some clean clothes, sheets and whisky.’
Vicenzo glanced angrily towards Koch. ‘Send him away,’ he muttered.
She took his hand in hers; it felt frail and thin. ‘I can’t do that,’ she whispered, ‘not after what he’s done for you. He’s the one who got you out of prison and into here.’
Vicenzo shook his hand free. ‘Get him out of my sight,’ he said angrily.
Isabella glanced over at Koch and smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed.
His small black eyes looked back at her impassively.
‘Please, Vicenzo,’ she urged, ‘stay calm. It’s been so hard to get you released, don’t spoil it now.’
‘Thank you for bringing my things,’ he said coldly.
‘I think we should go,’ said Koch suddenly.
Isabella gazed at Vicenzo, wanting him desperately to say something intimate, something loving, but he simply turned towards the door and knocked, requesting the guard return him to his cell.
Back home, Isabella felt deflated. Vicenzo had seemed angry rather than grateful. And far from feeling relieved that her role was over, she knew Vicenzo’s continued safety depended on Koch not revealing his whereabouts. He’d made it quite clear that the Germans were still looking for Vicenzo, and it was up to her, and only her, to keep Koch onside. She called Luciana, hoping for some words of thanks and encouragement.
‘Have you heard?’ she said excitedly. ‘Vicenzo’s out! He’s been moved to the prison at San Gregorio – it’s really quite comfortable. I took him some clothes and linen and so on.’
‘How did he seem?’ Luciana asked coldly.
‘Tired, irritable, but I think he’s going to be OK.’
‘I’d like to see him,’ said Luciana, ‘can you get me in?’
‘I can try, but it will mean asking Koch for another favour.’
‘Well you can do that, can’t you?’ Luciana replied icily.
Koch seemed delighted when she rang the following morning.
‘I’ve really missed you,’ he purred.
Isabella was determined to keep the conversation as businesslike as possible. ‘Vicenzo’s sister would like to see him.’
‘I see,’ Koch replied. ‘The Count’s sister, eh? How funny, the aristocracy asking me for favours.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sure it can be arranged,’ he went on, ‘they are, after all, an important family. Perhaps you and I could meet too?’ he suggested hopefully.
‘If you like,’ Isabella replied, with a sinking heart.
‘How about dinner, tomorrow, at Albergo dell’Orso? Meet me there at seven o’clock.’
A dinner invitation was a worrying development. It was too romantic a gesture, and one which Isabella was loath to accept, but once again she felt she had no option other than to agree. She began to feel as if she would never be free of Koch, and went to bed that night filled with foreboding. She would be trapped forever in this unenviable triangle – caught between two men, one whom she loved and the other who loved her.
The following morning, a letter arrived from Vicenzo.
My dearest Bella,
I must write to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I can imagine how difficult it must have been to befriend that monster. I’m sorry I was unable to be more effusive when we met, but I hate him. I hate everything he and his Fascist cohort stand for – the betrayal of our country and its values, the moral destruction of our people. To see him standing there, gloating, was agony for me.
But you, little Bella, have been kindness itself and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.
Thank you again.
With love,
Your friend,
Vicenzo
Isabella read and reread his note, weeping as she did so. To receive Vicenzo’s thanks and expressions of love made her feel it had all been worth it.
She dressed carefully for her meeting with Koch. Determined to look smart, but not seductive, she chose an elegant, but demure blue dress that matched her eyes. She would be friendly and polite, but no more. The restaurant Koch had suggested was a fashionable meeting place for the Roman elite. It had a garden outside, filled with intimate little tables, lit by candlelight, and was the perfect location for a romantic evening.
The restaurant was within walking distance, and her route took her past Salvato Cappelli’s office, so Isabella decided to drop in on him. She had not spoken to him since refusing his suggestion of luring Koch into a trap, and was anxious to redeem herself in his eyes.
‘Have you heard?’ she asked, as she sat down in his office. ‘Vicenzo’s out of that terrible place. He’s in the prison at San Gregorio. He now has his own clothes and bedlinen – even whisky.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ Salvato