True to their word, Gabriello and the staff of Hotel Luce del Sole tore the place apart. I humoured them, going through my suitcase, retracing my steps, but I knew it was futile. I knew where it was and all I could do was walk around like a zombie, beyond tears, beyond anger; I felt nothing. With no place to go, no passport and no clue, I simply stood back at reception, staring at the phone, ready to make the call that would no doubt crumble my stoic façade. I was about to tell the very people who didn’t believe I could do it—travel overseas, be responsible, be an adult—that they were right. As sympathetic as I knew they would be, I also knew that the first thing that would pop into their minds would be ‘I told you so’.

Yep, I was going to call my parents.

‘They left without me’ would be interpreted as ‘I missed the bus’. ‘My passport got taken’ would be construed as ‘I lost it’. ‘I have no place to stay, the hotel is booked out’ would be ‘I have no organisational skills, I can’t be left alone in the world’. I could already hear my mother’s voice in my head. Feeling like I wanted to vomit into the nearest pot plant, I picked up the receiver for a third time and took in a deep breath. I had no idea what I was being charged for these calls; with my luck, the bill would probably leave me penniless.

The phone was ringing, and with each trill my vision became more blurry as I sniffed and wiped away tears.

Come on, Sammi, keep it together, keep it together.

I just really needed something to go my way for once. Was it too much to ask that one of the cleaning staff appear around the corner with a winning smile, holding my passport aloft? I could almost forgive Jodie if it turned out she was innocent of that crime.

With no sudden emergence of a cleaning lady, I was now running out of hope. I just needed a sign, a little helping hand; it didn’t have to be big, I wasn’t greedy, just something, anything. But then I heard my mother’s voice and I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow me whole. This was it, the point where my parents’ illusion of me was shattered by my own admission.

I opened my eyes, streaks of salty tears carving a path down my face, but I wasn’t sobbing—I was too exhausted for that—I was merely leaking.

‘Hello, is someone there?’

And just as I was about to speak, my focus shifted towards the desk, searching for a tissue, when I paused, frozen in place by the sight of a small item on the counter.

‘Listen, you sicko, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but go and breathe down someone else’s phone,’ my mother shouted, hanging up in my ear. The line went dead, which was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

I put the phone down, blindly slotting it back on the receiver, and stood there for a long, long moment, blinking, barely believing what I was seeing. There, on the far end of the reception desk, with the brochures and daily newspapers, was a shiny little card, black and glossy. I reached out and picked it up, holding up the card to the light. I had asked for a sign and, as my tear-stained face broke into a slow smile, I felt that I finally had it.

There, in bold, proud letters across the card, read:

MARCELLO BAMBOZZI – LOCAL ARTIST.

Not knowing how many Marcello Bambozzis there were in this part of Italy, I flipped over the card, looking for more information. Sure enough, smiling back at me from a black-and-white image were the dimples I’d become addicted to.

Luciano’s voice filtered in from behind me, but still I focused on the card.

‘I’m sorry, Sammi, but we haven’t been able to find your passport anywhere.’

‘Very good,’ I said staring at the photo of Marcello, leaning against a wall, looking so cool and casual that he could have been modelling for Ralph Lauren.

‘S-sorry, signora?’

Oh, right; I spun around, facing a very confused Luciano.

‘Luciano, what’s this?’ I said, passing him the card.

‘Oh, Marcello’s card.’

‘Si, but what for?’

It said local artist, but that seemed unlikely; surely he was a tour guide of sorts.

‘Marcello is an excellent artist. I am surprised none of you took up his lessons.’

‘Lessons, what lessons?’

Luciano seemed intrigued by my response. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So Maria reneged on her promises.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Luciano blinked up at me, suddenly concerned he had said too much.

‘Luciano, please, I’ve had a truly shit day, lay some juicy gossip on me.’

He smiled, glancing at the clock in the lounge. ‘Well, I am due for a break—do you have a moment?’

I laughed. ‘Luciano, I have nothing but time on my hands.’

Luciano sat opposite me, placing down the sweetest gift of all: an espresso.

‘Molto bene, grazie,’ I sighed, picking it up and inhaling the glorious aroma.

‘Prego,’ he said, relaxing in his chair and keeping a watch on the time. The poor fella had a ten-minute break and he was spending it with me. I could tell by the way he was jigging his leg up and down that he was dying for a cigarette; still, maybe that meant that he wouldn’t beat around the bush and tell me the deal between Maria and Marcello.

‘So?’ I prompted.

‘So.’ Luciano edged closer, lowering his voice. ‘Marcello agreed to help Maria with her tour business: making connections with restaurants, showing people around, helping with questions.’

Bedding the women.

I slapped that thought from my mind, refocusing on what Luciano was saying.

‘In doing so, Maria had to help Marcello in return.’

I was now on the edge of my seat, feeling rather nervous; what did she have to do? Bear his children, marry each other by the time they were thirty, what?

‘Marcello wanted Maria to bring her tour group to his studio in order to do a session, a lesson on painting, maybe build in a luncheon and some local knowledge; it is a new thing he’s trying and he was relying on Maria to help generate interest and word of mouth.’

‘And she backed out?’

‘Well, I think she is a bit sceptical about how it would fit into her tour, which is already quite full, as you know. I don’t know if she thought it through when she agreed to help.’

I tried to imagine Nate or even Johnny sitting in a light-filled room with an easel in front of them, serenely painting a bowl of fruit. I couldn’t see it.

‘Seems a bit unfair to not hold up her end of the bargain; why does Marcello bother continuing to help her when she refuses to reciprocate?’

‘Oh, I think he thinks he can persuade her, that all he needs to do is convince her it’s a good idea.’

It all made sense now; that day when he came to pick me up from the Colosseum they argued about whether or not she had made up her mind. And now she was gone with her group, not even having mentioned Marcello’s lesson to them. I suddenly felt angry for him.

‘Seriously, he should just cut all ties with her.’

Luciano laughed. ‘Well, what’s the old saying, blood is thicker than water?’

I paused mid-sip. ‘Blood?’

‘Si, Maria is his sister.’

Missing my mouth and spilling hot coffee on my shirt, I cared little about the mess or the burn, quickly brushing at my top and placing down my cup. Surely I had misheard. ‘WHAT?!’

‘It’s not something they advertise.’

‘Clearly not,’ I said, thinking back to all the moments I had felt threatened by Maria, worried that maybe there was something more. And then a memory popped into my head. I had asked Marcello last night how he knew Maria and he had referred to growing up with her.

Ugh! I had read this all wrong.

‘So basically it’s a whole sibling rivalry thing?’

‘I suppose, though I doubt Marcello has much faith in her promises after this group. I think that’s why he dropped in those cards—he’s trying to drum up business on his own. He only just dropped those in a few days ago. He must have seen the writing on the wall.’

A few days ago? My mind flashed back to the first time our eyes had met, when I had been sitting in this very chair. I wondered if that was the night he put them there. I glanced down at the card, which was now sporting a small coffee stain. It didn’t say a whole lot, but it had a number and an address under his photo.

‘Luciano, is this far away?’ I asked, pointing to the address.

He broke into a broad smile, then took the card from me and, without a word, stood up and started towards the front exit. I did a double-take, following his movements and glancing at the clock; was his time up? He stopped at the front door, looking back at me with his brows raised; it was then I realised he wanted me to follow. Leaving my espresso cup, very little of which had actually made it into my mouth, I quickstepped to the door, thinking that Luciano was hailing a taxi to take me to the cryptic address. I came to stand beside him while Luciano quickly lit a cigarette and revelled in the first deep draw. I moved upwind from the smoke.

‘There,’ he said, pointing somewhere in front of me.

I followed the direction of his finger, wondering what he was pointing at. I couldn’t see anything significant and turned back to him, my eyes questioning.

He simply laughed, handing back the card. ‘The house on the left with the green door.’

My eyes dipped to the card and then back up to Luciano.

Surely not.

‘That’s where Marcello lives.’