‘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.
Gina’s gaze swept around the room for a final time, ensuring nothing was out of place. Then she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and headed for the lift.
Out on the Grand Canal, Lucia de Santis was causing a commotion as she crossed the water on the White Palace speedboat. In fact, she was doing absolutely nothing – merely sitting ramrod straight at the helm of the sleek, wooden Riva, and gazing straight ahead – but this didn’t stop a score of paparazzi vessels racing to keep up, their camera flashes lighting up the inky night sky. It looked as though Lucia was leading an army into battle, a veritable flotilla streaming across the lagoon.
‘Lucia, give us a smile,’ the photographers shouted.
‘You look so beautiful tonight. Is it for someone special?’
Lucia didn’t acknowledge the questions, yet she was acutely aware of the paparazzi presence, and delighted by all the attention. She wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, despite it being after dark, and she was swathed in a thick fur coat, decorated with an enormous diamond brooch that glinted in the headlamps of the boats. Her dazzling, platinum-blonde hair tumbled in waves from beneath a silk turban, and a Hermès scarf had been tied at her throat to protect those precious vocal cords, that exquisite voice she’d had insured for ten million dollars.
With her ruby-red lips and glowing skin, Lucia looked every inch the diva she was. ‘La Leonessa’, the press had christened her – the Lioness – and she revelled in the title.
Hers was a true rags-to-riches story. Born in a tiny village, tucked away on the slopes of the Italian Alps, Lucia had grown up in near poverty. Her voice and her talent had been her way out, her golden ticket to a new life. She’d won a scholarship to the illustrious Julliard School in New York, leaving home the summer she’d turned eighteen, and she had never looked back. Lucia was now the world’s most famous soprano, a true prima donna, feted by presidents, popes and kings.
Lucia had performed at every major opera house in every major role: Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro at the Palais Garnier in Paris; Rosina in The Barber of Seville at the Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires. And now she was returning to her home country in triumph, to perform as Violetta in La Traviata at Venice’s prestigious La Fenice opera house.
‘Lucia, is it true you’re dating Matteo Galliano?’ the photographers shouted, naming the playboy heir to a racing car dynasty.
‘Where’s Matteo tonight? Will he be coming to see you perform?’
