The Italian's Forbidden Virgin (Mills & Boon Modern) (Those Notorious Romanos, Book 2) by Carol Marinelli (little red riding hood read aloud .txt) 📕

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

GIAN DE LUCA MIGHT be 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.’

‘How, though?’ Gian had asked, staring at his groomed reflection and barely recognising himself. ‘La Fiordelise’s reputation is in tatters and the building is in disrepair.’ Gian loathed the destruction of history—how there were only a few decent areas remaining in the once elegant building. The rest was cordoned off and for the most part the hotel was faded and unkempt.

But Rafael remained upbeat. ‘La Fiordelise has survived worse. It has a new owner now and its reputation will recover: all we need is a plan.’

A couple of weeks later they had contrived one.

A plan that, to this day, few knew about.

Yes, Rafael Romano had been far more of a father to Gian than his own, and Gian would miss him very much indeed.

Arriving at the church, he could feel eyes on him as the absent Duke made a rare return. Gian declined the offer of being guided to a pew and instead stood at the back of the small church and did his level best to keep from recalling the last time he’d been here—at his own family’s funeral. He pondered his handling of Ariana when she had tried to tell him her father had died. Of course he had tried to call her back and apologise, but had been sent straight to voicemail...

Gian’s words, though, had been an unwitting lifeline.

It was Gian’s deep, calm voice on this terrible morning that brought Ariana a little solace.

‘Ariana,’ Dante snapped as they all stood in the entrance hall of their father’s home, preparing to head out for the funeral procession. It was exquisitely awkward as of course it was Mia’s home too. Her older brother was in a particularly picky mood. ‘Surely you can get off your phone for five minutes?’

But Ariana ignored him as she listened again to Gian’s message.

‘I should have let you speak. Ariana, I apologise and I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Call me if you want to, if not...’ His deep voice halted for a few seconds. ‘You will get through this, Ariana. You are strong. Remember that.’

Ariana didn’t feel very strong, though.

She was weak from