Maria adored her papà. She was the baby of the family, and Alberto always called her his piccola bambina. He never spoke down to her or got angry with her like her mother and siblings did.

Maria’s best friend, Elisabetta, once told her that the reason her sisters were so mean to her was because they were jealous that she was cleverer and more beautiful than them, her dark hair glossier, her green eyes brighter, her waist slimmer and her breasts larger. Maria didn’t know if that was true, but the boys at school had begun to look at her in a different way and made comments as she passed them. When she walked home one night, Luca Sterpone had shouted out at her, asking for a kiss, ‘Sei bellissima – baciami!’, and the others had burst out laughing.

As Maria heard her mother launch into an oft-repeated anecdote about one of the chickens getting loose and flying all the way up to the roof of the house, her mind was made up. She nudged her sister and said, ‘Beatrice, tell Mamma I’m going on ahead. I’ll see you back at home.’

‘But Maria—’ Beatrice began angrily.

Maria didn’t stop to listen, skipping out of the gate and making her way through the narrow lanes of the village of Cannegia. She could take the main road, which wound slowly up the mountain, but Maria knew it was much quicker to take the steep, rocky path through the woods.

She set off at a brisk pace, enjoying the relative cool of the morning before it grew hotter, her lungs pumping, her breath quickening. She passed into the forest where it was shady and quiet, her feet crunching softly on the fallen leaves. She heard the tapping of a woodpecker in the distance, the noise echoing through the trees, then spotted the white flash of a deer’s tail as it turned in fright and hurried silently away.

As the trail wound higher, the route growing more hazardous, Maria’s thoughts turned to Lorenzo, daydreaming about his handsome face and perfectly chiselled body. There’d been a definite look of interest in those arrogant, wolfish eyes, smouldering beneath thick brows, as he fixed her with his intense gaze. Lorenzo wasn’t like the boys in her class at school; he was tall and strong and muscular. He was a man.

She jumped as she heard a twig snap close behind her, whirling round in alarm. Almost as though she’d summoned him, Lorenzo Mancini was standing there. He smiled when he saw her.

‘Lorenzo! You gave me a fright!’ Maria’s heart was thumping, and she was both surprised and puzzled to see him.

‘I called your name but you didn’t hear me. Were you daydreaming?’ he teased, and Maria blushed. ‘What about?’ Lorenzo asked, then laughed as though he knew that she’d been thinking about him.

‘Why are you going this way? You don’t live up here,’ Maria frowned.

‘Can’t you guess?’ His smile grew wider, as Maria’s heart skipped a beat.

‘You followed me?’ she stammered, hardly daring to believe it.

Lorenzo stepped closer. He was over a head taller than her, and she had to tilt her face back to look at him. ‘You’re so beautiful, Maria,’ Lorenzo murmured.

Maria felt as though she were dreaming. Lorenzo Mancini thought she was beautiful? Impossibile! She didn’t even realize he knew her name.

Bashfully, she bowed her head, but Lorenzo reached out and placed one finger under her chin, forcing her gaze upwards. She shivered beneath his touch; the gesture felt so intimate.

‘Look at me,’ Lorenzo murmured.

Maria did as he commanded, as though she were under his spell. His eyes were dark, the pupils large. There was something intense in his expression, and it frightened her a little.

‘Lorenzo,’ she breathed, but he took her words away with a kiss, his mouth closing on hers. Maria thought she might faint, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her – she was kissing Lorenzo Mancini!

His mouth was pressed down on hers, but it was harder than she expected, uncomfortable almost. She tried to pull away, but he held her tightly, pushing his tongue inside her mouth. This wasn’t loving or tender – it was forceful and rough.

‘Lorenzo, no! Smettila!’ Maria pushed him, feeling confused and a little scared. His body felt so large against hers, as though he could easily physically overpower her. Lorenzo’s breathing was coming fast, and there was something animalistic in the way he was looking at her.

A sudden burst of fear surged through Maria. ‘I need to go home, Lorenzo. My father’s not well. He’s waiting for me.’ She began to walk away, but Lorenzo ran after her, grabbing her arm so tightly that it hurt. ‘Ouch!’ Maria exclaimed, trying to shake him free. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Maria Monti. I saw the way you were looking at me in church.’

‘What do you mean?’ Maria knew exactly what he was referring to. Yes, she’d flirted with him a little, but had she encouraged him? Had she led him on? She knew what the boys at school said about girls like her – that they were a tease.

‘I know you want this,’ Lorenzo hissed. His face was no longer handsome but twisted with cruelty, his muscular body aggressive and threatening.

Maria’s adrenaline spiked. He lunged towards her and she reacted instinctively, both hands on his chest as she pushed him with full force. It was enough to throw him off balance and he stumbled backwards, dislodging loose stones with his heels. The ground seemed to give way beneath him and he tripped, his arms flailing as he vainly tried to stay upright.

With horror, Maria realized that he was teetering on the edge of a ravine, nothing but fresh air between him and the rocky gorge a dozen metres deep.

‘Maria!’ he yelled, thrusting his hands towards her, his eyes widened in terror, his mouth opening in surprise, as the stones beneath him gave way and he dropped, his body dangling over the side of the gorge as he desperately held onto the craggy stones that jutted out and were all that stopped him from falling.

‘Maria, help me!’ His eyes beseeched her, but she felt rooted to the spot … she was the only person who could save him now …

Chapter 1

Venice, February 1995

Venice sparkled in the darkness. Across the canal, the magnificent palazzi were lit from below, the city bathed in a soft glow that reflected off the water. The air was fresh, a bracing chill in the February night, but the city felt magical at any time of year.

Gina Bellini was standing on the balcony, on the top floor of the White Palace Hotel, and she sighed in satisfaction. She could never get tired of this view, she thought, watching the lights from dozens of boats illuminating the gentle waves as they glided along the Grand Canal. Their occupants were dressed in magnificent fashion, a profusion of silk and velvet, capes and masks, as though Gina had travelled back in time and arrived in the eighteenth century.

Tonight was the first night of Carnevale di Venezia, and Venice felt electric. An annual celebration, with two weeks of festivities leading up to Lent, the Carnival was world-famous for its incredible costumes and glamorous parties. Celebrations were held against the backdrop of the stunning city, with open-air parades and costumed performers, music and spectacle. For Gina, Carnival was her favourite time of year. The city was alive with possibility; there was magic and intrigue in the air.

Gina watched the scene for a few moments longer, inhaling the familiar, briny scent of the water, hearing the excited calls of tourists from far below. As bells rang out across the city, marking six o’clock, Gina knew that it was almost time.

She turned to go inside and closed the balcony doors, snapping back into work mode. The room was incredible by anyone’s standards; it was the hotel’s Royal Suite, totalling more than two hundred square feet, and comprising of two king-size bedrooms, an enormous living room and sumptuous dining room. It was decorated in an Italian Renaissance style, with cream-coloured walls accented with intricate gilt designs, plush velvet and gold furniture, and vast crystal chandeliers.

Right now, a small army of staff were scurrying around the room, ensuring that the entire suite was immaculate. Gina’s practised glance took in everything that was happening, as she ran through the checklist of the guest’s requirements: a dozen large bouquets of unscented white lilies; unlimited amounts of room-temperature bottled water; six jars of manuka honey.

‘Has the aircon been set to exactly twenty-five and a half degrees Celsius in every room?’ she demanded.

‘Yes, of course,’ answered a young man dressed in a sharply cut, three-piece navy suit that was the standard uniform of the White Palace.

‘And there’s no citrus on the fruit platter?’ Gina checked, as she ran a finger over the antique writing desk to check for dust.

‘Absolutely not.’

Gina nodded, satisfied, catching a glimpse of herself in one of the rococo mirrors; it had been a long shift, but she still looked well-groomed and impeccably put-together, her honey-blonde hair swept back and securely fastened in a chic bun, her light make-up emphasizing her flawless skin and high cheekbones. Her lips were full, and her deep green eyes were framed by dark eyebrows and long, dark lashes. Then she turned away from her reflection and strode into the master bedroom to ensure nothing was out of place.

The White Palace Hotel was the premier destination in Venice. It was situated on its own private island – the Isola dell’Angelo – at the mouth of the Grand Canal, with sweeping views of the city. It occupied a historic palazzo dating back to the sixteenth century, and had been lavishly restored by its current owner to its former glory, replete with ancient frescoes and marble pillars, extensive gardens and even its own helipad. The hotel’s stunning interiors, private location, and discreet, attentive staff made the White Palace a favourite of movie stars and politicians, A-listers and even royalty – Princess Caroline of Monaco was a regular guest, while Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman had stayed in the Presidential Suite during the Venice Film Festival. And it was Gina’s responsibility to make their every desire a reality.

Gina’s job title was simple: head concierge. In reality, it didn’t fully cover all her role demanded, or how fulfilling she found it. On paper, her task was to give her guests more than they thought they wanted, to exceed their expectations and leave them awestruck; in short, to make all of the guests’ dreams come true.

Whether that was a romantic dinner in a deserted palazzo, scuba diving in the Gulf of Venice, or taking a sunset helicopter ride over the city, Gina could arrange it all. But it was also so much more than that. Any good concierge could do most of the things she could, but there was one thing that she thought of as her special power, the one thing that made a difference.

Gina liked making people happy.

Over the years, she’d built up an extensive network and an insider knowledge of the most exclusive experiences in the city, and she adored what she did. The demands were crazy and the hours even crazier, but Gina was at the top of her game and a legend within the industry. Inevitably, making people happy needed nerves of steel, and getting exactly what her guests wanted had made her enemies along the way. She could be tough and uncompromising; she had to be. She could be hard to get to know, too, but she inspired fierce loyalty in those who were allowed into her inner circle, and many of her VIP guests came to regard her as a friend. She’d been invited to summer in the Hamptons with John Kennedy Junior and Carolyn Bessette; skied in St Moritz with Liz Hurley and Hugh Grant; and partied with Carla Bruni and Mick Jagger in Lake Garda.

Though she was still a way off her thirtieth birthday, Gina had been headhunted by major hotels across the world, from London to Los Angeles, Shanghai to San Francisco. But despite the six-figure salaries on offer, the golden handshakes and the prestigious job titles, nothing could entice Gina to leave the White Palace Hotel. Venice was in her soul; she would remain in the city until her dying day, she was certain.

‘She’s here!’ came a cry from one of the chambermaids, who was stationed by the window. There was a flurry of activity and excited chatter as Gina walked back into the living room. Her heart began to race, nerves churning in her stomach. She was never anything less than completely professional, but the imminent arrival of this particular guest was making her feel apprehensive.

‘Thank you everyone, great work,’ Gina smiled, her discomfort imperceptible as the staff filed out of the door.