Panda with Cinzia beside him.

Antonio was messy, with dark curly hair, soulful brown eyes, and a slightly crooked nose. He wore a worn-out denim jacket and football shirt sporting the blue and yellow of Hellas Verona. 

He got out of the car and kissed Bianchi on the cheek before hugging him tightly. Bianchi blushed.

Cinzia hurried them into the car.

“We shall see you this evening,” she called from the car window.

Bianchi waved as they drove off and soon afterwards sent a message on his phone.

I hoped we might have spent more time together today. Gardaland was Cinzia’s idea. We shall talk this evening.

Cola drove me to Torricelle in the hills north of Verona. I had once been here with Pietro and remembered the panoramic views of the Adige River and the city below. It was also where I saw one of the most beautiful sunsets. He blasted Sfera Ebbasta through the speakers, making conversation almost impossible. But he seemed proud to be taking me to see Signor Valenti.

“He is a very rich man and lives in a wonderful house in its own grounds. I have told him all about you.”

“How did you meet, and what is it that you do for him?”

“Oh, I work around his house and do jobs around the estate,” he replied. 

It all seemed an unlikely world for someone like Cola, and that he had not explained how he had met Signor Valenti had not gone unnoticed.

Away from the historic centre, the land turned green with olive groves, vineyards and lush vegetation. We climbed the hillside and eventually came to a set of stone pillars on the right. Cola spun off the road and dropped down a long winding driveway that was cast in deep shadow by a rich canopy of giant oak trees.

When we burst back into the sunlight it revealed a large house that seemed to be made up of adjoining boxes with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Parked in front of it was another bright yellow Abarth 500 that was identical to the one that Cola drove.

As Cola parked beside it, I received a message on my phone. It was from Cinzia.

I have an idea. I shall speak with Cola’s mother tomorrow.

For the second time in 24 hours Cinzia had devised a solution to a problem. I grinned and Cola looked at me with bemusement.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I don’t know your girlfriend well, but I am starting to realise that she can be very cunning when she wants to be.”

I had the feeling that whoever lived inside this house would never enjoy the privacy that lesser folk in poorer houses enjoyed. The outside was everywhere you looked. 

The house felt strangely empty. Expensive homes often do. Every room had space to breathe, yet there was little evidence that anybody truly lived there. 

I longed for the comfort and simplicity of Signora Bruschi’s modest home. 

Cola led me through rooms that contained modern sofas and stylish chairs, sleek tables with contemporary sculpture and lots of fresh flowers in huge vases – but little else.

Signor Valenti looked like he was in his forties, with the first signs of grey showing in his black hair. He had once been handsome but still retained the trim figure of somebody who might once have been an athlete. He was smartly dressed with white chinos and an azure blue shirt and seemed stereotypical of the Italian businessman; casual but with a sense of importance.

A woman sat with him around a glass-topped table that had been set up outside. This, I presumed, was Signora Valenti who had once been a beautiful woman. She looked about the same age as her husband with long blonde hair that had been carefully tied back. 

“Nicola.” Signor Valenti seemed pleased to see Cola and gestured for us to be seated. A faint smile showed on Signora Valenti’s lips but she seemed uninterested in our arrival.

Cola poured coffee for us both and spoke in fluent Italian to his host – fast and furious and I had difficulty keeping up. Eventually, Signor Valenti turned towards me and offered his hand.

“I am delighted to meet you, Miles. Please call me Alessandro, and this is my wife, Valentina.” It had a ring to it – Valentina Valenti. “And that,” he nodded towards the swimming pool,” is my son Edoardo.”

A young man swam the length of it before coming to a stop. Only his head could be seen, his wet hair plastered back, as he treaded water. He looked at us with curiosity, but, like his mother, never uttered a word. I waved a greeting but Edoardo didn’t acknowledge it. He, too, it seemed, was devoid of pleasantries.

While Alessandro and Cola talked business, I enjoyed the view.

Finally, Valentina came to life.

“My husband owns everything that you see before you.”

“Impressive,” I replied.

“These are our vineyards and olive groves, and in the buildings to the right is where wine and olive oil is manufactured.”

The Valenti family enjoyed fabulous wealth.

“My husband is also a property developer and has a vast portfolio around Verona.”

Valentina spoke matter of factly, as though defending the reasons for their good fortune. It was as if she was trying to make a point. She put on large sunglasses and I could no longer tell whether she was looking at me or her son.

Cola had the habit of making me appear like somebody I wasn’t. In his eyes, I was unique, although he had no idea what it was that I wrote. 

“Nicola tells us that you are a writer,” she said with a little more warmth.

Alessandro and Cola left us and walked to the edge of the terrace. Alessandro pointed to various parts of his estate, and Cola nodded in understanding.

“Poor Cola is receiving a long list of jobs. It will keep him occupied for weeks which is exactly what my husband wants. And when those jobs are completed, he will give Cola another long list of things to do. Cola is your friend. But he is also Alessandro’s plaything.”

I didn’t quite understand.

“He enjoys having Cola around because he is everything that Edoardo is not. Cola is the son that he wanted. Edoardo is not. My son is spoiled and has no desire to work.”

Edoardo had climbed out of the pool and was rubbing himself down with a towel. I expected him to join us but he walked straight into the house with a scowl.

“Edoardo is jealous of Cola because he gets exactly the same privileges as he does. Edoardo does not consider that Cola works hard for what he gets, whilst he does little.”

“Where did your husband meet Cola?”

She brushed a hand through her hair.

“Oh, I do not know,” she sighed.

Alessandro and Cola disappeared onto the next garden terrace and now we were alone. Valentina flicked through Italian Vogue, not once stopping to read anything; the actions of a bored housewife. 

A WhatsApp message from Bianchi flashed up. It was a photograph from Gardaland – a selfie. Cinzia was grinning while Bianchi had his arm around his friend. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Antonio was not conventionally handsome, but his grin was infectious; he looked happiest of all. 

“You are frowning, Miles,” said Valentina, without looking up from the magazine. 

“No, signora.”

“I would like you to send me some of your work.” It was a command rather than a request. 

We returned to the car after Alessandro had finished with Cola.

Edoardo was checking his gelled hair in the wing mirror of the second Abarth. He had showered and dressed and wore a fragrance that reminded me of  bergamot and pineapple. He was dressed entirely in white; his shirt was loose and unbuttoned to show the smoothness of his chest. 

“Arrivederci,” I said to him.

Edoardo said nothing, started the car and sped away. 

“I seem to bring out the worst in people,” I suggested to Cola as we drove back to Verona. “First Lorenzo, and now Edoardo.”

“Edoardo is strange. He resents that I work here but will not complain because he relies on his father’s wealth. He is not a problem.”

“But he stands to inherit everything one day.”

“No,” Cola quipped. “He will get nothing. They will leave it all to me.” 

He laughed, but I had known Cola since a boy, and knew that when he joked it was to hide something serious.

After Torricelle, the streets of Verona provided welcome relief; I was returning to where I felt comfortable and could act myself again. But Cola was able to step effortlessly between contrasting worlds. 

Verona was in slumber. The pavements were empty;  everyone had retreated into the shadows to find whatever coolness remained. Shopkeepers sat on chairs and fanned themselves. Dogs slept under tables. Teenage boys removed their shirts and lounged on street corners.

Bianchi sent another photo.

The photograph showed Bianchi and Antonio eating ice cream with great blobs balanced on the ends of their noses. It was gloriously childish. Whatever melancholy had shadowed Bianchi that morning had disappeared. 

“We are all small boys at heart,” Cola remarked while looking at my phone and driving far too fast.

Shadows of Verona – Mine to Lose

Leave a reply

“I don’t think your brother liked me,” I suggested to Bianchi.

His English had improved enormously since our last meeting, but he failed to understand what I had said. This, I realised, was how our conversations were going to be. My Italian was considerably worse.

“Lorenzo,” I persisted. “He hated me.”

“Enzo does not like me either,” Bianchi replied. “He says I must change. If I do not, he will make me change.” He paused before adding with a hopeful smile, “Is my English good?”

The memory lingered.

Bianchi’s mother scarcely looked old enough to have three grown children. Her eyes sparkled as she welcomed me into her home. Cinzia had clearly told her about me. Like most of the family, she spoke no English, and Cola translated.

She is delighted that you have come.”

In the background, Lorenzo had made his feelings perfectly clear. As we left the apartment, I glanced back just in time to see him draw a finger slowly across his throat.

We settled in the small courtyard behind Signora Bruschi’s building. Four sun-bleached walls, their peeling ochre and sienna softened by deep green ivy, enclosed the space. Around us drifted the familiar soundtrack of Italy: overlapping conversations spoken in rapid, melodic bursts, punctuated by warm laughter and the rhythmic clink of porcelain spoons against ceramic coffee cups.

Cinzia seemed to interpret my return as a declaration of intent towards Bianchi, who sat casually between us.

“Lorenzo è uno stronzo,” she declared. “He is a complete asshole. Ignore him.”

“I disagree,” Cola interrupted. “Miles must be careful not to antagonise him, otherwise there will be consequences.”

“I do not like the sound of this person,” Signora Bruschi frowned.

For the first time that day I was able to study Bianchi properly.

He was small in stature but lean and athletic. His olive complexion carried the faintest flush across his cheeks, while his pale eyes seemed incapable of hiding emotion. Whenever he spoke, his hands moved instinctively, every gesture as expressive as his words.

Bella figura.

Like many boys his age, he dressed with understated style: dark skinny jeans, immaculate white leather trainers, a pale button-down shirt, and around his neck a simple silver chain from which a small St Christopher medallion occasionally caught the light.

He noticed me watching him.

The unguarded charm of a working-class country boy surfaced immediately. His hand brushed gently against my knee, and the hopeful expression on his face suggested that he was still searching for my approval.

I remained uncertain whether this was a path I truly wanted to follow.

The oppressive heat mirrored the suffocating intensity of obsession.

Much had happened during the past year.

Bianchi was studying sports science at Liceo Scientifico Statale Angelo. He had also found part-time work as a porter at a hotel in Verona. Once school broke for the summer, he would spend the season picking peaches, cherries and kiwi fruit on a large farm before moving into the nearby vineyards for the September grape harvest.

Then Signora Bruschi announced that she would prepare lunch for everyone.

Almost immediately, Cola declared that he and Cinzia were meeting friends later at Pedrotti on Via Venti Settembre.

“But Bianchi will stay here,” he added with a grin. “No doubt he will spend the night with Miles.”

His announcement made it sound as though I had been volunteered to babysit Bianchi, who was still considered too young to spend the evening drinking with the others. Pleasant though it was to be included, I could not escape the feeling that Cola and Cinzia were quietly steering events.

Signora Bruschi immediately crossed herself.

“That will not happen,” she said firmly.

Her reaction caught me by surprise.

Like many Italians, she held deeply rooted Catholic beliefs, yet she had raised no objection when I had lived with Pietro several years earlier. After his death, she had even insisted that his rooms were mine whenever I wished to return.

“Bianchi is welcome to stay,” she continued, “but he must sleep in Cola’s room.”

“Cosa vuoi dire, mamma?”

There was, I had come to realise, a distinctly Veronese form of compromise. Family harmony always came first. Certain realities were quietly accepted, provided nobody spoke about them too openly.

“Bianchi will share a bed with you, Cola.”

“Ma, mamma…”

She folded her hands as though in prayer.

“I must protect both boys,” she said. “Miles is already in a relationship, and I will not allow anything to happen beneath my roof that might threaten that.”

Only then did Bianchi understand.

His shoulders dropped, and the disappointment on his face was impossible to miss. He had lived on memories for an entire year. Now it seemed he would have to keep waiting.

No one had asked for my opinion.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that obsession did not belong to Bianchi alone.

The thought of Cola and Bianchi sharing a bed stirred a jealousy I had never known I possessed. Whatever doubts I still harboured, I suddenly recognised that I regarded Bianchi as mine to lose. Cola, who had no interest whatsoever in Cinzia’s younger brother and would never dream of taking advantage of the arrangement, had nevertheless become the one person standing between us.

Only Cinzia seemed amused.

“Cola,” she teased, “I hope you can survive the smell of Bianchi’s cheap body spray and teenage sweat. Perhaps it would be better if you slept with Miles instead, and Bianchi could have Miles’s bed all to himself.”

Shadows of Verona – You Are Here

Leave a reply

“C’è un ragazzo che viene a trovarti ogni giorno e ti chiede quando torni.” There is a boy who comes to visit you every day and asks when you are coming back.

Bianchi had been turning up at Signora Bruschi’s doorstep daily.

“Credo di essere nei guai. Sono nei guai grossi.” I think I am in trouble. I am in serious trouble.

Bianchi messaged me too, sometimes several times a day, and each time I replied with words designed to prolong the chase.

“Torna presto, per favore. Ho bisogno di parlarti.”

“I will come over soon,” I promised.

But that was last year, and I never did.

Bianchi was now seventeen, and on his birthday I sent the same number of red roses. His sister, Cinzia, provided me with updates. In her eyes, I had crossed a line. The time had come to make a commitment.

Cola, meanwhile, painted another picture.

“There is only one way to end his heartache,” he wrote. “There is only one way to calm a stormy sea.”

I was never entirely certain what he meant.

I had missed Cola.

He was now nineteen and no longer the skinny boy I remembered. I suspected that he had been spending time in the gym. His body had broadened, his shoulders were stronger, and he seemed taller than ever. With temperatures stuck in the mid-thirties, he wore sunglasses, a baggy white T-shirt and black shorts that showed off his long, sun-darkened legs.

But some things had not changed.

He still drove too fast, as if the possibility of death around the next bend had never occurred to him. He pushed the bright yellow Abarth 500 along the E70 before leaving the main road and cutting through the countryside towards San Giorgio in Salici.

Before I had arrived, Cola had sent me one of his strange messages:

In love, conversation is direct but risks becoming too harsh; measure your tone. In love, you desire stability, but someone is testing you.

I wondered whether it was a warning.

San Giorgio is a highly venerated figure in Italian Catholicism. He is also St George, the patron saint of England.

“Maybe it is a sign,” Cola said, his arms stretched along the steering wheel as he reclined in his seat.

I had arrived in Verona the previous night. Cola had collected me from Villafranca Airport and wasted no time suggesting that we visit his girlfriend, Cinzia, and her brother, Bianchi.

His mother, Signora Bruschi, had been less enthusiastic.

“The boy is too young,” she warned. “He is not old enough to know what he wants. Are you not happy with your boyfriend?”

I did not have the energy to explain about Charlie. I had neither seen nor heard from him since our falling-out in Paris, and the likelihood was that I never would again. My future suddenly seemed to contain too many possible paths.

Cola had not told Cinzia that we were coming.

“She is working this morning, but it is a half-day and she will be home around lunchtime. There is always somebody at home.”

I had my reservations.

My appearance in San Giorgio in Salici might reopen wounds that had only partially healed. Bianchi still messaged me, though now perhaps only once a week. It felt as if he was slowly moving on, while leaving a door open in case I chose to meet him halfway.

Cinzia was different. She had hoped that I would satisfy her younger brother’s desires and now believed that I had treated him badly.

Would I still be welcomed in the same way as the year before?

“I must tell you that Lorenzo will be there,” Cola warned.

“Who is Lorenzo?”

“Cinzia and Bianchi’s older brother. I suggest that you ignore whatever he says.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lorenzo is trouble — for his family and for himself. He makes life difficult for Bianchi because he is gay.”

Cola ran his hand through his short hair, leaving only one hand on the steering wheel, which did little to calm my nerves.

San Giorgio in Salici emerged from the Veronese countryside, surrounded by flourishing vineyards, a village that seemed little more than a collection of houses stretching along its roads. Cola screeched to a halt on Via Celà and announced that we had arrived.

The building where Cinzia and Bianchi lived looked tired. Four storeys high, its crumbling exterior had been patched with uneven concrete repairs. The ground floor contained a garage and storage rooms; the floors above were residential.

“They live at the top,” Cola said, pointing towards a balcony that stretched across the façade.

I followed him up the communal stairs. There was no lift. On one of the walls somebody had sprayed a single word of graffiti.

Vaffanculo.

“Go fuck yourself,” Cola translated.

I had long realised that Italians rarely knocked on doors or rang bells when they were not strangers. Once Cola had made sure I was behind him, he walked straight into the apartment and moved down a long corridor lined with family photographs.

The living room was filled with more memories — framed pictures, hand-painted ceramics and Catholic iconography: crucifixes, rosaries and a statue of Padre Pio. A large dining table stood by the window, covered with fine linen and carefully arranged dinnerware.

A young man — presumably Lorenzo — was stretched across a sofa watching a game show. He looked at us but did not move. Cola greeted him with a high-five and exchanged a few words in Italian.

Lorenzo turned his eyes towards me.

There was suspicion there.

He spoke quietly to Cola, but his expression suggested that he had already decided he did not like me.

“Cinzia is not home yet,” Cola explained. “Bianchi has gone to the grocery store with his mother and will be back soon. Sit down.”

There was an obvious resemblance between Lorenzo and Bianchi, although the older brother was taller, with shorter hair and the kind of beauty that seemed almost commonplace among young Italian men.

I remembered something David Hockney once said: if handsome New York boys ranked at one hundred, handsome Italian boys were almost certainly at one thousand.

But Lorenzo lacked Bianchi’s warmth.

“He does not speak English,” Cola said. “But Bianchi has been learning at the liceo.”

I remembered the days when our conversations had relied on Cinzia’s excellent English and her willingness to translate.

“Be careful of Lorenzo,” Cola continued in a lowered voice, although Lorenzo undoubtedly knew we were discussing him. “He hates that Bianchi is gay and will not like the idea of you being here, especially if he thinks you have come to take his brother away.”

“Then why did you insist that I come, Cola?” I asked.

“They are family to me,” he replied. “Just as you are like a big brother to me, Miles. But Lorenzo spends time with bad people — criminals who go into Verona to steal from shops and tourists. I do not like it, but he is Cinzia’s brother, and I must respect him.”

Suddenly, the apartment door slammed.

“Bianchi. Vieni qui. C’è qualcuno che ti aspetta.”

“Aspettare?” he replied.

There was a muffled exchange in the kitchen, followed by the sounds of cupboards opening and closing. Then their mother laughed — a sharp, joyful shriek, as though Bianchi had said something unexpected.

“Bianchi!” Lorenzo shouted impatiently.

It is difficult to describe the expression on his face when he appeared.

He stood in the doorway.

His eyes widened. His eyebrows lifted. His mouth fell slightly open as he struggled to draw breath.

His gaze fixed on me.

“Miles,” he whispered.

“You are here.”

Straight Out of Verona – Part 7 – Finale

Leave a reply
Ciao Bianchi – Charlie Marseilles

I had been summoned to Piazza Gilardoni, in the shadow of the Chiesa del Santissimo Nome di Maria—an imposing modernist church at Castel d’Azzano, some ten kilometres from Verona. The message had come from Cinzia, relayed with reluctance by Cola. During the drive he blasted Italian rap at full volume, perhaps to stop me asking questions.

We perched on a warm stone bench and waited. Cola, usually chatty, was subdued and chain-smoking.

The bells clanged on the hour. A man pruned branches into a heap outside the church, then stuffed them into a green bin. Another fussed with a watering can, an oddly futile gesture against the bulk of the trunk.

“My mother is angry with me,” Cola said suddenly. “She told me I should never have interfered—and if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one to blame.”

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but at that moment I saw Cinzia and Bianchi crossing the road. For such a small suburb, the traffic was vicious. Cinzia waved, ushering us into a café called Al Quindese.

Inside, she kissed us both on the cheek, whispered something sharp to Cola, and ordered drinks. Bianchi scrolled through his phone, pointedly disengaged, not even looking up when she ordered him a shakerato and the rest of us espressos.

“It’s been a long time since we were last here,” Cinzia said. “Our grandmother grew up nearby. She still lives just around the corner.”

I tried again. “Why is Signora Bruschi angry with you, Cola?”

He faltered, glanced at Cinzia. She only smiled, unembarrassed.

“Perhaps I am the cause,” Cinzia said lightly. “I hoped you’d come today, though I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t. Cola knew the reason, but apparently he couldn’t tell you.” She shot him a disapproving look.

“I couldn’t,” Cola protested. “You already had a boyfriend—a Frenchman. And when I told my mother, she said we had no right to interfere.”

Cinzia leaned closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I only try to look after my little brother.” She spoke as though Bianchi could not hear, forgetting – or pretending to forget – that his English was weak.

Bianchi sensed the attention on him and glanced up, puzzled.

“I hope someone will eventually explain,” I muttered.

“Oh, it’s simple,” Cinzia said breezily. “Bianchi is shy. He’ll sit there looking innocent while I say anything I please about him. I could call him a murderer and he wouldn’t know.”

As she spoke, I noticed a man on a high balcony, leaning against a railing where laundry hung. Unshaven, in a crumpled shirt, he looked down on us from his faded yellow building.

“Tell me,” Cinzia asked suddenly, “do you like my brother?”

I hesitated. “I do. Provided he isn’t a killer.”

She laughed, then called something to Bianchi in Italian. He blushed, shrugged, answered. She translated with a mischievous smile. “He says he won’t kill you – unless you break his heart.”

“How could I possibly do that?”

“Bianchi is a baby,” she said, “curious, uncertain. But for now, he thinks he’s in love with you.”

Heat rose in my face. I looked at Cola for rescue.

“Sedici,” he groaned. “Cinzia, the boy is only sixteen.”

I stared. “But you told me he was eighteen.”

“I lied,” Cola admitted. “Otherwise you’d never have gone to the cinema with us.”

Bianchi smiled faintly and fixed his gaze on the Virgin Mary statue outside. Cola muttered something in Italian. Bianchi’s shoulders drooped.

“What did you tell him?” I demanded.

“That you’re only interested in girls,” Cola said smugly. “It’s safer that way. My mother will be relieved.”

Cinzia scolded him in Italian. Whatever she said, it lifted Bianchi’s expression again.

“I do like him,” I said carefully, “but I already have Charlie. And Bianchi… he’s far too young.”

“In Italy, age is not the same concern,” Cinzia replied. “The law is fourteen, regardless of gender. And Bianchi is capable of marvellous things.” Her eyes glinted wickedly. “He can squeeze the juice from an orange with the cheeks of his buttocks.”

Bianchi understood enough to flush crimson. Cola looked guilty, and I seized the chance to turn on him.

Straight Out of Verona – Part 6 – Pietro

Leave a reply


There was a long story behind my relationship with Signora Bruschi – and the apartment. I was about Cola’s age when I first met an Italian boy named Nico and moved to Perugia. Those were long, hot summer days and steamy nights, but autumn soon cast its shadow over the affair. Quite frankly, we grew bored of each other. Being a free spirit, I hopped on a train to Milan.

That was where I met Pietro Mancini, an older gentleman with decidedly queer tendencies, who owned a large accountancy firm with branches in Turin, Milan, and Verona. I enjoyed the attention: the fine clothes, fancy restaurants, lavish holidays, and an endless supply of money. In return, I excused his camp mannerisms and tiresome gestures. I was his toy—his plaything—a good-looking boy at his beck and call.

Until I discovered there was nothing exclusive about this arrangement.

When Pietro suggested I move into his rented apartment in Verona, I saw it as the next step in what felt like a dreamlike adventure. Since he spent most of his time in Milan, I was spared his unwelcome advances and free to live as I pleased. Verona suited me, and it was there that my friendship with Signora Bruschi and her son, Cola, began.

On the day that Cola blurted out: “Is it true that you like to fuck boys?” His mother promptly clouted him on the head with a wooden spoon, but he pressed on: “Signor Mancini has a boy in every town, but I’m glad it was you who came to Verona.” I had been naïve enough to think I was the only one. His words made perfect sense, and the warning bells began to ring.

I didn’t begrudge Pietro his indulgences, but selfishly, I worried that I might fall out of favour and be cast aside when it suited him. On his next visit to Verona, over dinner in Piazza Bra, I demanded the truth. That was when I learned about Severin, a German boy in his Turin apartment, and Elio, my Italian replacement in Milan—apparently his favourite. “Italian boys are more cultured than English and German boys,” Pietro told me.

At Christmas, Pietro invited me to Milan, where I met Severin and Elio for the first time. He expected us to get along, but little was said between us. After a festive meal at Bulgari Milano, and more than enough drink, we realised we were all victims of his lustful whims. A conspiratorial bond formed between us.

In the new year, I returned to Verona, expecting Pietro to arrive on business the following week. On the day of his arrival, I went to Verona Porta Nuova to meet his train, but he wasn’t on it. I returned to the apartment and waited. That night, Elio called: Pietro had dropped dead of a heart attack.

Signora Bruschi was kind and told me I could stay in the apartment. I explained I couldn’t afford the rent, but she insisted it would not be a problem.

In the months that followed, with no money coming in, I lived on the Bruschi family’s generosity. Pietro’s affairs were slowly unravelled, and eventually his will was read. Nineteen-year-old Elio inherited the bulk of the estate, including the Milan apartment. Severin and I received only nominal sums—decent, but since the Turin and Verona apartments were rented, we were effectively homeless.

With little Italian and no job prospects, I left Verona and returned to the UK.

The apartment, however, was kept clean and tidy by Signora Bruschi, who insisted it remain empty and always available for me if I visited. The last time had been fourteen months ago—before Charlie gate-crashed my life.

Straight Out of Verona – Part 5 – Bianchi

Leave a reply
Bianchi – Charlie Marseilles

Charlie messaged me in the morning, as I knew he would. Despite the thousand kilometers between Paris and Verona, he stirred my guilty conscience, even though I hadn’t felt guilty when I went to bed.

What did you get up to last night?

Cola had dragged me to the cinema with Cinzia, and along the way, we picked up her younger brother in Castel d’Azzuno. “This is Salvo,” she said as the young boy got into the back of Cola’s car. “But we call him Bianchi, and he doesn’t speak much English.”

Bianchi turned out to be eighteen, but his small size made him look much younger. Cola had been right; there was no doubt that he was beautiful, with a delicate face, inquisitive dark eyes, a dainty nose, and thick black hair. He nodded, sat beside me without saying a word, and put earbuds in to listen to music on his phone.

We drove to the UCI multiplex on Via Monte Amiata to see Caught Stealing, or as it’s known in Italian, Una Scomoda Circostanza, starring Austin Butler, whom I found both weird-looking and handsome at the same time.

Cola and Cinzia sat together while I was between Cinzia and her brother. I tried to make small talk with Bianchi, but the language barrier proved difficult, and we both fell into awkward silence before the movie started.

Caught Stealing had been dubbed into Italian, which put me at a disadvantage because I struggled to follow the narrative. Cola had suggested we go to a smaller cinema where it was being shown in its original form with subtitles, but I thought this would be unfair to them.

The tradition of dubbing English-speaking movies into Italian dates back to a time when most of the population was illiterate and struggled with subtitles. Mussolini’s government saw dubbing as an opportunity to control foreign content, and the rise of the industry with skilled voice actors has persisted ever since.

I cast furtive glances at Bianchi, who seemed distracted, disinterested, and perhaps even guarded. Once or twice, he looked my way and smiled with embarrassment, but for the most part, he looked away.

He was a beautiful boy, but Cola’s sly yet playful attempt at matchmaking was never going to work because of the age difference.

Afterwards, we went for coffee. Cola and Cinzia spoke in English, and Bianchi listened and smiled as though he was part of the conversation. There were fleeting glimpses of curiosity and connection. What had begun as a seemingly casual setup gradually revealed the possibility of a deeper attraction, or at least a moment of recognition between us.