ONE
Violetta
Turninga blind eye is the first rule you learn when you start work at La Stanza Rossa. Whatever you see or hear within the walls of Florence's hottest nightclub, it has nothing to do with you.
When a sudden flurry of activity draws my attention, I should avert my gaze, but I don't. I watch, my heart beating faster, as three men including my boss, Damiano Volante, storm across the VIP lounge and head downstairs.
Something about the way they move, the air of violence that clings to them, puts me on edge. I hurry over to the railing and look down into the main part of the club. The pounding beat of the music vibrates through me.
At first, I can't see a problem. There's nobody causing a scene, no fight to break up. It takes me a minute to realize Damiano and his men are headed toward Giulia Costanza, the young woman he asked me to roll out the red carpet for earlier tonight. Apparently, she's the girlfriend of Damiano's Americancousin. She's here with two other women to celebrate the youngest's eighteenth birthday.
I watch intently as two of the club's security guards grab a man who's dancing close to Giulia. Was he bothering her? It doesn't seem like it. She waves her hands in frustration as he's dragged off in the direction of the storerooms. They'll probably slap him around and throw him out the back door. It's what usually happens to troublemakers around here.
I bite my bottom lip as Damiano takes hold of Giulia's arm and leads her over to one of his men to be escorted from the club. It's clear she doesn't want to go.
Outrage flares through me. Why should she have to end her evening just because a man danced too close? Mafia men are such chauvinistic assholes, not that anyone would dare tell them to their faces.
"Back to work, Violetta." Paolo's nasal voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find my manager scowling at me in warning. "It's not your concern."
Nodding, I head to the bar to fetch another bottle of champagne for the Formula One driver who's here tonight with his entourage. As I deliver it to him, Damiano walks past on the way back to his office. His dark gaze flicks in my direction, lingering a second too long.
My breath hitches. It's like being in the presence of a god, which he is around here. It feels as if he's angry with me. I was supposed to take care of his guest. Did I fail? The thought stings more than it should.
I plaster a smile on my face, shrug off my anxiety and head toward Gregorio Farnese's table. The renowned womenswear designer is a regular at the club. One of my favorite customers, he comes in several times a week, always with a beautiful woman on his arm.
Even if he wasn't rich and famous, this man would be beating women off with a stick. Tall, silver-haired and effortlessly stylish, he carries himself with the confidence of a man who believes it when the press laud him as a genius.
He jumps to his feet as I approach. "Violetta!"
Putting his hands on my shoulders, we exchange kisses. Then he holds me at arm's length and appraises me as if I'm one of his creations.
"When are you going to walk the runway for me,bella?"
I could point out I'm five years older than the models he hires, but I don't.
"Like I told you, Gregorio, I will walk the runway the day you date a woman your own age." I glance pointedly at the brunette he brought with him tonight. She must be about twenty.
"Ah!" He throws his hands up dramatically. "Alas, that day will never come." He takes my arm and leads me away from the table. "Can you organize some flowers for me? I want something to impress my companion."
"Of course. Are they intended as an apology or a declaration of love?"
"Neither. I want something that lets her know I'm loaded and will spoil the pants off her."
Knowing he means that literally, I shake my head disapprovingly and sigh. "Give me a few minutes."
"You're the best, Violetta," he calls after me as I walk away.
I cross the lounge and pass through the staff-only door leading to the back stairs. I make my way down to the lower corridor where the temperature-controlled room we store our supply of fresh flowers in is located.
There can't be many nightclubs that employ a full-time florist, but the boss insists on having elaborate arrangements in the VIP bathrooms.
Enrico only works during the day when the club is closed, but he always leaves a selection of hand-tied bouquets in case any of our customers wants to make a romantic gesture.
As I key the passcode into the panel, I freeze. A muffled cry comes from the room next door, followed by raised voices.
Shit. Have they got the man they dragged out of the club in there?
I clench my fists and remind myself of the golden rule. It's none of my business.
