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S ignora Pedretti and her cronies flock to the bar at sunset for a free round of bittery-sweet Crodinos – the sparkling orange liquid is a perfect match for the tangerine glow low on the horizon.

I’m exhausted. My feet are hot and sore from rushing around all day but, inside, I’m glowing like the fairy lights we hung around the stalls.

Everyone keeps asking about our target – how close or far we are from reaching it – so Kenzi and I make a giant poster and tape it to the wall outside the bar.

We name it the Bar-O-Meter – a simple column with our bold goal of fifteen thousand euros at the top, and fourteen smaller notches leading up to it for every one thousand euros we raise.

‘Keep collecting,’ Ma urges, sending me on another round with the wine cooler. ‘We need every cent.’ She turns to Sofia, pen poised over a notepad, ready to jot down the online donations. ‘How’s the crowd thingy? Any updates?’

I move from stall to stall, emptying notes and coins from improvised collection jars – coffee tins, old bottles of passata, anything we could find.

My stomach growls as I catch sight of the empty trays and platters.

I haven’t had a proper bite to eat all day, and now there’s barely anything left – just a few slices of bruschette grilling on a camping stove, and the last few skewers of arrosticini roasting over the disposable charcoal grill at the next stall.

The sizzling lamb is so perfectly seasoned and charred, just the thought of it is making my mouth water.

I circle back to where Ma and Signora Pedretti are busy sorting donations.

‘Feels like the peak’s already passed. The strike’s over, buses and trams are back on, and the food is running out too.

’ I set the half-empty cooler next to the piles of cash already on the table, trying to gauge how much we’ve raised.

It’s hard to tell, but it doesn’t look like enough.

Ma reaches out to cup my cheek and I pull away because – ew – her palm is dirty from handling all the notes and coins. ‘The ideas you’ve had, the way you’ve brought people together.’ Her voice is a little thick with emotion. ‘I want you to know that whatever happens tonight, I’m so proud of you.’

Heat gathers behind my eyes and I might actually cry.

‘I’m not doing this alone.’ I gesture at my new friends, to the stalls around us and the small crowd that’s gathered to see if we make our target.

‘The fountain musicians are taking requests in exchange for donations, and we never even asked them to get involved.’ I swallow the lump in my throat.

‘But...despite all the help and free stuff, this whole thing’s probably cost us a week’s earnings. ’

‘You’re not alone,’ Ma agrees. ‘But that’s because you’ve brought these people together, and you’ve led the way. I see so much of Nina in you, you know?’

I want to laugh but I’m still choking up. ‘Err, coming from you, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

Ma straightens a teetering tower of coins. ‘We might not get on, but I still admire her spirit and drive. She never gave up on this place, and neither have you. And if it fails...we’ll make decisions about the next steps together, like we should’ve been doing all along.’

Together.

I want to be happy. But the word feels wrong when Giulio isn’t here to be a part of it.

My hands curl at my sides. He knows we’re on the brink of losing the bar, his home, and even if he doesn’t know what’s happening here tonight, how can he just disappear?

Has he already given up – on the bar, on us – and I’m the only one left holding on?

And then, as if the universe has decided I don’t have enough to worry about, Bertolli arrives.

He steps out of a sleek black car at the end of the street and strides towards us with a smug, entitled grin that tells me he thinks he’s already won.

‘Bene, bene!’ Bertolli rubs his hands together as he reaches us. ‘Quite the little event you’ve put together. Very charming.’

Signora Pedretti mutters something unrepeatable under her breath.

Ma bristles. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You know exactly why I’m here, Caterina.’ He sneers at the Bar-O-Meter. ‘Bit optimistic, no?’

Ma folds her arms. ‘This bar isn’t yours yet, Bertolli.’

He makes a show of looking at his watch.

‘I’ve waited ten years...I can wait another hour or so.

In fact, I’ll help.’ He tosses a fifty euro note into the wine cooler like he’s throwing away spare change, and my fingers itch to empty the whole thing over his arrogant head, even if I’d then have to pick every precious coin back up again.

But before I can make that dream a reality, someone calls my name.

I swivel round, and there’s Giulio, hurrying towards us, his hair sticking up, his clothes crumpled, looking seriously un-Giulio-like. My heart does this strange, conflicting little squeeze – relief that he’s finally here, tangled with a thread of anger that he wasn’t here sooner.

And jealousy , Inner Isla reminds me. Mostly jealousy, in fact.

‘Grazie a Dio!’ Signora Pedretti clasps her hands as if a prayer’s been answered.

But something niggles at the back of my mind, not letting me relax. Why is Giulio coming from the direction of the Metro station? He should be...

My double-take is cartoonish. The space in front of his building, those narrow white stripes where his Vespa’s always parked, is empty.

My stomach drops like a boulder. ‘Oh no, Giulio. What have you done?’