Unrepentant (Unwilling Bonds #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Violetta

Turning a blind eye is the first rule you learn when you start work at La Stanza Rossa. Whatever you see or hear within the walls of Florence's hottest nightclub, it has nothing to do with you.

When a sudden flurry of activity draws my attention, I should avert my gaze, but I don't. I watch, my heart beating faster, as three men including my boss, Damiano Volante, storm across the VIP lounge and head downstairs.

Something about the way they move, the air of violence that clings to them, puts me on edge. I hurry over to the railing and look down into the main part of the club. The pounding beat of the music vibrates through me.

At first, I can't see a problem. There's nobody causing a scene, no fight to break up.

It takes me a minute to realize Damiano and his men are headed toward Giulia Costanza, the young woman he asked me to roll out the red carpet for earlier tonight.

Apparently, she's the girlfriend of Damiano's American cousin.

She's here with two other women to celebrate the youngest's eighteenth birthday.

I watch intently as two of the club's security guards grab a man who's dancing close to Giulia.

Was he bothering her? It doesn't seem like it.

She waves her hands in frustration as he's dragged off in the direction of the storerooms. They'll probably slap him around and throw him out the back door.

It's what usually happens to troublemakers around here.

I bite my bottom lip as Damiano takes hold of Giulia's arm and leads her over to one of his men to be escorted from the club. It's clear she doesn't want to go.

Outrage flares through me. Why should she have to end her evening just because a man danced too close? Mafia men are such chauvinistic assholes, not that anyone would dare tell them to their faces.

"Back to work, Violetta." Paolo's nasal voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find my manager scowling at me in warning. "It's not your concern."

Nodding, I head to the bar to fetch another bottle of champagne for the Formula One driver who's here tonight with his entourage. As I deliver it to him, Damiano walks past on the way back to his office. His dark gaze flicks in my direction, lingering a second too long.

My breath hitches. It's like being in the presence of a god, which he is around here. It feels as if he's angry with me. I was supposed to take care of his guest. Did I fail? The thought stings more than it should.

I plaster a smile on my face, shrug off my anxiety and head toward Gregorio Farnese's table. The renowned womenswear designer is a regular at the club. One of my favorite customers, he comes in several times a week, always with a beautiful woman on his arm.

Even if he wasn't rich and famous, this man would be beating women off with a stick. Tall, silver-haired and effortlessly stylish, he carries himself with the confidence of a man who believes it when the press laud him as a genius.

He jumps to his feet as I approach. "Violetta!"

Putting his hands on my shoulders, we exchange kisses. Then he holds me at arm's length and appraises me as if I'm one of his creations.

"When are you going to walk the runway for me, bella?"

I could point out I'm five years older than the models he hires, but I don't.

"Like I told you, Gregorio, I will walk the runway the day you date a woman your own age." I glance pointedly at the brunette he brought with him tonight. She must be about twenty.

"Ah!" He throws his hands up dramatically. "Alas, that day will never come." He takes my arm and leads me away from the table. "Can you organize some flowers for me? I want something to impress my companion."

"Of course. Are they intended as an apology or a declaration of love?"

"Neither. I want something that lets her know I'm loaded and will spoil the pants off her."

Knowing he means that literally, I shake my head disapprovingly and sigh. "Give me a few minutes."

"You're the best, Violetta," he calls after me as I walk away.

I cross the lounge and pass through the staff-only door leading to the back stairs. I make my way down to the lower corridor where the temperature-controlled room we store our supply of fresh flowers in is located.

There can't be many nightclubs that employ a full-time florist, but the boss insists on having elaborate arrangements in the VIP bathrooms.

Enrico only works during the day when the club is closed, but he always leaves a selection of hand-tied bouquets in case any of our customers wants to make a romantic gesture.

As I key the passcode into the panel, I freeze. A muffled cry comes from the room next door, followed by raised voices.

Shit. Have they got the man they dragged out of the club in there?

I clench my fists and remind myself of the golden rule. It's none of my business.

Focusing on the task at hand, I open the door to the flower room and slip inside. As I cast an eye over the various bouquets, an agonized wail cuts through the silence. I shudder violently.

A few seconds pass and then a door slams. Footsteps retreat along the corridor. Though it's risky to act, I can't shake the feeling that doing nothing would make me complicit in what's happening to that man. Getting involved is a terrible idea, but if I walk away I'll not be able to live with it.

Before I can talk sense into myself, I slip out into the corridor and go to the next door along. I enter the code and open it. A horrified gasp escapes me.

The young man from the club is lying on the floor. Up close, I realize he's only a kid, eighteen or nineteen perhaps. Blood oozes from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His hands are tied behind his back.

"Oh, my God," I whisper.

He looks up, his eyes issuing a plea for help I can't ignore. I rush forward and crouch beside him. His wrists are bound with a thin plastic tie I can't loosen.

Cursing under my breath, I hurry back to the other room and grab the secateurs Enrico uses for snipping flower stems. I cut the tie to release him and help him to his feet.

"Come with me," I say sharply.

I lead him along the corridor to the back door and key in the code to open it.

"Turn left at the end of the alleyway and run. Get as far from here as you can and don't ever come back."

He doesn't hesitate. Nodding his thanks, he bolts. I pull the door closed and lean back against it, heaving in deep breaths to try to slow my galloping heartbeat.

As the enormity of what I've done sinks in, my hands tremble. There are cameras everywhere in this place and Damiano's men are always watching. I have zero chance of getting away with helping this man to escape.

As I contemplate running, the door from the lower level of the club opens and Giorgio strolls toward me. He's one of the security guards who dragged the boy off the dance floor.

"What are you doing down here, Vee?" His tone is conversational but with an underlying menace.

"I, uh, I came to get flowers for Signore Farnese."

Folding his arms across his chest, he leans against the wall and nods toward the flower room.

"Go ahead."

I take a deep breath to try to calm myself, then go to choose a bouquet. An arrangement of red roses whose petals are edged with gold catches my eye, so I grab those.

"Pretty," Giorgio says as I emerge from the room. "Let's go deliver them."

"You're coming with me?"

"Yes, sweetheart. We'll give the old creep his flowers and then I'll take you to the boss."

My knees buckle and Giorgio puts a hand under my elbow to steady me.

"Let's not be dramatic, Vee. We don't want things to become unpleasant."

Giorgio and I have always been friendly with one another, but I know he's capable of inflicting violence if he has to. I glance up at him and he gives me an encouraging nod.

"Be a good girl. Damiano just wants to talk to you. No need to worry."

Though I don't believe that for a second, I nod. Only a minute passed between me letting the young man go and Giorgio finding me in the corridor. That's not a coincidence.

Giorgio walks a pace behind me like an executioner leading me to my doom as we head upstairs. Pounding music vibrates through me as I make my way to Gregorio's table. I present him with the flowers and accept his thanks.

Then Giorgio puts his hand on my lower back and walks me to the bar. He summons Elena, who's serving there tonight. As he talks to her, I glance at the stairs, wondering if I could make a run for it.

"Here." He hands me a bottle of Acqua Panna. "Take a sip."

The unexpectedly kind gesture brings a tear to my eye, but I blink it back. I do as Giorgio instructed and drink, allowing the refreshing water to slip down my throat. He takes the bottle from me and places it on the bar.

"Feel better soon," Elena calls after us as Giorgio wraps his hand around my upper arm and pushes through the door. I look up at him in question.

"I told her you were sick," he explains.

My stomach drops. He gave an excuse for why I won't return to work tonight. My nerves ratchet up as we approach Damiano's office. I try to summon a smile for Riccardo, who's hovering outside the door.

Damiano's enforcer has always been pleasant to me, but he still sends a sliver of ice down my spine every time I see him. Built like a tank, he looms over me, even though I'm taller than average, especially in four-inch heels.

"Violetta." His greeting is civil but not warm, which is par for the course with him. He opens the door for me. "Go right in. He'll be back in a minute."

"Thank you."

Giorgio releases his grip on me. I step into the room and Riccardo closes the door behind me. A heavy wooden desk dominates the space, a high-backed leather chair positioned behind it like a throne. Two smaller chairs sit opposite. There's no chance of missing who holds the power in the room.