Page 53 of Captive Bride: Armani
“You’re being disrespectful. And after I worked so hard on this meal for you and yourfriend.”
Dad keeps on eating, as if he can’t hear my mother’s shrill voice. “My point is, you got a lot of coins to rub together for a man who grows grapes for a living.”
“People love wine. Almost as much as they love beer,” Armani says breezily. “It’s a four-hundred-billion dollar a year industry, globally. So yes, my family does pretty well for ourselves just growing grapes. But as long as your daughter is taken care of, does it matter?”
“More bread,” is all my dad says, thrusting his plate at my mother.
“Thisislovely wine,” my mom says agreeably, raising her glass.
My brother Patrick grunts in agreement, reaching over me for the cabernet bottle to top off his own glass.
I look at Armani. He eats his dinner coolly, as if he didn’t just defuse a bomb, but my brothers are all staring at him with their mouths hanging open. I don’t blame them. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever seen my father turn away from a fight he was trying to start.
Armani smiles and compliments my mom on the roast, then draws my brothers out into a conversation about the work they do at Amsterson’s with my dad.
Who the hell is this man?
It doesn’t even matter. As suspicious as I might be of what his family might be involved in, I’m just damn glad that he’s mine.
19
ARMANI
I needa minute away from these idiots.
I think I’ve held myself back admirably well so far—physically, if not verbally—but it’s been a real test of my patience having to listen to her father dismiss Candi during the meal and make strings of backhanded remarks. Meanwhile, Candi composed herself as much as anyone who has suffered years of this kind of abuse; chin up but shoulders rounded and turned slightly inward, as if to make herself smaller and less noticeable. She seems well aware that her father and brothers are assholes, as evidenced by her attempts to steer clear of them. I’m sure she’s spent a lifetime trying to turn invisible anytime the men in her family were around.
Birth father and brothers gathered around the TV once dinner was over. Candi topped up my scotch, which I took to the backyard while she helped her mother with the dishes. I offered too, but Mrs. Gallagher refused. Apparently I’m a “guest” but Candi is not.
Stepping down the creaking steps, I curl my lip as a dandelion that’s gone to seed brushes against my Italian leather shoes. I unclench my jaw to take another sip of my scotch. The yard is overgrown with dead grass and weeds, a sagging chain-link fence surrounding the property line. I have little tolerance or respect for grown men who allow their families to live in squalor.
Footsteps approach from the kitchen before the screen door opens and someone crosses the deck behind me. The weight of the steps is too heavy to be Candi. I wonder which male Gallagher wants to have a chat, but I don’t turn around. I let him come to me.
The acrid scent of cigarette smoke reaches me first, instantly reminding me of the warehouse fire—but I can’t think about that right now, dammit—and then a tall body casually sidles up to me. I give him a scant side-eye before taking another drink. It’s one of her brothers, I think one of the younger ones. Conor? Patrick? They all look the same to me. He’s got a beer in one hand and the cigarette in the other.
We don’t speak, which isn’t awkward for me. It says a lot about him, though. Standing here all tense and quiet, weighing and measuring me as he tries to think of the best way to approach whatever is about to come out of his mouth. I prefer to observe and listen more than I speak. You’d be surprised how much a person will let slide when they’re trying to fill an uncomfortable silence. It’s a game I’ve become a master at playing.
“So, ah, sorry about my old man cornering you about the wine and all.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “I know it’s a legit biz.”
I smile wryly. “I’m never cornered.”
“Yeah. I get that about you.”
“Is that right?”
He takes another drag and blows it out slowly. The wheels are turning in his big head. I’m both annoyed and curious.
“I’m pretty good at reading guys like you.” He shrugs. “I’ve been around the scene for a while, you know?”
“I don’t know, actually,” I say, casually sliding a hand into my pocket and turning my dead-eyed stare on him. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
He subconsciously backs up a step, but scoffs at my reply. “Come on, man. You know what I’m saying. I came out here to offer myself up.”
Grinning around another drink, I size him up more closely. He’s taller than me, gangly despite a good amount of muscle. With a full head of bright red hair and a face covered in freckles, he’s about as intimidating as a rabbit.
“As a sacrificial lamb?” I ask.
His brows come together, a flicker of concern crossing his eyes. He huffs a laugh, his demeanor becoming amicable as if we’re old friends slinging jokes while we have a drink.
