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T he language swap gets busier with each passing day, and today is the busiest yet. Laughter and languages fill the air. I even overhear Enrico teaching a French tourist the art of creative insults – something modern-day Romans are renowned for all over Italy.

I’m tempted to join in, but I can barely drag my eyes away from the entrance. Giulio has been begging Bertolli to come and see our initiative, and, with only two days to convince him the bar’s an investment worth saving, I’m both relieved and terrified he’s finally agreed.

Giulio’s as tense as I am, his head snapping up every time someone new arrives.

Our mission: intercept Bertolli before Ma sees him.

The idea – a flimsy one – is to hide him in plain sight, but we’ll only be able to do that if he comes now while the bar is busy.

And more importantly, he needs to see it’s busy if we’re going to convince him to give us more time.

I tell myself he’ll be there on the count of ten, but I’m only at eight when a shadow moves in the doorway.

It’s him – Bertolli. He’s stopped on the threshold as if his gaze has caught on something.

Following his line of sight, I see it – Giulio’s Vespa, parked by the entrance.

His greedy eyes roam over the bike like it’s already his.

‘Here we go,’ Giulio mutters before putting on his best smile and going to greet him.

Bertolli strolls around the bar, hands clasped behind his back, pale grey eyes sliding over every detail – inspecting, weighing.

..calculating. He reminds me of a briefcase, all leathery and square-angled, full of importance.

It’s clear he’s not here for the swap, and my eyes dart nervously to Ma.

She’s stuck behind the counter, serving customers, but she’s craning her neck, like she wants to know who I’m talking to and is frustrated she can’t see properly.

Weirdly, Bertolli always seems to have his back to her, as if he’s just as keen to avoid her as we are.

‘Interessante...’ Bertolli circles back to the entrance where Giulio and I are waiting for him, as far from the counter as possible. ‘I see the potential, I really do...’

Hope sparks in my veins. Maybe this will work. Maybe he’ll see we’re making real progress. I force a smile. ‘We’re hoping this will really turn the business around.’

Bertolli wets his lips, eyes straying once more to the Vespa. ‘But potential does not pay off debts. If you had not already missed a number of payments...perhaps. But the terms of our agreement have been breached.’

Giulio shifts beside me. ‘We just need a bit more time.’

I clench my fists at my sides, my thoughts spinning as I try to come up with a convincing argument.

Bertolli’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, calm and unbothered. ‘If I have the Vespa as a down payment, that will give you time to get established.’

My heart sinks. Giulio’s standing rigid, his jaw locked tight. I can’t let this happen. I step forward, my voice shaky but determined. ‘It was his nonna’s...It has sentimental value. What if we sold something else?’

Bertolli eyes me with cold indifference. ‘Only the Vespa. Or seven thousand euros. You have three days left.’

‘But you said it was worth five!’ Giulio exclaims, then he hushes, looking to see if Ma noticed. ‘You can’t.’

My skin crawls at the snake-flicker of Bertolli’s tongue. ‘Five is what I’m willing to pay, to help you out of this fix. But if you do not need my help, then seven is what you need to come up with.’

It’s clear he’s not interested in saving the bar. He doesn’t care if we make it or not. All he wants is the Vespa, and he’s just biding his time, knowing we’re running out of options.

Bertolli dismisses us, even though he’s the one leaving, and Signora Pedretti sidles over, scowling at his retreating figure.

‘I know that man,’ she says quietly. ‘He forced Enrico and his wife to close their trattoria. And that’s not all.’ She bites her lip as if debating whether to say more, then shakes her head. ‘Just watch yourselves with that one, OK?’