‘A small hotel, Papa. And,’ she continued smoothly when he would have interrupted, ‘you know I’m ready for this.’
She’d worked part-time in his hotels from the age of fourteen. Since school she’d worked full-time in the family company while doing a business degree. She’d learnt the business from the ground up.
‘You said yourself that I’ve excelled. The feedback on my performance—’
‘Yes, yes.’ He waved one large hand. ‘I know all that.’
Of course he did. He hadn’t built his commercial empire by ignoring details and he demanded the best of everyone, especially family.
‘I’m older than Enzo and Rocco were when you gave them a property each to manage.’
Her father planted his palms on the desk and leaned forward, scowling. ‘You think that means you deserve that I give you such an asset?’
Her half-brothers wouldn’t think so. They’d pretended she wasn’t part of the family from the day she appeared, the illegitimate daughter of a foreign mother. She’d arrived from Australia when they were in their twenties. Even the fact that their father had been a widower for years before Stella was conceived during a short affair didn’t assuage their dislike of having a stranger thrust into their midst.
She sat back and crossed her legs, taking her time responding. Her father walked over anyone who didn’t have enough gumption to stand up to him.
‘Yes. I do deserve it. You know I do.’
Being Alfredo Barbieri’s daughter was a two-edged sword. She knew the business like the back of her hand, for her father lived and breathed it. She was more than qualified, academically and experientially.
At the same time, because she was the boss’s daughter she’d had to work harder and longer to prove herself.
Her father had happily lavished money on her for things like a car or being seen dining in the best places, because that reflected on the family’s prestige. But he continued to pay her a pittance. As if in her mid-twenties she were still cleaning bathrooms rather than creating a successful publicity campaign for a newly renovated hotel, or managing the development of a VIP travel concierge service.
‘Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘I know my worth, and so do you.’
He said nothing, just raised his eyebrows. Stella shrugged, trying to make the movement look easy rather than stiff as tension crept up her neck. She’d prepared for this interview so long, she couldn’t let him cow her into silence, despite the nerves making her stomach churn.
‘Others have noticed my work too.’ That caught his attention. ‘I’ve had offers of work elsewhere, in other hotels.’
A heavy hand slammed down on the desk. ‘No Barbieri is working for a rival company! I won’t permit it. Is that your idea of loyalty to the family? After all I’ve done for you?’
I’m not really a Barbieri, though, am I?
She’d tried to adapt to the family she hadn’t known existed before her mother’s death, but often felt an outsider.Bastard, her half-brothers had called her. And while Alfredo talked about family, he wasn’t loving. She’d assured herself people showed affection in different ways, yet still she wondered. Her mother had been warm-hearted and demonstrative. Alfredo was her polar opposite.
Stella sat straighter, dismissing unhelpful thoughts. She wasn’t a little girl, lost and grieving.
‘You know I’m loyal. If I weren’t I’d be working in Rome by now. Or—’
Her father’s scowl turned ferocious. ‘Who tried to steal you? Not Valenti?’ His voice was a growl of hatred.
Quickly she shook her head. She didn’t know the origin of her father’s feud with Giancarlo Valenti, but his name was guaranteed to sour Alfredo’s mood.
‘I’ve never met the man, or his staff. I’m asking for the same as you gave my brothers.’
‘So, we’re back to your brothers again. You expect a handout because you’re family.’
A slow smile curved her father’s mouth as if finally she’d said something he wanted to hear.
Stella stiffened, fearing she’d taken a misstep, the hair at her nape prickling. She knew that expression. Her father wore it when he’d pushed someone onto the back foot and was about to outmanoeuvre them.
‘I want an opportunity to prove myself.’
Her work was better than Enzo’s or Rocco’s, despite their age difference. But her father had always been loath to admit it.
