Page 8 of Unrelenting (Ruthless Temptations #1)

SEVEN

Lucia

After my unscheduled post-coital nap, I wake feeling groggy. It takes a couple of minutes for me to persuade my eyes to stay open. I stretch out my arms, reveling in a languorous yawn and smile as I think about Lorenzo.

He’s not what I expected. I mean, he is in some ways. He’s definitely got a darker side and a need for control, but he’s also funny and surprisingly considerate. I love that he went out to get coffee and pastries for us.

Other men I’ve been with would have expected me to prepare breakfast. Of course, that says more about them than it does about Lorenzo.

Though I was reluctant to get involved with him, he hasn’t tried to take more than I’m willing to give. I’m surprised at how secure I feel around him. That doesn’t mean I see a future for us, but this could be fun while it lasts.

Forcing myself out of bed, I head for the shower. I turn it on to a cool setting to compensate for the heat that’s already building. It’s been unusually hot this year.

When I’m done showering, I gather my hair into a bun and skewer it with decorative silver pins to hold it in place.

Then I dress, choosing a white silk top with a halter neck and pink cropped trousers. It’s fancier than the jeans and shirt I’d usually wear to work since I’m only going to change into my work uniform when I get to the restaurant, but I like this outfit.

A part of me hopes Lorenzo will too if he turns up to walk me home, as I suspect he will.

After checking myself in the mirror, I grab my purse and leave for work. I napped for too long and missed my window of opportunity to get some shopping done.

It doesn’t matter. My need for new sneakers isn’t so urgent.

As I walk toward the river, I’m tempted to stop for gelato to help me cool down, but everywhere is packed with tourists trying to get out of the mid-afternoon heat.

The popularity of the city where I was born is both a blessing and a curse. I decide it’s more of the latter as I navigate the crowds on the Ponte Vecchio.

I could walk a few hundred meters and use one of the other bridges that span the river, but this is the most direct route to the restaurant.

My grandmother chose wisely when she opened Gianetta’s. We’re a stone’s throw from the River Arno and close to the Pitti Palace. We get a lot of tourists at the restaurant looking for authentic Tuscan cuisine.

Locals love Gianetta’s too. It’s a popular spot for couples to enjoy a romantic night out. They can enjoy an intimate dinner and then walk along the riverside.

Lorenzo has brought in a whole new class of customers, but I’m not complaining.

His associates may be undesirable in some circles, but they’re model customers.

They’re always polite to the staff, they tip well even though it’s completely unnecessary, and they don’t cause trouble.

I wouldn’t like to gain a reputation as a Mafia hangout, though.

“Excuse me, Miss.” A male voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I smile as I turn toward an older American couple.

“Could you?” The man holds up his cellphone and gestures toward the bust of Cellini that sits at the midpoint of the bridge.

“You want me to take a picture for you?” I check.

He lets out a breath of relief to find I speak English. “Please.”

I oblige as I always do. I get asked to take pictures for people almost every day. There must be something about my demeanor they trust because they hand over their cellphones and cameras without a second thought so they can pose for photos.

The couple put their arms around each other’s waists, and the woman, who’s at least a foot shorter, rests her head against the man’s shoulder.

They’re a sweet couple, in their late fifties judging by the gray hair and wrinkles. I take a few photos to give them some options, then hand their phone back.

I can’t help smiling as I’m walking away when I hear the woman ask her partner who Cellini is anyway, and the man replies confidently that he was a composer.

The urge to turn back and correct him almost overwhelms me, but I resist. It’s not up to me to play tour guide.

When I finally make it through the throngs of people and get off the bridge, I walk along by the river for a couple of minutes and then turn down the street that leads to the restaurant.

I’m surprised to see a metal fence has been erected around the entrance to the building next to mine. There are construction trucks and men in hard hats going in and out, carrying tools and lengths of timber.

It's been months since the last occupant of the building moved out, and I’m relieved it appears someone will finally be moving in. Empty storefronts are a target for vandals and arsonists.

Though there hasn’t been much trouble next door, it has been graffitied by someone with no artistic skill whatsoever. It was a real eyesore, and that’s not good for business.

Hopefully, the construction work will only be carried out during the day so disruption for my customers is kept to a minimum. It would have been nice for our new neighbors to give us some warning work was about to start. I hope it’s not a sign that they’ll be difficult to deal with.

The last woman who occupied the building ran a store selling scented candles. She was a real sweetheart.

Making my way around to the private entrance at the side of the building, I enter my security code to open the door.

Every time I key in the numbers, I’m reminded I need to do something about the front door, which still has an old-fashioned lock. There’s also a metal shutter, but it’s secured with a padlock that could easily be removed. I should have seen to it a long time ago, but I never get around to it.

Perhaps I could ask Lorenzo to recommend someone. I’m sure a man in his line of business deals with a few security firms.

I dump my bag in the staff room and change into my chef’s whites. When I get to the kitchen, I find Nicolo and Stefan already there.

My pastry chef has been working on a new dessert menu for the last two weeks.

Since Stefan’s skills go beyond describing how a wine tastes, he offered to help. He can detect even the subtlest hints of flavor.

The two men, who’re comically dissimilar to one another in height, build and hair coloring, are at the stove.

While Stefan is short and skinny, Nicolo looks like he should be working security somewhere with his imposing stature.

Stefan has striking blond hair, an inheritance from his Norwegian father and Nicolo sports a jet black faux hawk.

They’re bickering like an old married couple over whether Madagascan vanilla beans are better than Ecuadorian.

When they realize I’ve entered the room, they look to me to break the deadlock.

Unfortunately, my palate isn’t that refined. I can season steak to perfection and tell if a sauce needs more acidity, but when it comes to determining whether one type of vanilla is better than another, I’m lost.

“Don’t look at me.” I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t have a horse in this race.”

“But, Lucia, it’s important.” For a man of his stature, Nicolo can be seriously whiny when he wants to be. “We need perfection, especially now.”

I frown, not understanding the urgency in his voice. “Why especially now?”

“Didn’t you see the construction crew next door?”

“Yes.” They were hard to miss. My heart sinks. “It’s not a restaurant, is it?”

Although Gianetta’s is fully booked almost every night, we are facing increasing competition. If another restaurant opens right next door, it could hit us hard.

“It’s not just a restaurant,” Stefan says. “It’s Marco Agostini’s new restaurant.”

“Oh, fuck!” I can’t contain my shock. Marco Agostini isn’t just a chef, he’s a rockstar. The current enfant terrible of the culinary world is famous for his innovative creations. Every restaurant he’s ever worked at has gained Michelin stars. “Are you sure?”

Stefan nods. “Remember Gianfranco, who built the new shelves in the pantry?”

“Yes.” It would be hard to forget the curmudgeonly old asshole who cursed us to high heaven the entire time he was working here.

Thankfully, his workmanship was impeccable because I don’t know how he’d have dealt with any complaints I raised.

“Well, he’s one of the carpenters. He told me someone’s pouring a lot of money into the place, looking to make it the hottest restaurant in Tuscany. They’ve hired a designer from New York to create something we’ve never seen before.”

Well, there goes my good mood. I head to the prep section and place a chopping board on the worktop. I grab some onions from the box under the counter and start chopping aggressively before I realize Nicolo and Stefan have followed me across the room.

“What will we do, Lucia?” Nicolo asks.

“We lean into our heritage, I guess. Gianetta’s is all about tradition. We make our food a counterpoint to Marco’s sous-vide scallops and edamame emulsions.” Or whatever it is he cooks. I’ve never eaten at one of his restaurants.

“Does that mean I can’t create my new desserts?” Nicolo asks.

“No. You do whatever fancy thing you want. We’ll keep the main menu as it’s always been. Ribolita. Bistecca alla Fiorentina. Tuscan Bean Stew. All those classic dishes. But we’ll surprise people with dessert.”

Nicolo puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Lucia. I’ll make you proud.”

I pat the back of his hand where it rests on my shoulder. “I know you will, Nicolo.” I turn to my sommelier, thinking about what Lorenzo told me about handing over some responsibility. “And Stefan, we need to update the wine list. I want you to get out there and find some new producers.”

Stefan looks surprised. “You trust me with that?”

“You know more about wine than I do.”

His chest puffs up with pride, and I realize I should have asked him to do this long ago.

“Do you think your boyfriend would give us a good deal on his wines?” Stefan asks as Nicolo drifts away to get back to what he was doing.

“He’s not my boyfriend, but I’m sure Signore Volante would be delighted to do business with us. Arrange a visit to Casa di Lupo. If he agrees to make us the sole stockiest in Florence of at least one product, we could use that as a selling point.”

Uncertainty reveals itself in the twisting of Stefan’s lips. “Can’t you ask him about this?”

“Stefan, do you want more responsibility, or not?”

He sighs heavily. “Of course I do.”

“Then this is your chance. Call the vineyard. Arrange a visit. Lorenzo won’t bite. In fact, don’t even worry about Lorenzo. It’ll probably be some manager who shows you around. I doubt Lorenzo concerns himself with every case of wine that leaves his warehouse.”

Stefan’s shoulders relax. “Of course he doesn’t. I’ll call them.”

“Hey,” Nicolo shouts across the kitchen, “maybe you should ask your boyfriend to scare off our new neighbors. You know, stick a horse’s head in their freezer, or something.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, and Marco would just marinate a horse’s head and serve it with braised hispi cabbage.”

He’d probably do something far more creative with it, but my point is valid. Marco isn’t the type of man who’s easily intimidated, and I don’t want to ask Lorenzo to throw his weight around on my behalf anyway.

My grandmother faced many challenges with new restaurants bringing innovative concepts, but she outlasted them all. I’ll do the same thing she did and weather the storm.