Page 6 of Spice and Revenge

“Don, this is Lorena Romano, the new Chef,” Nina introduces.

Lorena. The green-eyed woman finally has a name.

“Lorena, this is Mr. Leonardo Vitale, the head of the Vitale household,” Nina continues.

Lorena blinks in response to the introduction. Undoubtedly struggling to come to terms with the fact that she just saw her new boss having sex with one of the workers in the house.

My irritation simmers, threatening to boil over. I'm poised to speak when Lorena finds her voice. “It is an honor to meet you, sir,” she says, dipping her head.

Either she’s trying to be polite or looking into my eyes reminds her of what she saw a few moments ago, I can't say. But I'd wager it's the latter.

“You are to refer to me as Don,” I say, my voice thicker than usual.

“Yes, Don,” she says, her head still bent low.

Clasping my hands into fists, I try to contain myself. There's a subtle, alluring rasp to her voice that stirs something within me. She’s making me hot and bothered, even without trying.

“You don't interrupt me until I'm finished speaking,” I snap sharply. She appears as though she wants to interject, but instead, she presses her lips together.

“It's rude to stare at your feet while I'm addressing you,” I reiterate.

She lifts her gaze, meeting my eyes with a strength that surprises me. Her eyes are strong and unwavering. I have the sudden urge to break her resolve.

With my hands folded behind me, I begin to circle her slowly.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” She looks younger. Maybe it’s because of her hair—blonde, long, and curly.

“You don't have an accent,” I observe, more a statement than a question. “You weren't born here.”

“No, I wasn't,” she responds coolly. “I moved here five years ago.”

“Where were you born?” I probe.

Something flickers in her eyes momentarily, but it vanishes as swiftly as it appears.

“California,” she answers.

“Why did you decide to move here, then?”

A faint smile graces her lips. “I've always been intrigued by the rich culture of the Italian people, particularly their cuisine. I came here for culinary school five years ago, and I decided to stay.”

She looks even more beautiful when she smiles. She also seems passionate and genuine. However, I don’t stop.

“And is this how you people dress in California?” I bite out, my eyes trailing over her plain, brown dress. “You look like you wait tables for a living.”

I hate the way I can see the outline of her soft curves through the dress. I hate the way my eyes undress her, and the way my mind wonders what she would look like without the dress.

“This is a simple, practical dress for a chef,” she says, her voice still carrying the same cool rasp do it.

Beside me, Nina inhales sharply, reminding me of her presence in the room.

“You can be simple without appearing destitute,” I say simply, intentionally keeping the bite out of my tone.

“I mean, the housemaids here are better dressed than you. Ordinarily, I wouldn't concern myself with my staff's attire, but I have stringent standards to uphold. I won't tolerate any semblance of sloppiness in my presence.”

She tries so hard to keep her expression formal and unbothered, but I know my words have their intended effect on her.

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