Nicolò looked furious at the interruption, once again holding up a finger to silence his son. ‘For now, Marco is best placed to take over. He has the experience and the ambition required. He is the one that has grown this business, and what’s fair,’ he continued, quoting Edoardo, ‘is that his work is recognized and rewarded.’ Nicolò turned to Marco. ‘I haven’t asked you – are you willing to take on the responsibility?’
Marco blew out the air in his cheeks, looking from Nicolò’s questioning expression to Edoardo’s furious one. ‘It’s a surprise, Nicolò. I thought you’d continue for another decade at least,’ he smiled wryly. ‘But I’m honoured by your trust in me. You know I’m committed to this family and this company. I’ll do everything I can to take it to even greater success.’
‘Thank you, Marco. I knew I could rely on you. You’re like a son to me.’
Edoardo slammed his fist on the table, his face turning puce with rage. ‘But he’s not your son!’ he burst out. ‘I am. I’m your own flesh and blood. And we all know that if it wasn’t for him then Stephana wouldn’t be d—’
‘That’s enough!’ Nicolò roared, cutting him off. ‘Say one more word and I’ll throw you out of this room and out of the company.’
Father and son stared at one another, both breathing hard, lips clenched tightly and foreheads furrowed in anger.
‘My decision is final,’ Nicolò continued. ‘If you can’t work under Marco, then you’re welcome to resign.’
Edoardo didn’t say a word, but his fists were clenched, his knuckles white, as he fought to bring his temper under control.
‘Fine,’ he spat, through clenched teeth. ‘Whatever you say, Father.’
‘Good,’ Nicolò retorted, getting to his feet. ‘Now, I’m taking my wife to Palermo for a few days. I’ll check in with you both next week.’
He walked out, leaving the two men alone in the room, the tension thicker than the Venetian fog.
Chapter 7
‘Look, I know the budget’s kinda spiralling, but you gotta trust me. Have I ever let you down before? This movie’s gonna be the biggest and the best yet. I know we’ll make it all back at the box office, the returns will be huge …’
Issy watched as Brad Redford paced across his suite, talking intently on his BlackBerry.
‘Sure, sure,’ he was saying. ‘But you gotta understand …’
He seemed engrossed in the conversation, and Issy decided to take her opportunity. Casually, she took her purse out of her bag, sliding out the work credit card that Brad had given her to pay for anything he needed – from coffees and protein bars to designer clothing and even, on one memorable occasion, the deposit on a Lamborghini. The last thing she’d used it for was the snow globe that Brad had bought for her on the opening night of Carnevale, and she felt a wave of guilt for what she was about to do.
But what choice do I have?
Grabbing her laptop, Issy went through to the dining area of the suite, sitting down at the table and positioning herself opposite the door so she would see Brad if he appeared. Glancing down, Issy tapped in the numbers from the credit card with shaking fingers.
Just a few hundred dollars, she told herself. Brad would never notice, and besides, she’d return it just as soon as she got her next pay cheque.
She clicked confirm and the transfer was completed. A sick feeling swirled in her stomach.
‘Issy?’ Brad stuck his head around the door.
Issy slammed the laptop shut, swiping the credit card off the table and into her palm. ‘Yes?’ She tried to look unruffled, though her heart was thumping.
‘Jeez, those guys are really busting my ass. All they care about is money – they don’t appreciate the creative side.’ Brad shook his head irritably. ‘The guys from the stunt company will be here any second. Can you let them in, then call Gina and ask her to come up?’
‘Sure,’ Issy did her best to look unruffled. ‘No problem.’
‘Thanks, Iz. You’re the best.’
Issy felt the edges of the credit card digging into her hand, and pushed away her feelings of guilt. I don’t have a choice, she told herself again. She would return it before anyone even noticed it was gone, as soon as she got paid.
Brad Redford would never know her shameful secret.
Lucia de Santis stretched languorously in her emperor-sized bed, pulling up her silk eye mask and blinking her long lashes as she adjusted to the pale daylight. She rolled to her side and checked the time on the clock: 10 a.m. Perfect. She wasn’t due in rehearsals until the afternoon, which gave her plenty of time to find some fun and cause a little mischief, she thought wickedly.
Lucia picked up the receiver on the ivory-coloured phone beside her bed and called her butler, requesting a hot water with lemon served in a bone-china teacup. Then she swung her long, tanned legs out from beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets, her bare feet landing on the soft carpet woven with the hotel’s insignia, and padded across her suite.
She was wearing a silk negligee and loved the way the material felt on her body, sliding sensually over her bare skin. Lucia caught a glimpse of herself in the enormous rococo mirror on the wall and was pleased with what she saw: a youthful, curvaceous body, her breasts full and gravity-defying. Any man would be lucky to have her, she thought, then her mood darkened as she remembered that the one man she wanted wasn’t returning her calls.
Turning angrily from her reflection, Lucia strode over to the window and threw open the curtains, taking in the extraordinary view across the lagoon. Venice was wreathed in fog, but shafts of sunlight were trying to break through, illuminating pockets of the city and beaming down on churches and palazzi. Lucia breathed on the cold window, causing a circle of condensation; she wrote her name with the tip of her finger, then encircled it in a heart, laughing at her own silliness.
Lucia wondered idly if there were any paparazzi lurking in the hotel grounds below. They would get a great shot: La Leonessa, staring distantly from her bedroom window, her semi-sheer negligee clinging to her incredible body and leaving little to the imagination. Lucia couldn’t see any photographers, realizing with disappointment that the White Palace had done an excellent job of preserving their guests’ privacy.
There was a soft knock at the door, then it opened cautiously, and Massimo, the personal butler provided by the hotel, entered the room carrying a tea tray.
‘Buongiorno, Signora de Santis,’ he said smoothly, averting his eyes from her state of undress. ‘Your breakfast—’
‘Leave it on the coffee table,’ Lucia instructed.
‘Of course. I brought you the papers too,’ Massimo added, laying them out beside the tea tray.
‘Grazie mille,’ Lucia purred, casting an eye over the display, gratified to see that her photograph was on the front page of all of them, and that she looked like a movie star arriving at the White Palace on the speedboat.
‘Will there be anything else?’ Massimo asked, carefully focusing on the wall behind Lucia, ensuring his gaze didn’t land anywhere it shouldn’t.
‘No …’ she hesitated, ‘Actually, maybe you can do something else for me. Who is the tall woman, with honey-blonde hair, she was watching when I came into the hotel.’ Lucia resisted saying how attractive Gina was, the thought that anyone else was beautiful only irritated her.
Massimo cocked his head to the side. ‘Gina Bellini? She is our head concierge …’
