1. Opening Night
   

Jim Levine downed his flute of champagne. Not something he had a particular taste for. Not at all. Growing up in Baltimore, a nice cold beer, maybe with an accompanying shot of Canadian Club, was about as refined as things got.

Not that his tastes hadn’t improved a great deal since being posted to Italy by the United States Government – in this case, the Treasury Department.

They saw in him the potential to investigate things that were, as described to him, of “deep concern” to the department. Even though he was one of the youngest in the bureau – and certainly not a Yale or Harvard alumnus like most of his peers.

So he had, of course, broadened his tastes: in food, in what beverages he enjoyed, in all sorts of cultural things, from fine art to music.

And – he had to admit – women.

In this case, one particular woman who represented so many different levels of excitement never to be had in the sleepy city of Baltimore, where a day out at the stadium – hot dog and beer in hand, watching the always struggling Orioles for nine innings – was about as thrilling as it got.

And, especially tonight, so exciting to attend an opening night at La Fenice, Venice’s jewel of a theatre, even though he’d had a “business” reason to be there.

Tonight’s season premiere: La Traviata. He had to admit, not a bad story – the entrancing Parisian courtesan Violetta facing the grim realities of her life, while spurning the ambition of her most ardent lover.

And the music?

Even as someone untrained in the finer things, such as Grand Opera, he found Signor Verdi’s music tuneful... moving. The audience ovation at the end totally filled the theatre.

A white-gloved waiter glided across the ballroom with a silver tray – more champagne flutes arrayed like soldiers ready for the front, bubbles eagerly streaming to the surface, to keep the party flowing.

Or to quote from the opera: “Libiamo, ne’ lieti calici”.

Let’s drink to love and wine.

Levine smiled and took a glass. This was certainly one extravagant late-night reception to celebrate the premiere, with even some of the opera’s stars in attendance.

All rather dazzling. Though he had eyes for only one other person at this fete.

The person who had arranged his invite to this palazzo.

The host’s home occupied a whole floor – the piano nobile. This ballroom, if that’s what it was, easily big enough to host such a glittering and glamorous event.

Plenty of old money in the room, Levine guessed. And a good amount of what the French would call “les nouveaux riches”. Men in their fifties with wives half their age.

All Levine had was a government salary. Bit of an expense budget. He was definitely out of his element.

But true love conquers all...

He turned to look at the reason he’d come to this exclusive party.

Marcella Russo: her jet-black hair held back in a remarkable wave, the lustrous dark strands catching the light from the chandeliers above and the candles all around this room.

A dazzling necklace of diamonds and sparkling gold around her neck.

And her dress...

As befitted the premiere, a sumptuous red brocade number. Low cut in the front, a teasing view of her bare, white shoulders – such a contrast to that deep red.

She was simply stunning.

He was, he knew, completely in love with her.

Unexpectedly. Amazingly.

She turned then, his gaze not wavering, and looked straight at him. Her eyes matching her hair in depth and darkness.

She gave a smile – then the smallest movement of her lips: some words, shaped but unspoken.

He could only guess.

Jim Levine had enjoyed his months in Venice before meeting Marcella Russo – some wild parties out on the Lido – but once he’d met her... once he’d felt that connection... all that was over for him.

Now that he’d heard her whispers up close. Had looked deep into those eyes, from only inches away...

For this boy from Baltimore? He’d never felt a thrill like it.

But there was one problem. One small detail.

Marcella was married.

Married to Salvatore Russo – tonight’s host. A powerful man. Dangerous.

And as if Jim had somehow conjured the husband up, he saw Russo himself now appearing through the crowd of guests and approaching Marcella.

Tanned, lithe – though maybe not at ease at this elegant, sophisticated soiree. Jim knew he’d been raised in poverty in Sicily and muscled his way to riches in the Veneto.

Marrying into Venetian old money helped, too.

Jim watched as Salvatore’s hand slid to his wife’s waist, lingering, his bald head leaning in close to her cheek. The woman frozen at his side, as if ensnared.

Jim saw her frown, then nod, as if taking instructions.

And all Levine could think was, I must free her from this.

Somehow, some way.

*

Levine saw his opportunity. One of the sopranos stepped forward to the grand piano and launched into an aria that Jim recognised from “Don Giovanni”.

A hush fell over the room as the patrons listened attentively. But not all.

He noticed Salvatore Russo wander off to the far end of the ballroom, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the Grand Canal, and engage in a heated conversation with other similarly disinterested men.

Arias be dammed, Levine guessed.

And he spotted Marcella, who gave him a look then drifted away from the performance as if perhaps seeking another champagne.

But then, instead, she turned quickly, heading to the double doors that he knew led out to the hallway.

And disappeared.

Jim Levine put down his just-finished flute and followed. Not hastily – not as if he was on an errand of any great urgency – but with slow, steady steps, his excitement level rising.

For that was the effect that this woman had on him. Her beauty. Her smile. Even the gentle accent that tinged her impressive English.

Levine’s Italian was certainly passable, but no match for Marcella’s command of his native tongue.

He followed her out of the room, tracking her down a hallway lined with elaborately framed paintings. He saw her pause at the grand staircase that led down, but then continue down the hallway, beyond the stairs to where it was dark. Perhaps a powder room was nearby?

But now she stopped, just deep enough into the dark to be missed by anyone hurrying to the stairs and out to the foggy Venetian night outside.

In a moment he was there. Beside her.

He looked at her. Not knowing what to say. Just absorbed by seeing her, close.

It was Salvatore Russo’s wife who responded.

Quickly coming close, kissing him hard. That impetuousness something he loved about her.

And with that kiss bestowed, she spoke.

“I must return pronto. Salvatore – always noticing when I am not there, by his side.”

Levine said the obvious. “I love you.”

The words created a smile on Marcella’s face, red lips parting.

But there was something that needed confirming in this brief, stolen moment.

“Tomorrow?” he said. “You’ll still be able to come? Like last time – in the afternoon?”

A time he knew he would never forget. Perhaps also – he hoped – the same for the daring woman standing before him.

“Yes. My husband has business, some place.” Her smile broadened, then her voice became a husky whisper, laced with promise. “I will be there.”

Then as if to confirm things she added: “Mi amore.”

Jim went to kiss her again, but Marcella turned, as if she had sensed someone might be coming this way, might see the two of them.

“No. I must go. I will see you – and you will see me – tomorrow.”

He took her hand even as she started to move away, her eyes wide.

A last look back, then she hurried down the long hallway, back to the ballroom, the sound of another aria being sung.

For a moment, Jim just stood there.

He took a breath; all this – in a word – dizzying.

And he thought, Time to leave.

Early start tomorrow. Important things pending in his investigations. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back in his little apartment, tucked away on a narrow calle not far from the Rialto Bridge.

And the sooner tomorrow would arrive.

He headed back towards the stairs. No need to return to the party – he could just head down, retrieve his coat, scarf and fedora from the cloakroom and go.

He reached the staircase.

“Signor Levine.”

Jim turned to see Salvatore Russo stepping out of a dark corner, the man lit by the sudden flare of a petrol lighter as he put a cigar to his mouth.

Jim’s heart pounded.

Had Salvatore seen him and Marcella? Seen them kissing?

If so, then he...