Vittoria Vitale stared daggers at the uniformed man before her. ‘Are you telling me there is no sign of my son?’ she said through gritted teeth.

The fellow shifted awkwardly under her gaze. ‘I am sorry, Prime Minister. It is as if the boy has fallen off the face of the earth. My men and I have looked everywhere. We have searched the railway and bus stations, and an entire team is reviewing all of the closed-circuit television footage within the city limits. We have also knocked on every door of every household and business for miles. I am afraid that, if he has not returned by this evening, we must alert the media and appeal to the public for their help.’

‘The public help me?’ Vittoria scoffed, fiddling with the pear-shaped diamond on her ring finger. ‘They hate me enough as it is – and will revel in my failure as a mother.’

‘Mia cara.’ Her husband hurried to her side. Although in his late forties, the man was striking with thick dark hair, olive skin and eyes like pools of black ink. ‘If anyone is to blame, it is me,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I should have paid more attention to the boy.’

But how? Vittoria knew nothing would have appeased her son, who only wanted to return to their hometown to be with his grandfather. Ever since they had moved to Rome, he had been near impossible, arguing with her and Lorenzo constantly. It was lucky her husband had the patience of a saint. In truth, she had on more than one occasion investigated boarding schools in Switzerland and England. Life was complicated enough trying to run the country without familial drama adding to her load. But now that her worst nightmare had been realised, the only thing she wished for was to be reunited with her little boy.

Nico rubbed his pounding head and squinted into the darkness as a mustiness enveloped him. The last thing he could remember was running across the rooftops, away from that lout Fabrizio.

The aroma of garlic and herbs hung in the air, making his stomach grumble. Nico sat up gingerly. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Is anyone there?’

Outside, the floorboards squeaked. Someone was coming. The handle turned and the door creaked open to reveal a silhouetted figure.

‘H-Hello, could you tell me where I am? I seem to have forgotten . . .’ Nico trailed off as a man wearing a black balaclava deposited a tray of food by the door.

‘Buon Natale,’ the man said over his shoulder then left.

Nico heard a key turn in the lock and, ignoring his aching limbs, ran to the door. ‘Please come back! I need to go home,’ he yelled, banging his fists against the door. ‘Let me out! Please!’

The boy shouted for what felt like an eternity before he gave up and sat down on the bare floorboards. Through the haze in his head, he remembered. It was Christmas Day, but he had a horrible feeling that there would be no celebrations here.