Chapter 27
GINA
My palms still tingle from the gun’s kickback as our limousine glides to a stop. Through tinted windows, the sleek facade of Dante’s nightclub stands down the street.
“Are we swinging by Inferno for a reason?” I ask.
“Not the Inferno,” he says as we pull into the lot across the street where the vacant restaurant sits. “I thought you might want to see your new canvas.”
“Canvas?”
It takes me a moment to figure out what Dante means.
The driver opens the door and helps me out.
The restaurant rises before us, its windows dark but full of possibility.
I can already imagine it open and bustling, a hostess at the front, booths filled with laughing guests enjoying delicious food.
My pulse races as I realize what Dante might be offering.
He steps out of the car and presses something cold and metallic into my palm. “Here’s the key. Why don’t you do the honors of opening the door?”
I stare at him in disbelief as my fingers close around the key. “Does this mean you’ve bought the restaurant?”
“Almost,” he says, with the barest hint of a smile. He checks his watch. “The real estate agent is on his way to finalize the paperwork.”
I throw myself at him, my arms circling his neck. “Wait,” I whisper, pulling back slightly. “Where are Lorenzo and Luca? Shouldn’t they be part of this?”
“Open the door, Gina,” Dante commands.
My hand trembles slightly as I slide the key into the lock and push the door open.
“Surprise!”
Lorenzo and Luca stand waiting inside. Lorenzo leans against what will someday be a hostess stand, and Luca’s grin spreads across his face.
When we enter, Lorenzo wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Congratulations, Gina. You worked your magic on the Iceberg.”
Ignoring that, Dante moves to the center of the room, commanding attention without effort.
“I want everyone clear on their roles,” he says.
Lorenzo and Luca both shift their posture, shoulders squaring.
“Lorenzo, the operational side falls to you. Every contractor, every permit, the staffing plan, the timeline—all of it flows through your hands.”
Lorenzo nods. “Understood.”
Dante shifts his attention to Luca. “The financial side is yours. Keep the numbers in line, manage the projections, ensure we’re compliant. I expect those books pristine.”
“Consider it done,” Luca says with a nod.
When Dante’s eyes find mine, something in his gaze makes my skin warm.
“Gina,” he says, his voice softening just slightly, “that concept you mentioned. I want to see it become reality. The creative vision belongs to you.”
I feel my chest tighten, words momentarily stuck in my throat.
“You set the tone. The atmosphere. The aesthetic,” he continues. “Lorenzo is here if you need help executing your vision. Luca will fund it. But the design begins with you.”
A thrill runs through me.
Lorenzo pops a bottle of Champagne, and Luca hands us all a glass.
“Come,” Lorenzo says, waving us forward. “Let’s see Gina’s office.”
My office?
We walk past the industrial kitchen where stainless steel gleams under unfinished lighting.
“Here,” Lorenzo says, opening a door, “is command central.”
Inside is a large white desk, chairs, even a sofa.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, following the brothers as they arrange themselves on the sofa and chairs.
“Okay,” Lorenzo says, looking at me. “Let’s nail down what we have so far.
Last week over dinner, we discussed the upscale pizza concept.
At the time, I didn’t quite know what a caricature was.
But your sketch of Uncle Silvio explained it all in an instant.
I love your idea of chef caricatures. So does Luca. ”
Though Lorenzo’s compliment fills me with pleasure, the mention of Silvio reminds me of the unspoken threat of war.
I push aside that uncomfortable thought. “Thank you.”
“So is your idea just one chef?”
“More,” I say. “I’ve been looking at restaurant designs on the Internet for inspiration.”
“What form will it take?” asks Luca. “Crazy-looking, exaggerated chefs on lighting fixtures? Or painted on the ceiling, looking down on diners as they eat?”
“Nothing so heavy-handed.”
“Your sketch of Silvio is notebook sized,” says Lorenzo.
“Right, but I’m thinking of ways to enlarge the chef caricatures and turn them into wall murals. I’ll have to look deeper into how that’s done.”
“Chef caricatures,” Dante muses.
“Yes,” I say, expanding on my idea. “Bold, playful, oversized. A mural wrapping the space. It should feel immersive. Alive.”
The doorbell rings.
“That must be the realtor with the papers,” Dante says, gesturing for Luca to get the door.
A moment later, the young, cocky looking realtor follows Luca into the room.
“You must be the new Mrs. Ricci,” he says, sitting beside me.
“Yes,” I reply.
As Dante reviews documents, the realtor chats me up. He’s so witty that I find myself laughing.
When Dante finishes, the realtor rises and takes my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Ricci.” Then he shakes Dante’s hand and gathers the papers before exiting.
Dante turns to discuss a few things with his brothers before he finally stands. “Gina, time to go.”
Back in the car, silence stretches.
It’s an odd silence.
We should be continuing our celebration of the restaurant acquisition, but something feels off.
Dante surprises me by staring straight ahead when he’d usually be scrolling through his phone.
I reach over, my fingers stretching toward his thigh, seeking connection.
But his hand intercepts mine, pushing it away with a firmness that makes my stomach drop.
“We need to talk,” he says, voice clipped. “At the apartment.”