Page 84 of Brutal Heir

I selected my own roll and split it open to spread it with butter. “What is that supposed to mean?”

After swallowing her bite, she said, “It’s a little on the nose. Diamanti is Italian for diamond, isn’t it? Or is that why your family went into the diamond business? It was fate.”

I caught her eye. “There is no such thing as fate. Things happen through careful planning and organization.”

Her bright eyes studied me from under her lashes. “So us meeting wasn’t fate?”

“I’m named after my grandfather, Sebastian Rafaello Diamanti. He is the one who founded our company. He was the bastard son of Prince Aemillio Donatus of the House of Umbria and Maria Fiametta Doncaster. Left on the doorstep of a convent, like trash. The nuns named him Sebastian D’Ignoto—the unknown.”

She placed a hand over her chest. “That’s so sad.”

“If fate were in charge, then the discarded bastard named the unknown would have probably slipped into obscurity. But my grandfather wanted more out of his life. So through micromanagement, impossibly high standards, an icy demeanor, zero tolerance for mistakes, and more than a little manipulation, my grandfather returned from the diamond mines of Africa with a fortune and a plan.”

“So, he changed your name to Diamanti?”

I nodded. “And named the company the House of Diamanti as a fuck you to the House of Umbria and the father who never wanted him.”

“Wow.”

I pierced her with a sharp look. “So the moral of the story is never stand in the way of something a Diamanti wants.”

Her full lips fell open as she caught the full weight of my veiled threat.

Chef Conti approached, his crisp white coat spotless, exuding an air of practiced calm. “Good afternoon, Signore.”

As I unfolded my linen napkin, I asked, “What have you prepared for us today, Chef?”

He folded his hands before him and rocked back on his heels. “For your primi, I have a delicate ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, topped with shaved black truffle and Parmigiano-Reggiano.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“For the secondi, I have a choice of either a seared Chilean sea bass served on a bed of sautéed Tuscan kale with a silky lemon-caper beurre blanc sauce or a slow-braised veal shank in a white wine and saffron-infused sauce, served with a side of creamy polenta.”

Sabrina kept her head lowered as she adjusted the napkin on her lap.

I placed my hand over hers to still them, then I turned to the chef. “I’ll have the veal, and Sabrina will have the sea bass. Thank you, Alessio.”

He nodded and left.

We sat in silence as Oliver came in and poured us both a glass of Poggio al Tesoro Solosole Vermentino.

When he departed, Sabrina turned to me. “What if I wanted the veal?”

I raised my glass and inhaled the bright, citrusy scent of the white wine, complemented by hints of green herbs, before taking a sip.

Leaning back in my chair, I asked, “Did you want the veal?”

Her full lower lip protruded in the cutest pout. “No, but you didn’t know that.”

I took another sip of my wine. “Yes, I did.”

She turned in her seat to face me. “How do you know so much about me? Were you sent by my father? Is that what all this is about?”

Her eyes widened as she pushed her chair back and rose.

Tossing her napkin on the table, she stretched her arm out and pointed at me. “That’s what I couldn’t remember about last night. There was something about my father.”

Fuck me.