Chapter 207: "There’s A Guest"

The restaurant inside the Lombardi Hotel should have been overflowing with guests that Sunday evening.

Tonight was supposed to mark the launch of Ariana Lombardi’s new ice cream menu, and the restaurant had originally been nearly fully booked.

Dinner service had begun promptly at six. Yet, even as the clock passed seven, not a single guest had walked beyond the reservation desk.

From the management room overlooking the restaurant, Aren stared through the wide glass window at the empty dining lounge below.

Tables stood immaculately set beneath warm chandelier lights, glassware gleaming and silverware polished, while an entire team of servers waited with absolutely no one to serve.

Her gaze dropped back to the reservation system on the screen in front of her.

Another cancellation.

Then another.

Her brows knitted together.

"Why hasn’t anyone arrived yet?" she murmured, refreshing the screen for what was probably the twentieth time. "And why are there so many cancellations?"

Behind her, several members of the restaurant staff exchanged knowing glances.

Everyone in the room already knew the reason. They simply hadn’t found the courage to say it to her face.

Gian Lombardi stood among them.

The elderly Don stepped closer to his daughter and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, trying to soothe her growing concern.

"Ariana, my dear, you’ve been staring at that screen for nearly an hour. Please, relax."

He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Perhaps there’s some event elsewhere in the city tonight, or something unexpected happened that caused people to change their plans. We can always postpone the ice cream launch until next Sunday."

Not far away, Isabella finally released a frustrated sigh.

Ariana’s former assistant rarely found opportunities to spend time with her mistress anymore. Their schedules had become increasingly difficult to reconcile, but Isabella would never have missed an occasion like tonight’s launch.

Unfortunately, watching everyone dance around the obvious problem for the past hour was beginning to test Isabella’s patience.

Her mistress, somehow, genuinely didn’t understand why the restaurant was empty.

At last, Isabella decided she’d had enough.

"My lady," she said plainly, "it’s because of the scandal."

Almost everyone in the room went rigid.

Gian included.

Several people stared at Isabella with a mixture of admiration and horror — half impressed by her courage, half wondering whether they were about to witness her immediate termination in real time.

Yet, when everyone cautiously turned toward Aren, they found no anger on her face.

She merely looked puzzled.

"Because of the scandal?" Aren asked, brown drawn together. "What does the scandal have to do with people eating at our restaurant?"

"Ahem. Isabella."

Gian cleared his throat delicately, hoping to spare his daughter the explanation.

"It’s okay, Father," Aren interrupted him with a grateful smile. "Let Isabella speak. Everyone here seems to understand something that I don’t. I’d rather understand it too."

Isabella looked almost relieved to receive permission.

More than most, she knew how dramatically her mistress had changed.

The Ariana standing before her now wasn’t the volatile woman who had once treated criticism as a personal attack.

She listened.

She questioned.

Sometimes she interpreted perfectly ordinary advice in extraordinarily alarming ways, but at least, she listened.

"My lady," Isabella began, making absolutely no attempt to soften the truth, "forgive me for being straightforward, but many of our regular guests are wealthy, influential people who care enormously about their reputations."

Several employees visibly winced.

Isabella continued anyway.

"Right now, your name is attached to a massive public scandal. Some of them probably don’t want to be photographed entering a hotel associated with you — while every media outlet in Borgata is still talking about what happened."

Aren lowered her gaze.

Rather than looking wounded, she seemed intensely contemplative.

Isabella knew that expression.

Her mistress was processing.

Unfortunately, no one else in the room could hear exactly what she was processing.

’Reputable men and women...’

’They don’t want to eat here because they’re worried about being associated with my scandal.’

That was logical enough.

Which meant the restaurant itself wasn’t the problem.

The scandal was.

’So if I remove the source of the problem by delivering credible threats to every news outlet still circulating it...’

Her eyes sharpened.

’...then they’ll stop reporting on it, the scandal will disappear, and the guests will feel comfortable eating here again.’

Satisfied with her conclusion, Aren abruptly turned toward the door.

"Fine."

Several shoulders jumped.

Aren marched toward the exit, determination written across her face.

"Then I’ll make sure no one continues circulating news about the scandal."

The room froze.

Something about her calm tone — combined with those ominously vague words — produced an immediate and horrifying premonition.

Several people practically lunged after her.

"Wait, my lady!" one staff member cried, grabbing her arm before she could reach the door.

Another hurried past and planted himself directly in front of it.

"What exactly are you planning to do, my lady? You can’t leave until you tell us what you’re planning!"

Aren stopped and stared at them, puzzled as to why everyone was suddenly preventing her from solving the problem they’d just explained to her.

"I’m going to pay every news outlet out there a visit and threaten them," she answered calmly. "Don’t worry. I’ll make sure none of them ever speak a word of this scandal again."

The room fell dead silent.

Aren turned toward Gian.

"Father, may I borrow several teams? Deploying them simultaneously would make the process considerably more efficient."

A bead of sweat rolled down Gian’s temple.

His daughter had just asked to borrow multiple teams of Lombardi men to intimidate every media organization in the city — with the same practicality someone else might use to ask for a car.

Before the elderly Don could formulate an answer, however, the door suddenly burst inward.

The poor man who had positioned himself in front of it was struck hard enough to stumble onto the floor.

"Sir! My lady!"

The restaurant’s reception host burst into the room, breathless with urgency.

"There’s a guest!"

The announcement produced an absurd amount of shock for something that should have been completely ordinary in a restaurant.

Everyone stared at him.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

The host nodded furiously, confirming everyone’s silent question.

"Yes! An actual guest! Only one, but he’s the first guest we’ve had all night. He’s waiting at the reservation desk right now!"

Aren recovered from the shocking announcement almost immediately.

She straightened her clothes, quickly fixed her hair, and spun toward the waiting staff.

"Quick! Please prepare the best table in the VIP lounge."

As the other staff sprang into motion, Aren turned back toward the host.

"Hurry. Take me to the reception desk. I’ll greet our first guest personally."

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Aren wasn’t the only person who rushed out to greet the restaurant’s first guest.

Nearly everyone in the management room poured into the corridor behind her — although most quickly regained enough dignity to hide behind columns, partitions, and whatever other convenient cover they could find.

After all, this was the Lombardi Hotel, one of the most reputable establishments in Borgata.

Sending an entire crowd to welcome a single diner would look embarrassingly desperate.

Aren noticed none of it.

She marched ahead with anticipation and anxiety twisting together inside her chest.

For the first time, it occurred to her that their miraculous guest might take one look at her face, recognize the woman from the scandal plastered across every news outlet in Borgata, and immediately turn around.

That possibility made her stomach sink.

Still, Aren straightened her shoulders and continued forward. Even if the guest disliked her, she could at least welcome them properly before—

She stopped dead.

’Huh?’

The man waiting at the reception desk was someone she could have recognized from across a crowded room.

Tall.

Blond hair arranged neatly away from his face.

Silver-framed glasses.

An immaculate tailored suit without so much as a wrinkle in the fabric.

When he turned at the sound of her approaching footsteps, a pair of sharp green eyes completed the picture.

Aren’s mouth fell open.

"Master Accardi?"

Isidore Accardi looked as composed as ever.

"Signorina."

He greeted her with a slight inclination of his head, but his gaze shifted almost immediately to the elderly man following close behind her.

Gian Lombardi, meanwhile, had encountered a social dilemma he would’ve greatly preferred to avoid.

Of all the people who could possibly have become the first guest at his daughter’s ice cream launch, it had somehow turned out to be the very man rumored to be one of her sex partners.

The thought still sat poorly with him.

Very poorly.

Yet, personal discomfort and political reality were entirely different matters. There wasn’t a Don or capo in Borgata foolish enough to deny this particular young man his due respect.

Silently, Gian swallowed his discomfort and offered a measured nod.

"Mister Accardi. What a pleasant surprise. We certainly weren’t expecting to see you here tonight."

"Don Gian." Isidore returned the slightest nod. "Dinner’s being served?"

"Yes!" Aren answered before anyone else could.

All traces of her earlier gloom had vanished. Standing there now was a radiantly happy restaurant host.

Then she remembered something from their previous conversation, and confusion crossed her face.

"But... um, Master Accardi, I thought you had a meeting around this time?"

"Change of plans," Isidore replied simply, seeing no reason to elaborate. "Why? You’ve run out of food, or you don’t want to serve me?"

Aren waved both hands immediately.

"No, of course not! It’s just..."

Her expression softened with sudden remembrance.

"...If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve remembered to bring the jacket you left with me last time."

Isidore showed no particular reaction.

"No need to return it," he said calmly. "Keep it."

Aren stared at him.

"...Hah?"

Leaving his jacket over her shoulders when she’d fallen asleep had already seemed excessively generous.

Apparently, he’d now decided to give her the entire thing.

Her brows drew together as she considered the most logical explanation.

’Maybe he wants me to keep it so I can bring it with me next time.’

’Then if I fall asleep again, he won’t have to sacrifice another jacket.’

Convinced she’d solved the mystery, and unwilling to leave the restaurant’s sole customer standing at reception any longer, she immediately gestured inside.

"Please, follow me! We prepared a table for you in the VIP section. It has the nicest view in the restaurant."

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The VIP table occupied a secluded balcony overlooking the main dining room.

From there, the entire restaurant stretched out below in an unobstructed view.

Under normal circumstances, it would have been an excellent place to watch the lively evening crowd.

Tonight, it offered an excellent panoramic view of absolutely nobody.

As soon as Isidore sat down, Aren placed the menu in front of him.

"Here, Master Accardi," she presented it with overflowing pride. "Would you like to look through it first, or would you prefer some recommendations?"

Isidore didn’t even look at the menu. His gaze remained fixed on the smile that seemed permanently etched at her lips.

"What’s good?"

The question immediately activated something inside Aren. She leaned closer and finally opened the menu.

"For tonight’s dinner set, I really like the herb-roasted chicken with rosemary potatoes and glazed seasonal vegetables! It’s simple, but the chicken is very tender."

She flipped the page enthusiastically, pointing out each item as she went.

"For dessert, of course, there are plenty of options. But personally..."

Her entire face brightened.

"I definitely recommend the special-edition Full Ice Cream Experience!"

Isidore finally looked down at the menu.

Then stared.

The Full Ice Cream Experience seemed to interpret the word "full" as a challenge.

Eight different flavors were presented in smaller tasting portions, accompanied by miniature cones, wafers, fruit, sauces, nuts, and an assortment of toppings.

The menu photograph alone contained enough color to resemble a children’s birthday party — all condensed onto a single, elaborate serving board.

Isidore’s eyes remained on it for several seconds.

’Eight flavors.’

He mentally estimated the calories with the same precision he applied to most numerical inconveniences.

’Depending on the portions and toppings, probably somewhere around twelve hundred calories for the entire set.’

’I’ll need an extra hour of moderate cardio tomorrow.’

That seemed irritating.

Still, Isidore required little time to decide.

"I’ll have that."

He lifted two fingers.

"Two sets."

Aren’s eyes widened.

"Oh?"

She glanced toward the entrance downstairs, as though expecting another miraculous diner to materialize.

"Is another guest joining you for dinner tonight?"

Isidore simply closed the menu and placed it aside.

"Yes."

His eyes settled directly on her.

"You."

Aren pointed at herself, surprised.

"Me?"

Then hesitation quickly overtook her face.

"I mean... I’d love to join you for dinner. But, um... I’m supposed to stay in the back and oversee the restaurant tonight..."

Her voice gradually weakened as her gaze drifted over the balcony.

The empty tables stretched across the restaurant in merciless silence, and her argument died on its own.

Isidore had already noticed why her voice had faded.

"The way I see it," he said calmly, "there isn’t much to oversee tonight."

Heat rushed into Aren’s face until her cheeks turned bright red.

"Then I’ll go make sure the orders are prepared and join you quickly!"