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Gina didn’t know the answer to that question, but as long as it meant she wouldn’t have her past exposed, then she wasn’t looking into it too deeply. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly.

‘It’ll make him even more big-headed,’ Edoardo rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know why everyone falls at Lucia’s feet – you’re far more attractive,’ he finished smoothly.

‘Thank you,’ Gina said carefully.

‘You know, I really like you, Gina,’ Edoardo pressed. ‘I’d like to spend more time with you. I think we could be good together.’

Gina felt her heart sink; this was exactly what she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. ‘Edoardo, I—’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Edoardo interrupted, taking a large slug of his wine.

‘No, but—’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been snapped up already. But I guess it’s my lucky day,’ Edoardo raised his eyebrows suggestively, a sleazy grin spreading across his face. ‘Believe me, Gina, I could really show you a good time …’

But Gina was no longer listening. The couple at the next table had just got up to leave, and a copy of Il Gazzettino, the main daily newspaper for the Lombardy region, lay abandoned on the table. It had been open and folded at a random page, but the headline stood out so boldly it could have been written in blood: BODY FOUND BY HIKERS IN CANNEGIA BELIEVED TO BE MISSING MAN

There was a buzzing in Gina’s head, a roaring sound in her ears. She blinked once, twice, trying to bring the room back into focus. For a terrible moment she thought she might faint, but then she realized she had somehow got to her feet, and she was standing up and Edoardo was staring at her.

‘Gina, are you OK? I was just saying, I think we could have a lot of fun together and—’

Gina’s whole body heaved, as though she were about to vomit. ‘I’m sorry, Edoardo,’ she managed. ‘I have to go.’ She grabbed her coat, walked quickly out of the restaurant. As soon as she was outside, she inhaled the fresh air in a desperate gulp, and began to run.

Chapter 17

The San Marco vaparetto station to her left was overflowing with people. Heading north along Calle Vallaresso, Gina raced past the designer boutiques and high-end jewellery shops, running as if for her life, her breath ragged.

The street was narrow, filled with revellers, and Gina felt the crowds close in on her, faces looming at her as though she was trapped in a nightmare.

Keep running, keep running, don’t stop till you get home …

Desperate to get away from the crowds, she ducked down a side alley, turning left, then right, then left again, and before she knew it she was hopelessly lost in the maze of ancient streets which flashed past her in a blur: the old palazzi, with their stately appearance and faded grandeur; the flagstone alleys with stone carvings on the walls; the labyrinth of canals with silently bobbing boats, a few late-night gondoliers plying their trade. She ran until she could run no more, passing parks, churches, shops, museums. The night air was freezing but Gina barely felt it; if anything, it was refreshing after the stuffiness of the crowded bar, providing a welcome shock to the system.

The smells of the city made her feel nauseous: the sweet, greasy aroma of street vendors cooking frittelle; cigarette smoke drifting from the profusion of bars; the briny scent of the sitting water.

High in the sky, a waxing moon glowed milky-white, playing hide and seek behind wisps of cloud. It was too bright to see all but a handful of stars, twinkling against the blackness, distorted as Gina viewed them through eyes shining wet with tears.

Run, run, don’t stop, don’t stop …

She passed groups of party-goers, masked faces staring down at her in judgement, the terrifying plague doctor – il dottore della peste – with his beak-like mask and black outfit and association with death. Gina shrank from the costume every time she passed it. Hands seemed to clutch at her, bodies blocking her way, forcing her to keep moving, unable to rest, driven by fear and adrenaline.

Finally, Gina came to a stop, gasping for breath, inhaling lungfuls of the cold, crisp air. She felt completely broken, with no idea of where she was or which way to go or who to turn to.

She remembered her mother’s words on that final night, before she’d left home for good. Silvia had shaken her head, judgement etched in every line of her face.

Mark my words, the world will catch up with you, my girl …

Maria Monti was weeping. She was sitting at her father’s bedside, his body thin and wasted beneath a pile of blankets, but still he was shivering, unable to keep warm. His breath was wheezy, his skin mottled. The family all knew he didn’t have long left.

Her mother, Silvia, hovered in the background. Her siblings were in the next room, having said their final goodbyes and retreated. Now it was Maria’s turn.

‘Don’t leave me, Papà,’ she begged. She adored her father, and felt as though he was the only one who understood her. She had so little in common with her siblings and her mother, and couldn’t imagine being left with just them.

Her father reached out weakly and stroked her face.

‘Cara mia. You know I will always love you, la mia piccola bambina. But the time is coming for you to grow up and stand on your own two feet. You are stronger than you know.’

‘I’m not, Papà,’ Maria protested, unable to stop the tears from falling. ‘I can’t go on without you.’