‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Gian cut in abruptly. ‘Ariana, I simply do not want to know. Even after I gave explicit instructions not to do so, you still think you can call and text me with excuses for why you’re late or not coming in. I don’t deal with junior—’
‘Gian, please, just listen to me...’
She was starting to cry, but Gian was way too used to her crocodile tears. ‘I knew on Friday you were unsuitable for the role and your behaviour today merely confirms it. This could never have worked.’
‘Gian...’ she sobbed, but though he refused to be moved his mask slipped and he forgot to be polite. ‘You sat in this office and pleaded for a start, and I gave you one. The contracts were drawn up and waiting to be signed, but clearly something more enticing has come along. I don’t want to hear about extraordinary board meetings. The only extraordinary thing was that I actually thought you had changed your precocious, self-serving ways, but clearly you have not.’
Problem solved, Gian thought as he terminated the call. He was a little breathless, and barely holding onto his temper but he also felt a strange disappointment that, yet again, Ariana had let herself down. She was incapable of seeing things through. She was absolutely devoid of any sense of responsibility. She was always onto the next best thing the second it showed up.
Yet there was a mounting sense of disquiet to have heard her tears, for there had been an unfamiliar rasp to them that had, on reflection, sounded real.
She’d probably been putting it on, Gian told himself. If Ariana really wanted a career then perhaps she should have considered acting.
The ridiculous thing was, as he sat there, he was envisioning her in the blush pink tartan suit and the string of pearls that she had admitted she secretly desired.
Ariana, whether he wanted her to or not, made him smile, and for Gian that was rare indeed.
His private phone was buzzing and he saw that it was Dante who was calling, no doubt hoping to sway Gian from his decision.
‘Pronto,’Gian said.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Dante?’ Gian checked. ‘Look, if you’re calling to excuse Ariana and ask—’
‘Gian,’ Dante interrupted. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to. I just wanted to call you before word got out. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but a short while ago my father...’ Dante cleared his throat. ‘Rafael has passed away.’
CHAPTER FIVE
GIANDELUCAMIGHTbe the last Duke of Luctano, but to him Rafael Romano had always been King.
In modern times, Rafael Romano had put Luctano on the map far more than the De Lucas, who had long ago sold off their land and moved to Rome.
This cold grey morning he flew in to bid farewell to a man Gian considered not just a brilliant business mind but a man he had been proud to call a friend.
The landscape beneath his navy helicopter was familiar. A lattice of bare vines weaved across the hills and down into the valley but, deep in winter, the poppy fields were bare and silver with ice. The lake, beside which Rafael was to be buried, was at first a black, uninviting mirror, but now rippled as his helicopter neared its location.
It was to be a private burial, for Rafael’s wife and children only, and Gian was there just for the church service.
The family would now all be at the house, and though Dante had invited him to have his pilot land there, without Rafael, Gian felt he would be invading on this solemn day.
A driver had been arranged to meet him and as he took the steps down from the helicopter Gian felt a blast of bitterly cold air: the weather in Luctano was always more extreme than in Rome. He wore a long black wool coat over his tailored black suit. His thick black hair had not quite been due for a trim, but his barber had come to his apartment that morning to ensure a perfect cut and he was particularly close shaven.
With good reason.
As a car took him to the church, he recalled Rafael’s words from long ago. ‘Look immaculate,’ Rafael had once told him. ‘You are not a university student any more but the owner-manager of a five-star hotel. Get your hair cut, and for God’s sake, shave.’ His advice had not ended there. ‘See a tailor, buy fine shoes...’
At the age of twenty, Gian had been studying architecture and living in the residences, having turned his back on his family two years previously. His scholarship had covered accommodation and his bar work funded books and food, but barely stretched to a haircut, let alone designer clothes. ‘I can’t afford to,’ a proud Gian had dared to admit.
‘You can’t afford not to. Now, listen to me, it is imperative that you look the part...’
But Gian had held firm. After the tragic death of his family, he’d discovered the financial chaos his parents had left behind and the many jobs that depended on him. ‘No, the accounts are a disaster. Before the fancy suits, first the staff are to be paid.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
Rafael had taken a reluctant Gian to Via dei Condotti—a fashionable street in Rome—where he had met with artisan tailors and been fitted for bespoke Italian shoes in the only true handout that Gian had ever received. But better than the trip had been the glimpse of having if not a father then a mentor to advise him.
The day had ended at a Middle Eastern barbershop, with hot towels and a close shave. Rafael continued with the sage advice: ‘You need to attract only the best clients.’