The Italian Girl by Lucinda Riley

their apartment. As he walked, he spotted a small supermarket, its window crowded with hanging strings of dry-cured sausages and wooden crates of fresh vegetables. He went inside and purchased all the ingredients he would need, plus a bottle of Chianti. Emerging into the busy street, and unsure of his bearings, he turned right and found himself in the Via Agnello. Realising he’d taken a wrong turn, he was just about to retrace his footsteps when a church, its spire visible from behind the buildings lining the main street, caught his eye.
    Luca decided to take a closer look. He walked in the direction of the spire along a narrow alleyway until he arrived in a small square. He made his way across it towards the church, hesitating in front of the arched wooden door. To the right of it was a small plaque. Luca struggled to read the words – worn away by the ravages of time – that were written on it.
    ‘La Chiesa Della Beata Vergine Maria – The church of the Madonna’, he read out loud.
    Luca checked his watch. He still had two hours before he needed to collect Rosanna. Enough time to satisfy an overwhelming urge to take a look inside, so he stepped into the front lobby. Above the door leading inside the church itself was a worn and faded fresco depicting the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus in her arms. He gazed at it for a few seconds, then entered the church. He saw it was deserted and his eyes adjusted to the dimness after the bright sunlight outside.
    Luca looked up at the high, arched ceiling, scarred with cracks in the plaster. To his left, a cherub holding up one of the pillars had a chipped nose and half a wing, and the pews in front of him were so worn that the varnish had disappeared altogether. And yet . . . and yet, even though the church looked forlorn and uncared for, Luca was struck by its beauty, its warmth.
    The echo of his footsteps rang around the church as he walked further down the aisle. Although it was empty, he felt as if he were not alone. Suddenly feeling dizzy and a little weak, he took a seat in one of the pews and put the shopping bags by his feet.
    Luca stared at the statue of the Madonna standing in the centre of the altar. The blue paint of her dress was peeling and her lips had lost their original redness. Luca closed his eyes, crossed himself and began to pray.
    When he opened his eyes, a shaft of sunlight was streaming through the stained-glass windows at the front of the church, its rays falling on the statue. The light became brighter. Then in the centre of the light he saw a blurred shape.
    Her arms were outstretched. And she spoke to him.
    He blinked and she was gone, leaving only brilliant sunlight behind her.
    Luca sat still for a very long time. When he finally moved, his body felt light, as though it had lost its gravity. He stood slowly and walked down the aisle to the front of the church. When he reached the altar, he dropped to one knee, tears of joy pouring down his cheeks. Where there’d been uncertainty, there was now purpose; and where there had been emptiness, there was love.
    He didn’t know how long it was before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned to look up into a pair of wise brown eyes. An old priest smiled down at him and Luca knew instinctively that he had witnessed and understood.
    ‘My name is Don Edoardo. I am il parroco of Beata Vergine Maria. If you wish to talk to me, I’m here every morning between half past nine and noon.’
    ‘ Grazie , Don Edoardo. I wish . . . I wish to make confession.’
    The priest nodded, and Luca rose to his feet, the feeling of weightlessness still with him, and followed Don Edoardo to the confessional.
    When Luca left the church fifteen minutes later, he knew his life would never be the same again.
    An elated Rosanna flung herself into Luca’s arms.
    ‘How was it?’
    ‘Wonderful! Terrifying, but wonderful! There are so many beautiful voices, Luca. How will I ever be able to compete? And some of the