Perfect Match (Vice Club Nights #2)

9. Gio

Chapter nine

Gio

Florence, Italy

B uzz, buzz, buzz .

My cell lights up with the name of Ryan Kelly, the owner of The Vice Club, in which another friend—Hunter Carlson—and I are silent partners. It’s not our scheduled monthly Zoom call to discuss the business because Hunter isn’t able to join. Like me, Hunter is CEO and the public face of his family’s company, Carlson Publishing. And also like me, we both like to keep our involvement with the club a closely guarded secret. We could probably count on one hand the number of people who know of our involvement in the club. For me, it’s only my three brothers, who all enjoy the benefits as VIP members. My father knows nothing about it, and I’ve gone to great lengths to keep it that way, including using an LLC company that even the most diligent investigator would struggle to uncover.

The call connects. “Hey, man. How’s life in the Big Apple?” I ask, happy to spend some time talking to my friend rather than dealing with the shitshow that was just dropped in my inbox. Somehow, my father has caught wind of the proposal Ant and I have been working on. And he’s not happy. No fucking surprise there. He’s never happy when somebody else has a good idea that he can’t claim as his own.

“Is that your way of flexing over the fact that you’re enjoying the beautiful city of Florence for the summer while I’m stuck in a sweltering concrete jungle?”

“It’s pretty sweet being able to go south to the coast and call it work.” My mind instantly flashes back to Tori and me swimming in Capri. It’s a well-run set of featured images in my dreams since we said goodbye in Sorrento. Now it’s not long before she’ll be here. I’m hoping we can pick up where we left off, and the text messages we’ve shared the last few days seem to indicate she feels the same.

I turn my attention back to Ryan as I stride across the piazza. “… so it’s been pretty busy. We’re still not seeing the gym numbers pick up after the renovations, but that’s the only area of the budget that’s down on our year-to-date forecasts.”

The club was originally Ryan’s idea, and Hunter and I were only brought in by Hunter’s brother when Ryan needed investors. Best damn investment I ever made, and it continues to be so. The club has been hugely successful, and most of that has been through word of mouth. Lucky, really, because the marketing options for a sex club are limited.

“We need a mixologist,” I announce, cutting Ryan off before he starts to talk me through the financials in more detail.

“What are you talking about?” he demands, and it’s a fair question, as my suggestion is a bit random. I don’t normally get involved in the day-to-day running of the club. But thinking about Tori has me remembering the conversation about her sister.

“I just heard through a friend that they know someone who is looking. I thought you might be interested.”

“I’ll speak to Tony, as he manages the bar. Although, he did suggest we change up the cocktail menu, so it could be a good time to bring in a specialist.”

“Thanks, man.” I turn into the narrow cobbled laneway that leads to our office building. It’s only a ten-minute walk from my suite at the Forbes Hotel.

“Now you can go back to telling me about the money you’ve made me this month. You know I always like to hear that.”

His laugh rumbles down the line. “We all like seeing those figures in black come through from the accountants.” He continues to run through the numbers while I jog up the three flights of stone stairs to the office. The exercise is always more welcome than squeezing into the tiny two-person elevator, which is the alternative. One of the few downsides to having an office in the center of Florence is that the old buildings were never built to house elevator shafts.

By the time I reach my office, which is about a quarter of the size of my Midtown Manhattan one, I’m ending our call. Out of habit, I go to stand at the tall, narrow window, which frames a view of the Duomo. You don’t get that in New York. I open the window a crack so the babble of rapid-fire Italian from the nearby cafés drifts up. Another of my favorite things about working in Florence—the many cafés serving excellent strong coffee.

But there’s no time for that. I need to speak to Ant, and I quickly call him. He returned to the States earlier in the week and won’t have seen my father’s email, given it’s three a.m. there.

It takes a minute for him to answer. “What the fuck, bro? It’s the middle of the night here.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But you need to read an email. And I hate to say this, but I think you need to get back to Florence ASAP.”

There’s movement on the other end of the line, and I suspect he’s getting up. “Give me a minute,” he grumbles. Less than thirty seconds later, he says, “How the fuck did he hear about this?”

“I’ve no idea, but I intend to find out.”

The clacking of a keyboard can be heard over the line. “I can’t fly till tomorrow night, as I have a big team meeting in the morning.”

“Okay, I’ll get in touch with the lawyers to see if there is any way he can stop us. But otherwise, you get your beauty sleep, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Later that afternoon, a text message comes through from Ryan to say that Tony liked the idea of a mixologist. I message Tori the news, then focus back on my computer screen. I’ll probably be pulling an all-nighter either here in the office or in my suite, but I don’t mind if it means this mess will be sorted out before Tori arrives. I’ve cleared time in my calendar, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure that it’s not put in jeopardy.

***

Three Days Later

Tori can’t be here soon enough. If I have another cup of espresso, I’ll be bouncing off the walls, but it’s all my stomach seems capable of holding with the knot of nerves whirring around in it.

Me: Text me when you’re on the train, and I’ll meet you at the station.

Tori: We can meet you at the hotel.

Tori’s independence is an attractive quality but also a bit frustrating at times. I want to make things easier for her, but at every suggestion, she pushes back.

Maybe the offer to fly her and her friends on the company jet from Rome to Florence was a bit much, but from my point of view, it would have meant she’d be here with me sooner.

Me: Please. I’d like to do that.

Tori: Okay. smiley face emoji

My face probably has the same megawatt smile as the emoji. I’ll count that as a win, along with the win I had in convincing her and her friends to stay in the suite I booked for them at my hotel. Although, I’m hoping Tori will stay with me rather than her friends.

Second-guessing how she’ll interpret my intentions is a new experience for me, and not one I’m enjoying. I like to be in control at all times, which isn’t something many people realize about me because I mask it behind a carefully constructed happy-go-lucky facade. I’m that duck gliding along the surface of the pond, while beneath the water, I’m paddling frantically. Tori is a wave on my pool of calm and has me in a flap.

Leaving her in Sorrento like I had to do, in a rush and with my balls bursting, was hard. Literally. And I’ve been counting down the hours to seeing her again ever since. She’s special, not interested in any of the trappings my wealth provides, and I want the chance to show her how much I appreciate that.

I’m going to do this right and treat her to an amazing date that’s fit for a princess. The reservation is made at the world-renowned three-star Michelin restaurant overlooking the city, thanks to my brother Leo calling up his connections to help me secure a booking ahead of the four-week waitlist. A selection of dresses has been organized by a stylist and will be waiting at the hotel for her to choose from, and an afternoon of pampering has been booked for Tori and her two friends in the hotel spa.

Is it too much ? My head drops to rest on the bundle of papers on my desk.

Fuck, of course it is. What was I thinking?

I’m treating her like the previous women I’ve dated and what they would have expected. But this is Tori, and she’s nothing like any woman I’ve ever been with in the past. She’s not going to care about fancy restaurants and clothes. Tori is gorgeous just the way she is, without adornment, and she just wants to experience fun adventures. I need to reassess my plans and give her exactly that.

On my laptop, I open a new email to my personal assistant, requesting she cancel the dresses and accept the all-expenses-paid dinner for her and her husband. She deserves it for having to put up with my demands that have hit record highs these last couple of weeks. I’ll leave the spa afternoon booking for Tori and her friends, and they can decide if they want to do it. But I hope that, as she’s been living out of a backpack for weeks now, she’ll appreciate the gesture for what it is—a special treat. The nerves settle a little when I hit send. This is all going to go spectacularly well or be a complete disaster.

Another glance at my cell, and it’s only been fifteen minutes since I last looked. A message pops up.

Tori: The train is coming into Florence.

I spring to my feet, knocking some papers from the corner of my desk, but I don’t stop to pick them up. I can do that later. Instead, I shove my laptop into its case, sling it over my shoulder, and stride out of my office.

My assistant’s wide-eyed, happy expression slows my speedy departure. “Really?” she asks.

Laughing, I say, “Really. Have fun. Now I’m out for the rest of the day,” and I think her jaw drops even further.

In the hallway, I stop and duck my head back around the doorway, nearly forgetting a final instruction. “Call me if the lawyer emails me those documents I requested.” Then, not waiting for her response, I run down the stairs and out into the afternoon heat.

It’s a short walk to the Santa Maria Novella train station, although my impatience to see Tori again makes it feel longer. She seems to have tapped into a previously unrealized well of emotions and reactions inside me. It’s disconcerting but also different and new.

At the station, I send a text to my driver to wait for me outside, then scan the arrivals board to find the right platform.

The moment I catch a glimpse of Tori’s smiling face, silky brown ponytail swinging behind her, something tugs in my chest. Lust can be a powerful emotion, I tell myself as I rush to meet her.

My arms wrap around her slim body and easily lift her off the ground as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.

I fill my lungs with wildflowers, and the scent is more intoxicating than I remember. The minty freshness of wild bergamot and the allure of Lobelia, and when it’s all mixed together with Tori, it’s a tempting concoction.

If you’d asked me before now why I was so excited to see her again, I’d have confidently admitted that what I felt for Tori was unfinished business. I’d promised her an adventure, and we still had some way to go to reach our destination. But now, with her in my arms, my lips on hers, I’m reassessing. One—maybe two—days won’t be enough to quench my desire to learn more. To discover what really goes on in that clever, witty mind of hers, and how many more times I can make her brown eyes turn liquid chocolate after she cries out her release.