Once Upon a Time in Venice, page 1
ONCE UPON A TIME IN VENICE
Carol Kirkwood
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024
Copyright © Carol Kirkwood 2024
Cover design by Claire Ward/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Cover images © Michael Nelson/Trevillion Images (woman) and © Marek Kijevsky/Arcangel Images (background)
Carol Kirkwood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008550974
eBook Edition © May 2024 ISBN: 9780008550998
Version: 2024-06-07
Dedication
I dedicate this book to Steve,
my wonderful husband xxx
Epigraph
‘We have the greatest weapons in our hands by just being women.’
Maria Callas
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Carol Kirkwood
About the Publisher
Prologue
Lombardy, October 1985
‘Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem …’
The high, sweet voice of the girl rang out across the church of the Holy Trinity, echoing from the ancient altar and drifting up to the heavens. The sound was clear and beautiful, like the voice of an angel but, out in the congregation, Maria Monti found herself distracted, Fauré’s Requiem little more than background noise to her thoughts. She was worried about her father, Alberto.
Every Sunday, Maria went to church with her parents and siblings, but this week her father had been too ill to attend. They’d left him at home, wracked with coughing and wrapped up in a blanket beside the fireplace.
Maria’s brother, Pietro, had been out that morning in the forest surrounding their house, gathering wood to burn; they were down to the last of the oil for the stove and could barely afford any more. Her father worked for one of the tanneries that provided the finest leather to the workshops in nearby Milan, but recently he’d been sick more often than he’d been well, with repeated bouts of bronchitis. The doctor said it was because of the chemicals at the tannery, but Alberto had been unable to find a position elsewhere.
The Monti family grew vegetables and kept chickens, while Silvia, Maria’s mother, took on cleaning jobs in the big houses on the shores of Lake Como, but with five children to feed, it was always a struggle to make ends meet.
When she wasn’t skivvying for her untidy siblings, Maria dreamed of escape. She didn’t want this to be her future – scratching out a living in a tiny house on the slopes of the mountains outside Milan, spending the rest of her life in the uneventful village of Cannegia. She wanted to be able to buy nice clothes and shoes, to be glamorous like the celebrities she read about in her mother’s old copies of Hello! that were cast-offs from the houses she cleaned for, but it was more than that. Maria wanted to live an extraordinary life and experience incredible things. She wanted her future to be magical, like a fairy tale, with palaces and dazzling balls where a handsome prince would sweep her off her feet.
At school, Maria had once read a book about Venice, a floating city built on dozens of islands that had barely changed for centuries. What could be more magical than that? Maria had thought breathlessly, as she pored over pictures of winding canals and pastel-coloured palazzos, ornate stone bridges and domed churches and an ancient bell tower. Even the names were evocative: Piazza San Marco, Ponte dei Sospiri, Palazzo Ducale. Maria could hardly believe that La Serenissima was little more than a hundred miles from where she lived her dull existence. It looked like a different world.
She had read about Giacomo Casanova too, a legendary libertine who was born in Venice in the eighteenth century, when it was the pleasure capital of Europe. Casanova was – amongst other pursuits – a writer, a musician, a spy, and a voracious lover. Maria thought he sounded incredibly exciting. She was fifteen years old and found herself regularly daydreaming about boys, wondering what her future husband would be like. She was excited to have her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first caress from a lover.
A blush rose in her cheeks at the thought, and she inadvertently glanced across the aisle to see Lorenzo Mancini looking at her. Beneath his gaze, her face grew a deeper shade of crimson and she cast her eyes down, feeling heat wash over her body like a warm waterfall. When she glanced up again, Lorenzo was still watching her. Boldly, she held his stare, unconsciously biting her lip.
Lorenzo was classically handsome, with thick, dark hair, a Roman nose and tanned skin. He was twenty-two years old, the same age as her eldest brother, Renato, and he was tall and muscular with a broad back and strong arms, his biceps straining against the suit jacket he was wearing. He had deep brown eyes and full lips, and Maria found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him—
‘Maria! Basta!’ her mother hissed under her breath. Guiltily, Maria averted her eyes, her heart racing. She stared down at the worn flagstones beneath her feet, noticing the way her black leather pumps were coming apart at the stitching, and tried to concentrate on the angelic voice singing at the front of the church.
But she was still thinking about Lorenzo.
The congregation spilled out of the Holy Trinity into a beautiful autumnal morning, gathering in pockets to chatter and gossip. It was a small community, and Maria recognized everyone as she stood beside her mother and siblings, twisting her long, dark hair round one finger and wishing she could go home. Silvia Monti loved to natter with her neighbours, or to collar old Padre Bernardi and regale him with tales of her piety. They would be there for hours, Maria groaned inwardly, as her brothers messed around with their friends, her sisters standing beside Silvia, knowing they would one day be the matriarch of their own families and hold court like this.
Maria wasn’t interested in hearing what the doctor had said about Rosa Greco’s bunions, or in the rumours that Giovanna Riccardi was pregnant out of wedlock. She was worried about her father and wanted to get back to him.
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 throu
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.
