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.