Page 3 of Unrelenting
“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.
