Sunday night, late the next day, Mary sat alone by the Moor Fountain.
‘Everything okay, bella?’ said Gabriel, in Italian. He sat down next to her and tucked dyed greying curls behind his ear. The other artists were packing away. A guitarist strummed in front of Pizzeria Dolce Vita. The Rossi family had all gone to bed. Dante still hadn’t returned. And after reading the newspaper yesterday, she now understood why.
Mary sighed and looked over at Rocco who was in his cycling helmet, ready to go home. He crouched down outside the restaurant and fed scraps to his feline friend.
‘You are upset? By a couple of newspapers?’ Gabriel lit a cigarette. ‘No worries. They will have something new to gossip about in a few days.’
Mary gazed at him. Wondered how much he knew. More than the journalists who’d written that article? Less? He caught her stare.
‘You have many questions, no?’ He jerked his head towards Rocco and blew out smoke. ‘He is the man to ask – good at Italian and English. And he was closest to the family when it all happened. Hey, Rocco!’ he called. Gabriel stood up. ‘I’ve got to go now. My hands and back are aching from a busy day.’ He bent down and kissed her on each cheek before having a quick word with Rocco who’d come over. The head waiter sat down beside her. The little dog followed and collapsed at his feet. Whistling, Gabriel packed away his easels and left.
‘Seems like you have a loyal friend there,’ Mary said, returning to English, too tired to think about grammar and vocabulary.
Rocco’s mouth drooped at the corners. ‘Loyalty sometimes comes at a cost.’
She gazed at his deep nose-to-mouth lines. ‘Sorry if I was a bit slow today, it’s just trade was so busy and—’
Rocco held up his hand, took off his cycling helmet, and placed it on the ground, next to the dog. ‘I suspect you didn’t get much sleep last night.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘When you got back, I noticed the newspaper sticking out of your bag. And you’ve hardly said a word today.’
Mary gazed at the ground and then looked up. With frustration, she rubbed her short hair. ‘I didn’t know, Rocco. About the shooting. Why didn’t anyone say?’
‘It still feels so … recent – the fallout from that night. It went on for months. All that on top of Dante losing his sight.’
‘I don’t know whether to ask him about it … if he ever returns.’ Her chest pinched. Not having Dante in her life any more would be like drinking Prosecco without the fizz.
‘He’ll be back. Tomorrow probably. Monday is usually a quieter day, despite all the July tourists.’ He stared at her straight in the eyes. ‘I will tell you what I know, about the incident. Dante probably won’t want to talk about it himself. Plus there is personal stuff that happened afterwards. It is not my place to—’
‘Of course. I understand.’
Rocco rubbed a hand across his forehead. The dog looked up with concern and Rocco tickled its ears.
‘Tell me what you know, Maria. As you’ve probably read, Dante’s colleague, Hugo, got shot dead – the two men were close friends and often worked together.’
Mary nodded. ‘No one else was killed. Five people were injured by the terrorist.’
She understood, now, why the Rossi family – why Dante – had worried so much when she’d been stuck in the underground due to the security alert.
‘Correct. It happened not far from the Vatican and the shooting shook Rome to the core. People then realised that nowhere was sacred. Hugo and Dante just happened to be on duty and walking past when the lone terrorist drew out his gun. He shouted something in Arabic and started randomly shooting.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mary and she threw her hands in the air. ‘Dante couldn’t win either way – it was either Hugo getting killed or a member of the public. I mean, there aren’t rules in the police force, are there, for a life-threatening situation? He wasn’t duty-bound to protect a colleague?’
Rocco shrugged. ‘He had to make a split-second decision, and you are right, there are no regulations covering that. The terrorist waved the gun between Hugo and a rough sleeper. Dante told us afterwards that you could tell the young man was nervous. Sweating. Shouting crazily. His hand shook. The rough sleeper was closest to Dante so he decided to stand in front of him. Better to save one person at least. But it seemed that that gesture made up the shooter’s mind and seconds later he shot Hugo in the head.’
Mary felt sick. ‘What a hideous decision for Dante to have to make.’
‘Hugo’s family wouldn’t let Dante attend his funeral, in Milan. To be fair, the press at large were sympathetic; said Dante couldn’t win either way. But a couple of tabloids printed interviews with disenchanted policemen who anonymously said Dante had let down his colleagues – that policemen should look after their own. They labelled Dante a coward. Said he took the easy option. That trying to divert Hugo getting shot would have jeopardised Dante’s own life.’ Rocco shook his head. ‘But it all happened so quickly. After shooting Hugo the man lunged at Dante, hit him across the face with his gun. Dante just managed to wrestle the gun away, before falling and hitting the ground badly. The optic nerve damage meant he lost his sight.’
Poor Dante. Strong Dante, rebuilding his life after that. ‘What did his seniors say?’
‘There was a review, of course. He was found completely blameless. However, a couple of the tabloids rumbled on about it for weeks. For once everyone here was glad that Dante couldn’t read.’ Rocco picked up his helmet and fiddled with the straps. ‘Dante felt like an outsider and hardly spoke to anyone during the initial weeks afterwards.’
‘I can understand – just a little – how that must have felt.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Being on the outside, looking in, is one of the worst feelings in the world.’
Rocco raised an eyebrow and in that instant, when it was just the two of them, Mary felt able to open up. ‘I don’t have a mum and dad. I was raised in care homes or by foster parents.’
Rocco stared for a moment. Opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but then closed it again. ‘Si,’ he eventually mumbled. ‘I think many people can relate to feeling as if they are the odd one out.’
‘But today Dante has lots of friends within the police force …’
‘Si. The force and good friends stood by him. But you know the papers – they love to stir up trouble.’ Rocco looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I must go – otherwise I will never make it in tomorrow morning. Try not to worry about Dante. He’s used to this now. Every time there is a security scare those particular papers like to spew out the same old stories.’
Mary pulled a face. ‘No wonder he went into hiding – the restaurant was even busier than usual, yesterday.’
Rocco shrugged. ‘It is probably a coincidence but Dante – and the family – get a bit paranoid.’ He knelt down and tickled the dog under its chin. The terrier had the whitest whiskers that greatly contrasted with the short, dirty brown fur.
‘Goodnight, girl,’ he said and stared into those deep brown eyes.
Mary smiled. ‘I’m sure she’s molto grateful for the food. She’s definitely filled out over the last few weeks.’
His ears turned red. ‘Anyone else would do the same.’
‘I don’t think so. The local tourists are always chasing her and yesterday one of the entertainers tried to kick her away.’
His face scrunched up. ‘Which one?’
‘The breakdancer. He doesn’t come here often and just as well.’ Mary grimaced. ‘I told him to pick on someone his own size and accidentally spilt orange juice on his dancing patch. I mean, you know how clumsy I am,’ she added airily. Mary stared at the little terrier, leant forward, and tickled her tummy. The dog rolled on her back, paws in the air.
‘Beautiful, aren’t you,’ murmured Mary. Her eyes widened. ‘Have her teats always looked this swollen?’
Rocco frowned. ‘No idea.’
Mary rubbed the dog’s stomach again and gave a small gasp. She stood up to face Rocco.
‘One of my foster parents was a veterinary nurse. It was one of my happier placements. I often used to go in and wait for her, after school. I got to stroke some of the patients and could eventually recognise when a dog was pregnant.’
Rocco digested this sentence and then his jaw dropped. ‘You mean …?’
‘A dog’s pregnancy lasts around sixty days. She’s at least thirty days in. More I’d say.’
‘Dio Mio!’ He paced around for a moment. ‘If only I could take her home.’
‘Won’t your landlord allow pets?’
‘That’s not the problem – Angelo doesn’t like dogs. Or cats. Anything, in fact, that creates mess. He likes the flat to be as well groomed as he is.’ Rocco’s shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘And he likes to be the centre of attention. I’m not sure he’d appreciate visitors cooing over puppies when they came around.’ He sighed. ‘She’s such a sweet thing. Gentle natured. It’s amazing considering her life on the streets.’
‘Lucia begged Natale, the other day, to let her come inside the restaurant but it wouldn’t be good with Oro. Dante’s dog needs to focus completely on her job, without any distractions.’ Mary looked hopeful. ‘Perhaps Angelo might change his mind, seeing as this little one is in dire need.’
‘Yes. Maybe I should ask him. He should still be awake, even though it’s late. He was out at a party.’
‘Bit of a night-bird, is he?’ Mary smiled.
‘That’s where we first became friends – in a club. He’s a party promoter. Knows lots of people. Always socialising.’ Rocco straightened up. ‘I’ll ask him as soon as I get back.’
Mary jerked her head towards the terrier. She looked kind of lost. Alone. Anonymous. ‘Isn’t it about time she had a name?’
Rocco put on his helmet. ‘I didn’t like to get too attached. In case she ran away.’
Mary gazed at him. ‘You’re a real softie, aren’t you?’
His cheeks flushed. ‘Fortuna,’ he said. ‘Let’s call her Fortuna. And if Angelo won’t agree then we’ll have to tell the authorities. It’ll be sad to see her go to a dog’s home, but it’s better than a life on the streets, if she’s going to have young.’
‘Fortuna? Meaning lucky? Great idea. Her luck was certainly in, the day she met you.’
Without meeting Mary’s eye, Rocco gave a short wave and cycled off.
‘Fingers crossed,’ she muttered to the dog who licked her hand. ‘And if Angelo won’t agree, I’ll do everything I can to find you a good owner. You don’t want to go into a home. Take it from me.’
Mary locked up downstairs and headed up to bed. She thought, once more, about the foster parent who’d worked at the vet’s. Not all her placements had been bad. And she’d been lucky not to end up living on the streets. But none of those families would have stuck by her if she’d been blamed for someone’s death or been blinded.
And who could blame them? As she’d matured, Mary understood that life was complex – people just got through the best way they could. Blood usually ran thicker than water. Water didn’t always have sticking power – but that didn’t matter, because other things did, like a new city to live in and a job she now loved.