Page 35 of Unrelenting
“Ah, then credit has to go to my pastry chef, Nicolo.”
“You came out of the kitchen and congratulated us personally,” Mario says. “Gave us a bottle of Prosecco.”
That’s not something I do for every guest who proposes in my restaurant. If I did, I’d go bankrupt in a week. I look at the doorman closely. His gray eyes are familiar. I try to place him, and it comes to me. “You’re Elena Mancini’s husband.”
“Elena Lombardi now, but yes.”
I turn to Lorenzo. “His wife and I were at Oxford at the same time. We were both so surprised to meet someone else from Florence, we became friends for a while. We lost touch once she came back here until I saw her that night at the restaurant.”
As I give Lorenzo the details of our acquaintance, I feel bad I haven’t kept in touch with Elena.
“Give her my best wishes,” I tell Mario, who nods in agreement.
Lorenzo puts his arm around my shoulder. As we pass Mario on our way to the door, he slips the other man a hundred-euro bill. “Buy something for the kids.”
“I will. Thank you,signore.”
“Big softie,” I mutter as Lorenzo steers me through the door.
“It’s your good influence,” he replies.
I seriously doubt he gave Mario money just to impress me. Lorenzo strikes me as the sort of man who’s as generous to people he feels deserve it as he’s vicious to those who cross him.
There’s another security guard just inside, manning the scanner. It’s not a simple metal detector. It’s like something you’d see at an airport, with thermal imaging or something that the guard views on a screen as you pass by.
An alarm sounds because Lorenzo is in fact carrying a weapon, but the guard waves him on.
We head up the long flight of stairs and walk into the main part of the club. It’s packed. The dance floor is full of people, and there’s a crowd gathered around the long bar at the side of the room.
The music is loud, and it’s clear everyone’s having a good time. Art is projected onto the wall at the far side of the room.
There’s seating around the dance floor and booths tucked away at the back of the room. It’s hard to make out the décor in this low light, but there are incredible metal sculptures in the alcoves.
A young woman approaches. Tall and blonde, she could be a model. As I look around the room, I realize that all the staff, distinguishable by the black suits or form-fitting dresses they wear, are incredibly attractive. I guess I’m starting to see why this place holds such appeal.
“Signore Volante, welcome.” The blonde has an accent. Russian, maybe? “Please come this way. Your usual seat is ready for you.”
If it’s his usual seat, I wonder why he needs to be escorted to it. It must all part of the service.
We follow the young woman toward a set of stairs, guarded by two Armani-clad demigods who step aside the moment they see us coming.
“Isn’t Violetta working tonight?” Lorenzo asks.
An irritating pang of jealousy spikes inside me, but I tamp it down.
“She was, but there was….” The hostess struggles to find the right thing to say. “An incident with Signore Volante.”
“What incident?” Lorenzo demands as we reach the top of the stairs and find ourselves in the luxuriously decorated VIP area.
It’s quieter than downstairs but still quite busy. There are several local celebrities here, a couple of footballers and a politician who’s here with a woman who is most definitely not his wife.
Discretion must be assured in a place like this because he isn’t even subtle in the way he’s pawing at her breasts.
“I….eh…..your cousin is here. Perhaps he can tell you.”
“Which cousin?”
“Benito,” she replies. “He’s in the office. I can fetch him for you.”
