Page 1 of Unrelenting (Ruthless Temptations #1)

ONE

Lucia

By the end of the night, all I can think about is slipping into a nice warm bath with a glass of red wine and a cozy mystery novel set in some quaint English village.

I downloaded one last night about the headmistress of a girls’ school who’s teamed up with the barmaid from the village pub to solve crimes. I can’t wait to read it.

Perhaps I’ll use some of my favorite lavender-scented bath oil and light a few candles to create just the right atmosphere.

I suppose I could also open the box of Swiss chocolates I’ve been saving for a special occasion. This hardly qualifies, but I deserve a treat after the shit my staff and I have had to put up with over the last six hours.

Most days I love running the restaurant my grandmother passed down to me, but service tonight was brutal. We had several difficult customers to contend with at the restaurant.

There was a rowdy party of Brits who drank far more than they ate and left a hell of a mess behind.

Then there was a Dutch tourist who kicked up a fuss because we don’t stock the beer he wanted. I actually had to come out of the kitchen to placate him with the offer of a twenty percent discount on his party’s bill when my serving staff couldn’t appease him.

Really, I should have thrown him out, but he was with a large group and I didn’t want to lose their custom.

As much of a pain as he was to deal with, the prize for the biggest asshole has to go to the world famous Australian actor who insisted his steak was undercooked, despite me almost cremating it for him.

By the time he was satisfied with it, I might as well have served him burned shoe leather. A part of me is tempted to post all over social media about his rudeness, but I won’t. Gianetta’s is my grandmother’s legacy, and it will remain a bastion of discretion as long as it’s in my hands.

There were issues with the staff tonight as well. One of my best servers had to leave halfway through the evening when she got a call to say her son was sick. I didn’t hesitate to let her go home to take care of him.

Family comes first. That’s something my grandmother drummed into me. She always looked out for the people who worked for her, and I try to do the same. Unfortunately, letting Carina go home meant my front of house team was stretched thin.

There were mishaps in the kitchen too. Davide, a talented chef I hired straight out of culinary school cut himself badly enough to go to the emergency room.

It’s what happens when you allow frustrations from your personal life to fog your mind at work. He’s going through a painful break-up and he wasn’t concentrating on what he was doing.

He’ll be fine, but his injury left us two people down in the kitchen because one of the apprentices is out of town for a family funeral. Since we were fully booked as always, it put us under pressure.

To top off an already challenging evening, a fight broke out in the restaurant. Some macho idiot thought another man was checking out his girlfriend. Harsh words were thrown, followed by fists.

During the scuffle, the vase my grandfather bought for my grandmother to mark the opening of Gianetta’s sixty-two years ago got knocked over. It smashed into a thousand pieces on the terracotta floor.

Then my poor sommelier, Stefan, took an elbow to the face when he tried to put a stop to the fight. It will be days before his black eye fades.

“I wish I’d gone to that damned wine tasting after all,” I tell Angelina as she comes in from the main dining area.

The youngest of the serving staff, she’s working here to pay her way through university.

I only took her on as a favor to her sister, Gabby, who I’ve been friends with since high school, but she’s worked out well.

It’s selfish, but I wish she wasn’t destined for a career in the art world.

Our customers like her bubbly personality, and I also enjoy having her around.

“Wine tasting?” Angelina asks.

“Yes, I was invited to a tasting at Casa di Lupo.”

Angelina purses her lips thoughtfully. “That’s Lorenzo Volante’s new place, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I’ve heard it’s pretty awesome.”

So have I. The vineyard, which is halfway between here and Siena, used to belong to the Alvize family. I went there a couple of years ago when Sergio Alvize was running things. On a quest to find new suppliers for the restaurant, I thought I’d check them out.

Although they produced an impressive range, I couldn’t do business with Sergio. He was completely disorganized, unable to give me firm details on pricing and delivery arrangements.

The state of the vineyard didn’t fill me with confidence either. The vines may have been healthy, but the buildings on the property weren’t in a good state and the road leading up to the house where Sergio had his office was full of potholes. It was a beautiful setting, though.

From what I hear, things have improved dramatically since Lorenzo bought the place and poured millions of euros into it.

Apparently there’s a fancy new visitor centre with a restaurant and other facilities, and he’s modernized production. I haven’t seen it for myself, and I doubt I ever will.

Supporting Mafia-owned businesses goes against the grain for me, even if taking a moral stance narrows my options considerably.

Men like Lorenzo Volante and his brothers are extending their influence in so many areas, it’s hard to avoid them. But I do my best.

“You could have gone if you wanted to,” Angelina says. “We’d have managed here.”

Of course they would. I trust every member of my staff. Even with the problems that arose tonight, they’d have coped.

The truth is, I couldn’t face seeing Lorenzo on his own territory. I suspected he would use the opportunity to pressure me into selling Gianetta’s to him.

He’s been hanging around the restaurant for months, trying to wear me down. He’s even brought his brother and some of their business associates in to dine here. It’s an intimidation tactic, a reminder that he’s connected to some powerful men.

I won’t buckle. My grandmother entrusted her legacy to me, and I’ll protect it.

Lately, Lorenzo has opted for a new approach.

He hasn’t asked about buying the restaurant in weeks.

He comes to the kitchen to compliment the food.

The man oozes charm, but I don’t trust him.

I fear he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

If I let my guard down, he’ll steal Gianetta’s out from under my nose.

When the invitation to the wine tasting arrived at my home along with a bouquet of pink peonies, it scared me to realize Lorenzo knows both what my favorite flower is and where I live.

My first instinct was to call him and tear into him for invading my privacy like that. Then I decided to ignore him instead. Surely if I steer clear of him, he’ll soon get the message I’m not going to give him what he wants.

“I didn’t feel like socializing tonight,” I tell Angelina.

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Then I guess you’ll not be coming to Nicolo’s.”

“Why? What’s happening at Nicolo’s?”

“He invited us to check out his new apartment, remember?”

Damn! I forgot that was tonight. Nicolo, my pastry chef, has just moved out of his parent’s house. He’s desperate to show off his new bachelor pad. The way he describes the place, it’s worthy of a feature in a glossy magazine.

As much as I’d love to see if it lives up to the hype, I’m really not in the mood.

“No, sorry. I’m just going to finish up here and go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I ignore Angelina’s sad pout and puppy dog eyes. “Why don’t you grab a bottle of vodka or something from behind the bar and head off? Tell Nicolo it’s my housewarming gift.”

“Okay, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nod. “Tell everyone the usual time is fine.”

I had asked them to come in a couple of hours early to discuss my plans to remodel the bar area and introduce a light bites menu, but if they’re partying at Nicolo’s tonight, they’ll be glad of some extra time to recover.

“Thanks, boss.” Angelina grins. “You’re the best.”

What I am is a big softie. Well, for the people I work with, that is. They’re like family to me.

As Angelina leaves through the door to the dining room, I grab the laundry bag to check how many napkins we’re sending out to be cleaned.

It’s a tedious job that the kitchen porter usually does, but since everyone had a tough night, I told Gianni to leave it to me. Like I said, big softie.

I count ninety-seven napkins, which doesn’t seem right. Both sittings tonight were fully booked, so I’d have expected there to be at least a dozen more. Maybe I missed some. I am quite tired.

Almost immediately after I start a recount, I lose my place. Angelina comes back into the kitchen, breaking my concentration. Her bag is slung over her shoulder, and she’s carrying a bottle of Grey Goose.

“Did you forget something?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Signore Volante is here.”

My stomach drops. “Lorenzo?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s unlikely to be his brother.

“Yes. I told him we were closed, but he took a seat, anyway.”

Of course he did, the arrogant bastard. “I see.”

Angelina fiddles nervously with the strap of her bag. “Do you want me to stay?”

I can tell she doesn’t want to. Like the rest of the servers, Angelina puts on a polite smile when dealing with the less law-abiding citizens who come through our doors, but she’s not comfortable around these men whose ruthlessness is the stuff of legend throughout the whole of Italy, if not Europe.

“No, you head off. I can handle Signore Volante.”

Never has such a blatant lie spilled from my lips. I have no idea how to deal with Lorenzo. He’s lethal, both in terms of his charm and in the violence he dishes out.

According to rumor, he’s forced people to sign contracts at gunpoint and beaten men to death with his fists. Lorenzo isn’t the first mobster who’s come into my life, but he is the most dangerous. I haven’t encountered anyone quite like him.

As Angelina leaves through the back door, clearly preferring a walk past the dumpsters over seeing Lorenzo again, I steel myself and head through to the restaurant.

The lights are low, the shutters closed on the windows. It gives the room a cozy feel, and Lorenzo has certainly made himself at home.

His unexpected presence makes me wary. He’s never shown up after hours before.

When I spot the bottle and half-filled glass of wine in front of my uninvited guest, my eyes narrow. Did Angelina serve him? I doubt it.

Wearing a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and black pants, Lorenzo is casually dressed by some standards, but it’s the most formal I’ve seen him look.

He usually wears dark blue jeans, a t-shirt and a battered leather jacket. He must have some sentimental attachment to it because it’s seen better days.

He’s a complete contrast to his brother, Damiano, who wouldn’t set foot outside his house in anything less than a bespoke Brioni suit and handmade leather shoes.

“Signore Volante.” He’s asked me a dozen times to call him Lorenzo, but I prefer to keep some distance between us.

He inclines his head in acknowledgement of my presence, then motions toward the bottle of wine on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind, Lucia, but I helped myself.”

“Of course not.” I smile tightly.

It’s not as if I can ask him to put the bottle back. I squint as I read the label. Shit. He’s picked one of our most expensive wines. I hope he intends to pay for it.

Despite the restaurant being packed out every night, I’m barely covering my costs. Energy bills are soaring, and the price of ingredients is increasing. Every cent counts right now.

Lorenzo takes a sip of the wine and grimaces.

“Something wrong?” Apparently, my three-hundred-euro Ornellaia Bianco isn’t to his liking.

“I prefer something a little crisper, like my new Pinot Grigio.” He looks me straight in the eye. “You’d understand why if you’d come to the winery tonight.”

I purse my lips, irritated that he’s disparaging an incredible wine because he’s pissed I didn’t turn up to his event. No matter how good his Pinot Grigio is, it can’t compare with the Ornellaia he’s drinking.

As much as I’d love to school him on that, I resist the urge because I suspect he’s trying to provoke me.

“Sorry, I couldn’t make it. I had to work.”

Lorenzo tilts his head to one side and examines my expression as if he’s trying to uncover a lie. I’m not being entirely honest, of course.

As Angelina pointed out, I could have taken time off if I’d wanted to. Suki, my second-in-command, can cook the Bistecca alla Fiorentina our reputation is built upon in her sleep.

“I appreciate a strong work ethic,” Lorenzo says, “but sometimes it’s good to put work aside and indulge in a little pleasure, is it not?”

Something about the way he says pleasure sends a shiver down my spine, and it’s not one of dread.

His deep, gravelly voice does things to my insides I don’t want to acknowledge. Lorenzo is an incredibly attractive man.

I can’t deny that I’ve fantasized about him fucking me against the wall or bent over the kitchen counter. I imagine the health inspector would have something to say about that.

The trouble with my attraction to Lorenzo is that I’ve been with someone of his ilk before and it didn’t end well.

My ex-boyfriend is currently in prison for stabbing a man during a fight outside a nightclub.

Though I bear no lasting scars from my relationship with Adriano Rossini, I was burned badly enough to know not to get close to that sort of fire again.

“Did you want something, signore?” I ask tersely, trying to take control of a situation where I feel distinctly uneasy. “The kitchen is closed, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t come here for food, Lucia.”

Setting down his wineglass, he leans back in his seat. The appraising look he casts over my body strips me bare.

“Why are you here?” My voice is breathless. Nervous anticipation flows through me as the dark glint in his eye gives me the answer.

“You know why I’m here.” Lorenzo gets up from his seat and prowls toward me, his movements calculated, precise. “I’m here for you.”