Page 44 of Unrelenting
As I walk along the street to the restaurant, I take my cellphone from my purse and try Lorenzo’s number. He doesn’t answer, so I put my phone away again. If I don’t hear from him by the end of the day, I’ll assume we’re over and draw a line under our brief relationship.
The idea of it being over saddens me more than I care to admit, but what can I do? I’ve already chased after him to the point where my dignity is in shreds.
Putting thoughts of Lorenzo aside, I pause as I reach the construction site next to the restaurant. I crane my neck, trying to get a peek at what’s going on inside.
The windows are covered up, but the front door is wide open, and I glimpse a kitchen taking shape at the rear of the space. At first glance, it looks sleek and ultra-modern. I wouldn’t expect any less from Marco Agostini.
The kitchen isn’t separated from the main dining area, so I guess Marco’s going to leave it open. That will no doubt attract a lot of customers eager to see a culinary maestro at work.
Dread twists a knot in the pit of my stomach. Gianetta’s can’t compete with that. We may be in even more trouble than I thought.
When I get to the restaurant and enter the kitchen, I find I’m the first one here. I like it when there’s no-one else around. In the silence, I hear my grandmother’s voice as she tells eight-year-old me to remember to taste everything as I go along.
My sisters never showed the slightest interest in the restaurant, but I loved spending time here, watching how the kitchen worked, learning all of my grandmother’s secrets. She had a little chef’s jacket made for me with my name embroidered on it, making me feel so special.
Though I went to England to study for my history degree, I always knew I would return to Gianetta’s.
I walk along the corridor to the staffroom and change into my work clothes. By the time I’ve done that, tied my hair up and returned to the kitchen, Nicolo and Suki have arrived.
They’re followed a minute later by Davide, whose hand is still bandaged after his mishap with the knife the other night.
“Has the doctor cleared you to work?” I ask as he crosses the kitchen, heading for the staffroom to dump his things.
“Yes, thank God. If I had to be at home another day, I’d have gone mad. The house is too quiet without Lissa.”
“Are you not over her yet?” Nicolo can be thoughtless. “You need to forget about her. The boss scored us a night at La Stanza Rosso on Saturday. You might meet someone there.”
Shit. I forgot about that. I hope it’s still going to happen. With Lorenzo suddenly becoming unreachable, I don’t know for sure. Perhaps if necessary I can dip into my savings and pay for a night in the VIP section myself. The staff deserve a reward for the long hours they put into keeping Gianetta’s afloat.
I almost laugh at myself when I realize what a night at Damiano’s club would cost. It’s more money than I can afford. I decide not to burst everyone’s bubble until I’ve actually spoken to Lorenzo.
Taking a pot from beneath the counter, I place it on the stove, then gather the ingredients for the Tuscan bean stew. It’s always the first thing I put on to cook because it needs several hours for the flavor to develop.
As I emerge from the pantry, there’s a loud knock at the back door.
“Oops, someone’s forgotten the code,” Suki says as I dump the box of vegetables I was carrying on the nearest table and go to answer it.
When I open the door, I’m surprised to find it isn’t one of my staff but an older gentleman with gray hair and a thin moustache that gives him the appearance of a cartoon villain.
Dressed in an tailored suit that’s a touch too big for his slight frame, he’s carrying a briefcase. His cold blue eyes bore into me in a way that’s deeply unsettling.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Signorina Lazaro, my name is Pietro Bianchi. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Uh, yes.” I step aside to let him into the kitchen. “We’ll go to my office.”
Ignoring the curious stares of my employees, I lead Signore Bianchi across the kitchen and along the corridor to the office I rarely use.
When we get inside, I go to stand behind the rickety wooden desk that’s been here since my grandmother first opened the restaurant.
“Please sit, Signore Bianchi.” I gesture toward the chair on the opposite side.
“I’d rather stand. This won’t take long.”
That sounds ominous. Sensing this won’t be a pleasant conversation, I also remain standing. “Okay, what can I do for you?”
“I represent a gentleman who wishes to buy this restaurant.”
