Taming the Notorious Sicilian

* * *

Calvetti’s casino was a titanic building, baroque in heritage, set over four levels in the heart of Palermo. Hannah followed Francesco up the first sweeping staircase and into an enormous room filled with gambling tables and slot machines as far as the eye could see. It was like stepping into a tasteful version of Vegas.

Flanked by his minders, they continued up the next set of stairs to the third floor. There, a group of men in black parted to admit them into a room that seemed virtually identical to the second floor. It took a few moments for her to realise what the subtle differences were. The lower level was filled with ordinary punters. The third floor, which had around a quarter of the number of customers, was evidently the domain of the filthy rich.

Sticking closely to Francesco, Hannah drank everything in: the gold trimming on all the tables, the beautiful fragrant women, the men in tuxedos—which, she noted, none filled as well as Francesco, who looked even more broodingly gorgeous than usual in his. After a host of conversations, Francesco slipped an arm around her waist and drew her through a set of double doors and into the restaurant.

And what a restaurant it was, somehow managing to be both opulent and elegant.

‘Are the customers on the second floor allowed to dine in here?’ she asked once they’d been seated by a fawning maître d’ at a corner table.

‘They have their own restaurant,’ he said, opening his leather-bound menu.

‘But are they allowed to eat in here?’

‘The third floor is for private members only. Anyone can join, providing they can pay the fifty thousand euro joining fee and the ten thousand annual membership.’

She blinked in shock. ‘People pay that?’

‘People pay for exclusivity—the waiting list is longer than the actual membership list.’

‘That’s mind-blowing. I feel like a gatecrasher.’

She only realised he’d been avoiding her stare when he raised his eyes to look at her.

‘You are with me.’

The possessive authority of his simple statement set her pulse racing, and in that moment she forgot all about being mad at him for refusing to hand back her phone.

‘So what do you recommend from the menu?’ she asked when she was certain her tongue hadn’t rooted to the roof of her mouth.

‘All of it.’

She laughed, a noise that sounded more nervous than merry.

A waiter came over to them. ‘Posso portarti le bevande?’

Francesco spoke rapidly back to him.

‘He wanted our drink order,’ he explained once the waiter had bustled off. ‘I’ve ordered us a bottle of Shiraz.’

‘Is that a wine?’

‘Yes. The Shiraz we sell here is of the highest quality.’

‘I don’t drink wine. I’ll have a cola instead.’

A shrewdness came into his eyes. ‘Have you ever drunk wine?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever drunk alcohol?’

‘I had a few sips of champagne at Mel’s hen do.’ Suddenly it occurred to her that Melanie’s hen party had been just twenty-four hours ago.

Where had the time gone?

It felt as if she’d experienced a whole different life in that short space of time.

‘And that was your first taste of alcohol?’

She stared at him, nodding slowly, her mind racing. After all, wasn’t the whole point of her being in Sicily with Francesco to begin her exploration of life? ‘Maybe I should have a glass of the Shiraz.’

He nodded his approval. ‘But only a small glass. Your body has not acquired a tolerance for alcohol.’

‘My body hasn’t acquired a tolerance for anything.’

The waiter returned with their wine and a jug of water before Francesco could ask what she meant by that comment.

The more time he spent with Hannah, the more intriguing he found her. Nothing seemed to faze her, except having her professionalism cast into doubt. And having her phone taken away.

He watched as she studied the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Are mussels nice?’ she asked.

‘They’re delicious.’

She beamed. ‘I’ll have those, then.’

A platter of antipasto was brought out for them to nibble on while they waited for their meals to be cooked.

‘Is this like ham?’ she asked, holding up a slice of prosciutto.

‘Not really. Try some.’

She popped it into her mouth and chewed, then nodded her approval. Swallowing, she reached for a roasted pepper.