THREE years later, Zara watched her daughter, Donata, play in the bath in their London town house before scooping her out into a fleecy towel and dressing her little squirming body in her pjs. Her dark eyes were so like Vitale’s that the little girl was very talented at wheedling things out of her mother.

　　‘Daddy?’ Donata demanded, first in Italian and then in English, demonstrating her bilingual language skill with aplomb.

　　‘Later,’ Zara promised, tucking the lively toddler into bed and reflecting that it would be the next morning before Donata saw the father she adored.

　　Vitale had spent the whole week in New York and, although Zara and...