Page 46 of Unrelenting
“My client told me you might react this way. He told me you were stubborn. It’s one of the things he liked about you.”
My eyes narrow as a suspicion forms in my mind. “Who is your client?”
“A man you know well.” Bianchi takes a business card from his jacket pocket and tosses it onto the desk. “Call this number when you’re ready to accept the offer. My client has shown youas much grace as he intends to. Don’t anger him for the sake of your pride. The consequences will be severe.”
Trembling with rage, I collapse onto my seat as Bianchi leaves the office. There’s only one man who could be his client. Lorenzo. Now I know why the snake has been avoiding me. It’s what I suspected he would do all along, lulling me into complacency before striking.
I push to my feet and go to fetch my cellphone from the staffroom. I am going to give that asshole a piece of my mind. If he thinks I am handing over Gianetta’s without a fight, he hasn’t learned a thing about me.
THIRTEEN
Lorenzo
When I wake,everything around me is dark. I reach out to turn on the light but can’t find the lamp on the nightstand.
Realizing I’m not in my own bed, I fumble around until I discover a switch embedded in the wooden headboard. I turn it on and immediately screw my eyes shut as harsh light illuminates the room.
It takes a minute before I can open my eyes fully and examine my surroundings.
As soon as I’m able to focus, I recognize this as one of the guest bedrooms in Damiano’s house. I need a moment to remember why I’m here and not at home or, better yet, in Lucia’s bed.
Slowly it comes back to me. That shitshow of a wedding. The attack. Shit. I was injured.
Reaching up, I run my fingers tentatively along my forehead. There’s a row of stitches there. I don’t remember someone patching me up. It seems like I was really out of it for a while. Ineed to get up, so I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and push to my feet.
At first I’m unsteady, wobbling like a toddler taking his first steps. I soon get myself under control.
As I head for the door, it occurs to me I should put some clothes on before I walk through the house, but I’m eager to find my brother and ask him how I ended up here.
I walk downstairs, encountering Damiano’s housekeeper, Lina, on the way. She doesn’t bat an eyelash at my state of undress. In this house, the staff have learned to mask their reactions and mind their own business.
“Lorenzo,” she greets me with a motherly smile. Lina is in her late fifties and has an ever-expanding brood of grandchildren to dote on, but she still fusses over Damiano and me.
“Is my brother home?”
“He’s in the dining room.”
I nod my thanks and make my way along the corridor to the left of the staircase. The stone floor is cold beneath my feet.
My brother’s house is a lot grander than my apartment. It has east and west wings, servants’ quarters in the attic and a basement with actual dungeons.
Built during the Renaissance, it was home to one of the families who ruled Florence when it was a city state. I suppose it’s more of a palazzo than a house.
Damiano has tried to persuade me to move in here. He has a vision of us raising our respective families under one roof. I’m not opposed to the idea.
There’s plenty of space and extensive gardens for kids to roam free. It would help strengthen family bonds for the next generation, and we could guarantee each other’s safety more easily.
But I won’t contemplate it unless Gabriele comes too. Although he’s distanced himself from us in the last couple of years, he’s still our brother. He belongs at our side.
When I reach the dining room, an opulent ode to excessive wealth with its velvet drapes and gold chandeliers, Damiano is sitting alone at the head of the table, which seats twenty-four people.
Though I doubt he feels it, he cuts a lonely figure, like the flawed hero of some Victorian novel.
“You’re awake,” he observes as I drop onto the seat to his right. There’s a dish of spaghetti pomodoro on the table along with a basket of freshly baked bread. I can smell its yeasty goodness. “Do you want some dinner?”
Not waiting for my response, he clicks his fingers. His butler, Gianni, emerges from the shadows. Creepy bastard. I swear the man isn’t human. Damiano seems able to conjure him from thin air.
“Bring a plate for my brother.”
