Toni had drawn close to his wife in time to hear her last words.

‘Cara,’ he said gently, ‘no sad thoughts today.’

‘But I am not sad. I know that one day my son will find me. That can only make me happy. Ah, there you are!’

With a bright smile she turned away to greet the first guests. The newcomers had been ushered out on to the terrace by three young men whose facial resemblance proclaimed them kin.

‘Mamma,’ the tallest of the three called to her, indicating the guests, ‘look who’s here.’

This was Francesco, who might have been his mother’s secret favourite, or might not. It was marvellous how many of her sons thought he alone was the possessor of the talisman.

The other two were Ruggiero and Carlo, the twin sons she had borne to Toni. At twenty-eight they were the youngest. Although not identical, they were much alike, both ridiculously handsome, with the same air of being ready for anything. Especially if it was a party.

And this was going to be the party of parties. As the light faded and the dark red sun plunged into the bay the lights came on in the Villa Rinucci and the guests streamed up the hill, bearing gifts for Hope Rinucci’s fifty-fourth birthday.

Those present included everybody who was anybody in Naples, with a fair sprinkling of guests who had made the journey from Rome, or even as far away as Milan, for the Rinucci family was one of the more notable in Italy, with extensive connections in business and politics.

The woman at the centre of it was English, even after thirty years in Italy. Yet nobody would have mistaken her for an outsider. She was the heart of the family, not only to her husband but to the five men who called themselves her sons. Only three of them had actually been born to her, but, if challenged, the other two would have fiercely claimed her as their mother.

They were the best-looking men there: all in their prime, all strolling about with grace and unconscious arrogance. They were Rinuccis, even those who did not bear the name.