Page 12 of Empire of Temptation

“Yeah, I feel that way some days,” she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin. The haunted look in her eyes, the sadness in the set of her mouth? It pulled at something deep in my chest—exactly like when I watched her employees walk out on her earlier. I sensed this young woman was lost at sea, holding onto a very thin rope and trying to keep afloat.

I remembered often feeling that way when I took over the family after my father’s death. My brothers had been there to help, thank Christ. So, who was helping Valentina Montella?

After another sip of wine, I studied her. “A girl your age should be in school. At parties. Having fun.”

She snorted. “Sure. I’ll get right on that in all my spare time.”

This made me even angrier at her father. Even indirectly, Segreto could fix this. He could hire others to run this shit hole, allowing Val to live a life of her own. “You said your mother is sick.”

She reached for her wine and drank. Her voice was soft and tight with pain when she said, “She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was sixteen.” She shrugged, a small lift of her shoulders. “She died two years later.”

“I am sorry, bella.”

And I was. My own mother had been my father’s puppet, alwayschoosing him over her children. I learned from a young age not to count on her for anything, including love. But I knew many good mothers, including the women who gave birth to Gabriele and Leonardo. I hadn’t married either former mistress, but my boys experienced excellent childhoods, well loved by both parents.

“Thank you,” she said. “I still miss her a lot, but having the restaurant helps me feel connected to her.”

“And your father?”

The expression on her face shuttered. “He isn’t in the picture much.” She drained the wine in her glass. “He’s pretty much an absentee father. Just blows into town for a day or two, then leaves again for half a decade.” Reaching for the bottle, she almost knocked over a water glass. “Shit!”

We both reached out to steady the empty glass. I ended up wrapping my fingers around hers, and tingles singed my thighs. She kept her eyes on our hands, but I noticed her quick intake of breath.

We stayed like that, our hands touching, for a few seconds, like neither one of us wanted to move. Then she finally slid her fingers out from under mine and put her hands in her lap. I lifted my wine glass to my lips, suddenly wishing for something stronger than wine. I needed to get my head on straight.

The kitchen door swung open. “Val?”

A young man stood there, a ball cap on his head and a dirty apron around his waist. His gaze swept the room and landed on the table where I sat with Valentina. Then he looked at me, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Though I didn’t know him, I didn’t back down. I returned his stare evenly, calmly. Like I had the right to be here.

“John!” Val said, angling in her chair to see behind her. “How’s it going back there?”

“I just finished up. But maybe I should stay a little longer. Until you’re done eating.”

“Oh, I’m done.” She leaned back and held up her hands. “I can’t eat any more.”

John came over to the table and began clearing our plates. “I’ll take these dishes back. Do you need a ride home?”

Val touched his arm—and my jaw clenched. Who was this man to her? Not a boyfriend, because there would not be a question as to how she got home. A boyfriend would take her home and fuck her all night long.

“You don’t have to do that,” she was saying. “I’ll clean this up.”

“It’s no bother,” he said, stacking dishes and silverware. “I don’t mind. I’ll wash these, then I can drive you home.”

The implication was clear—he didn’t trust me around her. While I could hardly blame him, I didn’t like it. I noted the tattoos marking his arms and neck, some crude, as if inked by hand. So, prison then. I wondered what he’d done to earn time behind bars. He didn’t strike me as a hardened criminal. Like me.

“John, is it?” I said, relaxing in my chair. “How long have you worked here?”

He didn’t immediately answer, so Val filled the silence by saying, “John, this is Luca DiMarco. Luca, this is John Natale. He’s been my dishwasher for the last year and a half.”

Natale. Italian descent, then. I would have my men run a check on him. “Piacere, John Natale,” I murmured.Nice to meet you, motherfucker.

He nodded his head once, then took the stack of dishes in his hands into the kitchen. When we were alone again, Val said, “Did you need to intimidate him like that? He’s a good employee.”

“Intimidate? I was very friendly.”

“Friendly, sure. Look . . .” She blew out a long breath and leaned in slightly. Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass as she stared at the table. “You here in Paesano, in my restaurant. Like, you’re Italian and it’s making me wonder . . . Are you here because of something to do with my father?”

She was smart, this girl. It was a good question—the right question—to ask.

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