Page 2 of Unrelenting
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.
