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?’

Lucia remained sphinx-like as the boat drew closer to the hotel, aiming for the narrow channel on the eastern side of the small island. The photographers couldn’t follow in here; it was private property, with the waterway leading through a stone archway and directly into the hotel itself, so that guests could disembark in absolute privacy. In Lucia’s case, there was a separate elevator that led directly from the jetty to the Royal Suite, so she could bypass reception and the obvious stares of other guests.

It was only when Lucia was out of sight of the paparazzi that she allowed a small, mischievous smile to appear on those famous red lips. Everything had gone perfectly; she would be on the front page of every newspaper and gossip magazine tomorrow morning.

She removed her sunglasses to reveal stunning hazel eyes that sloped like a cat’s, and was gratified that the hotel staff had lined up on the dock to greet her, as though she were a nineteenth-century aristocrat returning to her country house. This was how she was treated now: with deference, respect, and even a little fear. The memories of her poverty-stricken childhood were all but erased, the old Lucia dead and buried. She was La Leonessa, and the rest of the world bowed down accordingly.

A short, balding man in an off-the-rack suit offered his hand to help her out of the boat. Lucia took it and felt grateful that she was wearing gloves; she avoided touching the common people.

‘Signora de Santis, I am Bruno Fiore, the general manager of the White Palace. We are delighted to welcome you here, and grateful that you have chosen us to be your home in Venice. We trust everything will be to your satisfaction, but if there’s anything further you need, it will be yours.’ He inclined his head and bent forwards so that he was almost bowing to her.

‘Grazie,’ Lucia said impatiently.

As though sensing this, Bruno said briskly, ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you up to your suite.’

Lucia swept after him on vertiginously high-heeled boots, her imperious gaze sweeping over the row of staff in their cheap uniforms. But Lucia’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly as she glanced Gina’s way, who looked away quickly, hoping that it wasn’t a look of recognition that she saw in Lucia’s eyes.

Gina took a discreet step backwards, all the better to blend into the shadows, which was exactly the way she wanted it.

Chapter 2

‘Oh, mia principessa, look at you!’

‘Do you like it, Papà?’

Eight-year-old Daniela DiMaggio spun round in giddy circles, her long skirt flaring out, clearly proud and excited. She was wearing a traditional Carnival dress in pink and white, with a silver mask and an incongruous plastic tiara that she’d spontaneously added.

Her father, Marco, sighed as he watched her, feeling a mixture of delight and sadness. She looked wonderful, her personality and style developing every single day, and she was growing up so fast. Tonight was her first Carnival party; yet another milestone that her mother, Stephana, wouldn’t be there to see.

‘My darling, you look beautiful,’ Marco said, suppressing his emotions.

‘I can’t wait for Sofia’s party. She’s going to have music and dancing and games. And look, this afternoon, Rosina and I made frittelle.’ Daniela bounded over to pick up the

box on the kitchen table. ‘Here, try one. We put slices of apple in them.’

Marco picked up one of the fried doughnuts, a traditional Venetian Carnival delicacy. ‘Mmm, these are delicious. I think I might have to steal them for myself.’

Daniela giggled, her tiara wobbling on her head comically. ‘Naughty Papà, I’ll leave a few behind for you instead.’

Laughing himself, he straightened his daughter’s wonky crown as her nanny, Rosina, emerged from Daniela’s room. She was a stout woman in her sixties, and looked like a traditional Italian nonna, with greying hair pulled up in an untidy bun. She tutted, fussing around her jiggling charge. ‘Don’t forget your coat, Daniela, it’s cold outside.’

She’d been Daniela’s nanny for three years now, since shortly after the accident that claimed her mother’s life. It had quickly become clear that Marco couldn’t cope on his own after Stephana’s death; he needed to go back to work, to keep his business going, to make it a success for Daniela’s future, and he needed a stable, caring figure to help look after his daughter while he did so. Rosina had gone above and beyond, and taken the place of the real grandmother she lacked. Marco was extremely grateful to her. They both adored her.

‘Don’t you worry about a thing tonight,’ Rosina continued. ‘I’ll take Daniela to the party, then collect her once it’s finished, and bring her back and put her to bed. I’ll stay over in the guest room, so you don’t have to worry about rushing home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But Papà, you have to start getting ready for your party, or else you’re going to be late. Come on,’ Daniela insisted, taking his hand and pulling him from his seat, dragging him along the corridor to his bedroom.

The apartment was large by Venetian standards, but each room was small and simply furnished, decorated in a traditional style with exposed stone walls, dark furniture, and polished wooden floors covered with rugs – though Daniela’s clutter strewn through every room gave it a warm and lived-in feel. Very little had been changed since Stephana’s death; Marco didn’t have the time or inclination to redecorate. The paint colours remained the same, the lampshades and curtains were the ones she’d chosen. They were growing a little shabby now, but Marco barely noticed; their familiarity was comforting.

In his room, his nobleman’s costume was hanging from the door of his antique wardrobe. Daniela went over to his chest of drawers, picking up one of the framed photographs that was displayed on the top. It showed her mother, Stephana, in a black and gold Carnival dress, Marco standing beside her with his arm around her waist, and the iconic vista of St Mark’s Square in the background behind them. The same costume Marco was wearing in the photograph now hung on the wardrobe. Daniela had chosen it because she wanted him to wear the same as he had in that happy moment with her mother.

She gazed at the photograph. ‘Do you think they have Carnevale in heaven, Papà?’

‘I’m sure they do, mia cara. The best. With as many frittelle as you can eat.’ He kissed her on the top of her head.

‘Are you excited for your party, Papà?’

Marco wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be as much fun as yours, I’m afraid. There’ll be lots of people talking about boring business, and it will probably be very dull. I’ll have to try not to fall asleep. In fact, I’m almost asleep now thinking about it,’ he confided in a whisper, pretending to nod off, making Daniela laugh again.

Marco was a senior partner at Elicotteri Conti – Conti’s Helicopters – a helicopter rental company that chartered flights for VIPs, organized sightseeing trips over the city, and had even provided choppers for movies. Marco himself was a trained stunt pilot, and his flying skills were in demand all over the world.

‘Don’t forget to take your blue eyes out, Papà!’

Marco laughed, remembering the blue contact lenses he was wearing changing the colour of his brown eyes. He was about to start a new project as a stunt double for Brad Redford, Hollywood’s biggest star. They had worked together before and had physical similarities, but the one thing they didn’t have in common was the same colour eyes. Brad was a stickler for detail. Marco had been trying out his new lenses ahead of the shoot to get used to them. ‘I’m bound to forget, bambina.’

It was an honour to be invited to the masked Guild Ball thrown by the prestigious Venetian Enterprise Guild, but Marco really didn’t feel like attending tonight. He was tempted to cry off, to head out into the city itself and get lost among the crowds while soaking up the atmosphere of Carnevale, but he knew he couldn’t. It was his responsibility to represent Elicotteri Conti.

‘Daniela,’ Rosina called. ‘Are you ready, bambina? It’s time to leave.’

Daniela looked torn – she was eager to go to the party, but wanted to see her father in his costume.

‘You go, darling. I need to take a shower, then get ready. Have lots of fun.’

‘All right, Papà,’ Daniela said reluctantly. She put the photograph of her parents back on the chest, then she put her hand out and stroked Stephana’s face. ‘Buona notte, Mamma,’ she said cheerfully.

Marco watched her, overwhelmed with love for his daughter and amazed at her resilience. She looked more like her mother every day, with her jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, her olive skin and dimpled cheeks. It was a tragedy that she had to grow up without Stephana. A tragedy that he wondered if time would ever heal, for either of them.

‘Ciao, Papà,’ Daniela said, coming across to kiss him goodbye. ‘Have a good time at your party.’