Captive Rival: Armani (Captive #2; Bellanti Brothers #8), page 14
My thoughts are a dark tangle. I’d convinced myself that I’d be able to work Candi out of my system on this trip—through relentless fucking, or various other means—but my feelings are as conflicted as ever. Maybe even worse now. Compounding my foul mood is the fact that we’re taking off in just a few minutes. I couldn’t be less thrilled about the prospect. I’m in no hurry to leave.
For her part, Candi’s made it abundantly clear that she can’t stand being here with me. But it’s different for me. Here, we’re safe. Hidden. Untouchable. Back home, a mountain of problems is waiting for us.
After our day at the waterfall, I finally realized just how much I’d missed out on the peace and quiet around us. I’d spent most of my time on the island conducting business instead of taking advantage of the fact that I was supposed to be on vacation. Not that my work or my calls or my meetings weren’t necessary, what with the Brunos entertaining the Bratva and making moves behind my back. But still, I was robbed of the chance to relax.
I have no idea when the last time I relaxed was.
The engines are revving, the captain’s voice coming over the PA to tell us about our flight time and how the weather is looking in Northern California. When the flight attendant takes over with her safety information spiel, I lean back in my seat, shut my eyes, and clench my jaw. I’m not afraid of flying, I just don’t particularly enjoy takeoff and landing. Statistically speaking, they’re the most likely times for a fatal accident to occur.
My entire body tenses as the plane begins to taxi. As we pick up speed, I take a deep breath. That’s when I feel Candi’s hand slide over mine. I keep my eyes closed as I wrestle with my inconvenient emotions. I’ve been terse and distant with her all morning, yet here she is comforting me. The warmth of her touch seeps through my body and soothes my frayed nerves. She really is a good person.
But I’m not, and that’s where the line will always be drawn.
The pilot lets us know when we’ve reached cruising altitude, and that’s when I sit up and pat Candi’s hand to let her know I’m fine.
“I think I’ve changed my mind, actually,” I tell the flight attendant. “Scotch and water please, when you get a moment.”
Candi reclines in her seat, pulling a sleep mask over her eyes. Good. I can brood in peace.
Drink in hand, I look out the window again. The sky is dark and threatening rain, one of the reasons we’re leaving slightly earlier than planned. The other is that Donno hasn’t been cooperating.
“He’s basically given up already,” Clayton had told me when he called earlier.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he knows he’s going to die, and he’s not interested in talking. He’ll probably have a heart attack before we get anything out of him.”
“Fair point,” I had said, “but that doesn’t mean we stop trying. We have no idea how long he’s been double-crossing us. We need to know what our enemies have on us because of him.”
“He seems determined not to crack.”
“Then stop trying to crack him. See if you can soften him up a little. Tell him we’ll let him live out his remaining years quietly, under mob surveillance, if he cooperates.”
Clayton had paused, and then asked, “Will we? Let him live?”
I’d let out a cruel laugh at that.
It was after 1 a.m. in Napa, and Donno had been in the Deep Cellar for over twenty-four hours without divulging a single thing of use to Clayton. Our prisoner refused to say who he was working with, what information he’d given them so far, how much he was being paid. He hadn’t given up a damn thing.
Which means I’ll have to go to work on him myself. There’s no time to waste.
I take a long pull of the scotch and allow myself three seconds of despair over what’s going to happen to the bodyguard who used to take me and my brothers to school, and then I tell myself to get the hell over it. What Donno has done to my family is unforgivable. He has to pay.
“Hey, Armani?” Candi says.
Glancing over at her, I see she’s pushed her mask up like a headband. She looks wide awake. So much for napping and leaving me in peace.
“What?” I snap.
She lifts a brow, studying me with that penetrating gaze. “May I have my phone back?”
“Sure.”
I get my bag out of the overhead and rifle through it until I find her cell. When I power it back on, it’s still got a good charge on it.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Enjoy the Wi-Fi.”
But she just shoves it into her bag and then pulls out a dog-eared Italian-English dictionary.
Slyly but haltingly, she tells me, “Sto inizianda…ad apprezzare…di più la lingua Italiana.”
“You’re starting to appreciate Italian more?” I repeat back to her. “It’s iniziando, actually.”
“Iniziando! You knew what I meant, though,” she gloats.
“You’re doing well.”
Visibly pleased with herself, she takes out a legal pad covered in vocabulary words and verb conjugations and starts writing more notes. When the flight attendant comes over to check on us, Candi proudly orders another club soda in Italian. I might think it was cute if I wasn’t so stressed out right now.
Looking over at me, she says, “Voglio ringra…ziarti…per ieri.”
“You want to thank me for yesterday?” I ask, making sure she said what she meant to say.
She nods, visibly blushing, and then drops her eyes to the notebook, where she’s written something out for herself. “So che questo viaggio…”
In my head, I translate into English instantly: I know that this trip…
“non e stato davvero uno luna di miele…” she goes on.
Wasn’t really a honeymoon…
“In Italian, they call it viaggio di nozze,” I interrupt. “Wedding trip.”
Candi smiles. “I think luna di miele is prettier, even if it’s more literal.”
“Suit yourself,” I tell her. “But a real Italian won’t—”
“Let me finish!” she says teasingly. “Ma vedendo quella cascata con voi—”
But seeing that waterfall with you…
“Con tu,” I correct.
“Con tu…sarà sempre una delle…esperienze più magiche…della mia vita.”
I put it all together and replay her words in my mind: I know this trip wasn’t a real honeymoon, but seeing that waterfall with you will always be one of the most magical experiences of my life.
My throat goes tight. I take a gulp of scotch and then say, “You’re welcome.”
God, I want off this plane. I have no intention of continuing this conversation.
Some of my father’s classic words of wisdom suddenly come to me unbidden: Women are for men to enjoy, and discard once we’re done with them. They’re disposable goods. Don’t forget that, boys.
The man may have been an asshole, but he had a point. Keeping emotions out of the equation makes everything easier. I can have a wife and not love her. It’s not what my brothers have, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work for me.
My father wasn’t someone I’d ever wish to emulate, but maybe it’s too late for me to pretend I’m not just like him. Cold and unforgiving. Calculating. Mercenary. Not the type to nurture someone else. Obviously, the last thing I should be doing right now is giving Candi false hope that there can ever be more between us than the marriage of convenience I tricked her into.
Getting out of my seat abruptly, I say, “I’m moving to the back of the plane to do some work.”
“Want some company?” she asks, already gathering up her notebook and dictionary.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I say, “No.”
I can see the effect of my rejection register on her face like a slap.
Tempted to explain myself or at least apologize, I decide against it and simply walk away.
Let her pout until we land, for all I care.
18
ARMANI
My skin creeps with a chill as I descend the stairway to the Deep Cellar.
Pausing outside the arched wooden door at the bottom, I hesitate before knocking. I can hear the sound of my heavy, thudding pulse rushing in my ears. Whatever comes next is going to change things. I’m fully aware of that. Regardless, I’m prepared to do what needs to be done.
Which is why I came straight here the second Donovan dropped me and Candi off at home after he picked us up from the airport. I didn’t even go upstairs, I just sent Candi away with our luggage and instructions to get some food and take a nap, and then I drove one of the UTVs to the cellar compound. The staff at the Bellanti estate will see to her needs. As for me, I have my own priorities.
It’s not like I have a choice. I’ve got to remember who I am: Armani Alessandro Bellanti, the dangerous brother, the violent enforcer, the family protector. Hell, my middle name means “defender of men.” It’s up to me to take care of business, just like I always do. And then handle whatever comes next.
Clayton nods at me when he opens the door. He steps aside and I stroll into the huge concrete chamber. A familiar form sits with his back to me on a folding chair in the center of the dimly lit room. I don’t need a clear visual to know that it’s Donno. Bound tightly, head lolling, shoulders sagging.
I also take note of how snowy white and thin his hair has gotten. It’s shaved, showing pink scalp through the stubs. It hits me suddenly, how old he is.
Movement from the corner catches my attention. In the shadows, I make out Marco and Dante, slouching against the wall. My brothers step forward, their mouths set hard and expressions grim.
“The fuck are you two doing here?” I ask.
“Nice to see you, too. Welcome home,” Dante says.
I don’t like this. Not one bit.
“Get out of here, both of you,” I practically growl. “This isn’t a show.”
Marco pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s something he used to do as a kid when he was anxious, to the point of chewing it bloody and raw. I haven’t seen him resort to that in, hell, forever.
“I mean it, Marco,” I say as authoritatively as I can, hoping that if I sway my youngest brother, Dante will go along with him. “You don’t belong here.”
“I’m staying,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to hear for myself what he has to say. The man who used to drive my ass to school and taught me how to shoot a no-fail three pointer.”
A low cough. A gurgle. “Ah, Marco, you…made it every time,” Donno wheezes.
His jagged voice makes my gut clench.
“You’re damn right. Every time,” Marco echoes, unable to keep the emotion from his voice.
Looking over at Clayton, I ask, “How far did you get?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t. I’ve been goin’ easy on him, like you asked. Says he’ll only talk to you.”
It had occurred to me on the plane that Donno might pull that card, so I’ve tried to mentally prepare myself for this moment. The fact is, I know I can’t show mercy. Even though it’s Donno.
Even when he starts pleading for his life.
Giving my brothers a warning scowl, I walk in front of the chair and crouch before the old man. He attempts to smile with bloodied, cracked lips.
“Welcome…home, Armani.”
“Donno. This isn’t how I expected to see you when I got back.”
“I’m sure…it’s not.”
Clayton was true to his word. Donno doesn’t look all that bad, considering. His face is swollen and his lip is split and bloody, but he still has one good eye.
“You know what I’m going to ask,” I tell him.
He grunts in agreement followed by a coughing fit. Standing again, I shrug out of my jacket. My double shoulder holsters are visible, as are the pistols they hold. Crouching again, I rest my forearms on my knees and level him with a blank stare.
“Talk. Please. Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”
A rueful smile curves his lips. “You know this game, Armani. You…know I can’t do…that.”
“You’ve always been like family,” I remind him. “So why don’t we try this the easy way? Name your price.”
He seems to wilt a little with relief. His body goes slack against his bonds as if he’d been waiting to hear those exact words. There are many ways to get information from someone; pain doesn’t always have to be the accelerator. Especially not when it comes to family.
“I only got one grandson,” Donno says. “His mother won’t talk to me no more, you know, me being in the life and all. A cousin told me my grandkid got accepted to Harvard medical…”
“Tuition? Done.”
Donno shakes his head. “No, dammit. No.” He goes silent and when he speaks again, his voice is thick. “Just put a copy of his Harvard diploma on my grave. That’s all I ask.”
Fuck.
“Is that really how you want to play this?” I say.
“Both of us know you can’t let me walk out of here alive,” Donno says. “I’ll talk, but I need your word that you’ll bring me that diploma after I’m gone.”
“You have my word,” I say.
“Jesus Christ,” Marco says under his breath.
He storms past us to pull the heavy cellar door open, then walks out without looking back. The harsh slam of the door shutting behind him reverberates through the room. I can feel it in my chest.
Centering myself, I eye my prey. “Tell me, Donno. What exactly did you give the Brunos?”
“Documents, mostly. Financials. Contracts you’ve made with other families. Outstanding debts owed to you. Things too in-depth to take photos of. Copies were better.”
I take a deep breath, bile burning my throat. “Money is one thing. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? You fed them all the intel they needed to hurt us. For years.”
In the corner, Dante moves out of the shadows and into the light.
“How could you?” he says, his voice full of disgust.
“I never thought you’d get shot, Dante,” Donno says. “At the raid. You wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”
“Whatever that bullet did, it’s nothing compared to the damage you’ve done to me,” Dante says. “Me and my entire family.”
It takes some time, but Donno divulges his full list of misdeeds and the outcomes, in excruciating detail. It’s clear that he’s been carrying the guilt of his betrayal for some time. And he should be.
He’s had a hand in everything. From Dante’s wife and her sister’s brutal assault to their sister Livvie’s kidnapping, from Marco’s wife Karina’s abduction to the appearance of the armed thugs who crashed my wedding reception, not to mention the Bellanti warehouse fire my brothers and I had assumed was Candi’s fault and countless other aggressions. The raid setup that nearly killed Dante. The tampering to Marco’s race car that made him crash during a race. The death of our employee Monica.
Pretty much every catastrophe that has hurt or compromised my family and our livelihood over the last few years came from intel that Donno fed to the Brunos.
“I never meant it to go this far,” he says. “It started out small. Jobs your father was lining up, horse races he planned to fix. Once he died, it…it turned into something else. I got in over my head.”
Anger heats my face. “I’m shocked we’re not all dead because of you. What the fuck did you think Bruno was going to do with the information you were spoon-feeding him?”
“I fucked up.”
“You did. Fatally.”
He closes his eyes. “After Enzo died, I panicked. I had debts to pay and you and your brothers wanted out. I thought, how was I going to keep getting my cut? Your dad always gave me a share for taking care of things, you know. But I gambled a little. Made some enemies. Couldn’t afford to pay back any of that if my cut wasn’t coming no more. Bruno knew I was in a bad way. He—he said he’d make it all go away if I agreed to work a little harder. Dig a little deeper for him. So. That’s what I did.”
“You sold us out.”
“I didn’t want to,” he says.
“But you did all the same.”
The worst part is, my brothers and I were out. We had stepped back from our father’s illegal activities after his death—no, murder—and had agreed to go legit and transition our family business to wine and wine alone. We had every intention of parting ways with the mob once and for good.
And then, suddenly, shit started hitting the fan. We found out our father’s car accident was no accident at all. Then Marco’s car got rigged, Dante’s wife was threatened, and shady characters started popping up. When Dante found out Frankie was pregnant, and realized that the future of the entire Bellanti legacy was on the line, he pulled rank as the head of the family and formally exchanged our loyalty for the continued protection and support of our mafia allies. It was the only way to keep us safe.
It’s only now that I’m realizing the full extent of the forces that had been at play. It was no coincidence that the threats started piling up at almost the exact same time my brothers and I decided to get out of the life. Because that was exactly when Donno began feeding the Bruno beast, giving those fucks all the ammunition they needed to make a strike. Which means this man, who I’ve known my entire life, who I’ve trusted for decades, is responsible for bringing us back into the fold.
“You forced us back into the mob.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to.”
“YOU forced us back in. Fuck!”
Standing, I snake a hand through my hair and pace in front of him, trying to calm down.
“What ever happened to loyalty, Donno? Huh? What about that?”
“I fucked up, Armani. I said I did.”
“You helped start a war. Now tell me about the fucking Bratva.”
His brow knits. “The…Bratva? What’ve they got to do with this?”
Pissed, I draw my Walther and aim it at his head. “Don’t act like you don’t know! The Brunos are forming an alliance with the Russians. I want to know when that contract is being signed.”
