The Billionaire's Club

“What’s going on, Vincenzo?”

For the next few minutes he told them about one of the cooks at the castello years ago. “Her pastry was out of this world. She had a daughter who was a year younger than me. We grew up together on her mother’s sweets. She was my first love.”

“Ah,” they said in a collective voice, clearly surprised at another one of his admissions.

“I have no idea what happened to either of them. In fact, over the years I’ve spent a large sum of money trying to find them, with no success. I want to meet this applicant and find out how she happens to have produced the same desserts.”

He jumped up from the chair and hurried out of the room to the elevator at the end of the hall. Once on the main floor, they walked through the lobby and congregated in Cesare’s private office. His friend pulled up the résumé on his computer for Vincenzo, who stood next to him to read it.

Seeing her first name nearly gave him a heart attack.

Gemma Bonucci

Age: 27

Address: Bonucci Bakery, Florence Top student in the year’s graduating class of pastry chefs.

He was incredulous. His search had come to an end. He’d found her!

Vincenzo had known her as Gemma Rizzo. So why Bonucci? So many questions were bombarding him, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“This must be Mirella’s daughter, but there’s no picture of her.”

“It wasn’t attached to her application,” Cesare explained, “but her cooking is absolutely superb.”

“So was her mother’s. I can’t comprehend that she was in the kitchen earlier cooking our dessert.”

“You look a little pale. Are you all right?”

Vincenzo eyed Cesare. “I will be as soon as I get over the shock. You don’t know what these last ten years have been like, trying to find her and always coming to a dead end...”

“Do we agree she’s our new executive pastry chef?” Takis asked.

Vincenzo looked at both men. “Don’t let my overeating influence you in any way. I have a terrible Italian sweet tooth, but we need to consider the various preferences of all patrons who will come through our doors. I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to vote your conscience because of my behavior.”

“It wasn’t your behavior that decided me,” Cesare insisted. “That was the best tiramisu I’ve ever eaten.”

“Don’t forget the baba and the baby cannoli,” Takis chimed in. “Every dessert was exquisite and presented like a painting. When the guests leave, they’ll spread the word that the most divine Italian desserts were made right here.”

“Amen.” This from Cesare. “But Vincenzo, did you have to eat all the sfogliatelli before we could sample it? Cosimo had to bring us more. It was food for the gods.”

It was. And the lips of the loving seventeen-year-old girl Vincenzo had once held in his arms and kissed had been as sweet and succulent as the cinnamon-sprinkled cream in the pastry she’d prepared for this evening.

“Takis will make the phone calls now and tell our two new chefs to come to the office at noon for an orientation meeting.” Cesare’s announcement jerked Vincenzo out of his hidden thoughts.

“I’m glad the decisions have been made. As long as I’m in your office, I’d like to see the résumés of the other pastry finalists.” It was an excuse to take another look at Gemma’s.

“Be my guest,” Cesare murmured. “Those desserts finished me off. I may never eat again.”

“You’re not the only one. I’m going to my office to make the phone calls.”

But for the stunning realization that tomorrow he would see Gemma—the chef who’d turned them all into gluttons—Vincenzo would have laughed.

He walked around the desk and sat down in front of the computer screen to look at it. Her training had been matchless. She held certificates in the culinary arts, baking and pastry, hospitality management, wine studies, enology, and molecular gastronomy. She’d won awards for jams, preserves, chocolate ice cream. Mirella’s chocolate ice cream had been divine.

The statement she’d made to explain her desire to be an executive pastry chef stood out as if it had been illuminated. I learned the art of pastry making from my mother and would like to honor her life’s work with my own.

His eyes smarted as he rang Cesare.

“Ehi, come va, Vincenzo?”

“Sorry to bother you. What was it about Signorina Bonucci’s résumé that decided you on allowing her to compete? I’m curious.”

“You know me. My mamma’s cooking is the best in the world, and I never make a secret about it. When I read about her wanting to honor her mamma’s cooking, I decided it was worth giving her a chance. On a whim I told her to report to the castello. I did the right thing in your opinion, non e vero?”

He closed his eyes tightly. “You already know the answer to that question. If you’d ignored her application, I doubt I would ever have found her.” His throat closed up with emotion. “Grazie, amico.”

“I’m beginning to think it was meant to be. Before I hang up, there’s one thing you should know, Vincenzo.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want you or Takis to think I was biased in picking her for personal reasons.”

His pulse sped up. “Go on.”

“The signorina is beautiful. Like the forest nymph on the dining room ceiling you were staring at tonight. You know, the one leaning against the tree?”

Yes. Vincenzo knew the one and felt his face go hot. One night when he’d been kissing Gemma, he’d told her she reminded him of that exact nymph painted in the room where Vincenzo had spent many happy times talking to his grandfather. Cesare had noticed the resemblance, too.

“A domani, Cesare.”

“Dormi bene.”

Vincenzo turned off the lights and headed for his old bedroom in the tower. No renovations had been made here. Guests would never be allowed in this part of the castello. It was too full of dark memories to open to the public.

He removed his clothes and threw on a robe before walking out on the balcony overlooking Sopri at the foot of the hillside where he’d run away. Where was she sleeping tonight? Down below, near to where she’d once attended school? Or in Milan?

Vincenzo knew her deceased father’s last name had been Rizzo. Everyone called her mother Mirella. He’d heard the story that her husband, who worked in the estate stables, had died of an infection in his leg. After that, Mirella moved up from the village where they’d lived before his death and was allowed rooms in the rear of the castello with her little girl, Gemma.

One of the cooks who’d lived there, too, had had a child of the same age, named Bianca. Vincenzo couldn’t remember when he and his cousin Dimi had started playing with them on the grounds of the estate. They were probably four and five years old.

Strict lines between social classes were drawn to prevent them from being together, but like all children, they found a way. He remembered his eighth birthday, when Gemma entered the courtyard where he and Dimi had been practicing archery with his new bow. She gave him a little lemon ricotta cheesecake her mother had baked just for him. He’d never tasted anything so good in his life.

From that day on, Gemma found ways to slip sweets to him from the kitchen. They’d go to their hiding place at the top of the tower and sit outside, straddling the crenellated wall while they ate his favorite sfogliatelli. When he looked down from that same wall now, he realized they could have fallen to their deaths at any time.

An hour later he went to bed, but he couldn’t turn off his thoughts. When he’d had to leave Europe in the dead of night, he hadn’t been able to tell Gemma why and hadn’t dared make contact with her. Days, weeks, months and finally years went by, but she’d always lingered in his memory.

To think that while he’d been in New York buying and selling businesses and building new companies over the last decade, she’d been in Florence working heaven knew how many hours, day in and day out, before ending up back at the castello as executive pastry chef. Incredibile!

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