Page 24 of Captive Rival: Armani
I also appreciated Armani’s little confession about not sleeping with his ex last night. I acted skeptical in the moment, but my gut says he was telling the truth. After all, he didn’t have to come clean to me. Didn’t have to bring it up at all. Yet he did. That has to mean something, right? Or maybe I’m just engaging in self-deception.
Christ, we’re barely twenty-four hours into this honeymoon and so far it’s been nothing but an emotional roller coaster. Not the good kind, either. Which is why the encounter in the pool was such a nice reprieve from my anxiety. I still want to find a way to talk to Juliana and let her know where I am, but the urge is less desperate now. My insides aren’t wound so tight and some of my worrying has melted away.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower. I’m in the locker room adjacent to the pool area. The term “locker room” doesn’t actually do the space any justice. It’s very spa-like. There’s wall-to-wall teakwood, not to mention asauna, and everything smells like lavender and mint.
After drying off with a plush Turkish cotton towel that I pluck from a heating rack mounted on the wall—because of course—I slip back into my sundress and head to my room below deck. Armani must have just showered in here, because I can still smell his Burberry body wash emanating from the bathroom on a damp cloud of dissipating steam. He’s changed into fresh clothes too (obviously); his leather overnight bag is unzipped. Probably hanging out with his mafia friends again.
Honestly, I’m in no mood to be around them right now. Not to mention the women. I think I’ll just stay here in the room and play with my Italian-English dictionary. Maybe see if the TV works.
As it turns out, I’m able to login to Netflix. Which means there’sWi-Fion this boat. It’s got to be satellite based. If only I had a way to piggyback on the signal…not that I’d have the password. Or a functioning device with which to use said internet. God, Armani is such an asshole.
Scowling, I put on my favorite baking competition show and lose myself in the lighthearted hijinks. That’s why it’s called escapism, right? I try to memorize new Italian words during the commercial breaks and then switch to looking up kitchen vocabulary during the episodes. Midway throughThe Great British Bake Off, the boat starts to rock. I sit up with a start. Are we setting sail again?
But no—when I look out the window, I see another yacht approaching us. We’re not leaving the dock. More guests arriving, then? Or is it finally time for Armani’s man squad to go home? That would be a relief. He and I could go home, too, at least back to the island villa. Who knows, we might even find a way to make the best of our remaining honeymoon.
My stomach gives a little growl and I pause my show, only to find that it’s late afternoon. I completely forgot about lunch. Intending to raid the galley, I quietly open the bedroom door and pop my head into the hallway to see if the coast is clear.
It’s not silent, but it’s nowhere near as raucous as last night when the party was in full swing. And the cigar smell is gone. I do hear music coming from down the narrow hallway where the lounge is, and a low murmur of female voices. Quickly, I dart to the stairs and sneak up to the main deck barefoot, successfully avoiding notice (or invitations to join in) from Armani’s cohorts.
But when I get to the kitchen, my plan to grab myself a snack is stymied by the presence of a chef and an assistant, both of whom are hard at work preparing what looks to be a delectable dinner. Mouthwatering smells wash over me, and I freeze in the doorway to just watch for a moment, not sure if I should try to tiptoe over to the refrigerator and grab whatever I can find or ask for help. Glancing over the ingredients scattered across the prep area, I see veal shanks, a few bottles of Bellanti Vineyards white wine, assorted vegetables, zested lemons, garlic, and fresh herbs galore—
“Are you making osso buco?” I ask.
The head chef looks up with a broad grin. “Yes, yes! Your favorite?”
“It’s actually my best friend’s favorite. Well, one of them,” I say, moving closer. My heart sinks a little bit thinking about Juliana, but I push my thoughts of her away as best I can.
“You will love it,” the chef promises. “We are close to Italy so everything I make is very, very fresh and very, very good. I am also serving a beautiful risotto Milanese and an arugula salad with grapefruit to, how you say, lighten up the meal.”
I’m drooling. “That all sounds amazing. I’m Candi, by the way.”
“Mrs. Bellanti, yes, I know,” he says. “I am Idris, and this is Luca.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” I say, and mean it.
“Here, you must taste the risotto,” he says, grabbing a prep bowl and scooping a generous spoonful of risotto out of the skillet for me to try. “Please, tell me how you think.”
He watches as I blow the steam off my spoon and take a bite.
“Mmm,” I moan, nodding as I chew. This risotto ismagnifico. It’s creamy and savory and buttery. I can taste the shallots, the parmesan, the barest tang of saffron. “It tastes like heaven.”
“Right answer!” the chef’s assistant teases. “That dish is Chef Idris’s pride and joy. He probably would’ve had a heart attack if you didn’t endorse his personal specialty.”
In return for his mocking, the assistant gets a playful swat with a dish towel from Chef Idris. Then the chef adds another helping of risotto to my bowl and pulls out a stool for me off to the side of the prep area. When I thank him, he spoils me further by bringing over a steaming chunk of bread with oil and balsamic and a sample of the lemon asparagus that his assistant just finished sautéing at the stove.
An idea strikes me then.
“Chef Idris?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bellanti?” He looks up from the cutting board where he’s dicing carrots and celery so fast, I’m a little afraid he’s going to lose a fingertip.
“Do you think you might be able to prepare some gnocchi? It’s one of Mr. Bellanti’s favorites. Especially short rib gnocchi, but really any gnocchi that goes with the meal would be fabulous. It’ll put him in a good mood.”
All the better to distract him from killing me or renting me out to one of his friends, right? If I have to play the game, I’ll play it. Whatever it takes to survive this trip.
“Yes, yes, yes, of course!” Idris says, and it’s clear he’s swept up in recipe ideas already. Cooking must be like a religious experience for him. “With summer squash, zucchini, sweet corn, some basil…”
As he talks, he zips around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients and tossing them onto the prep counter. Meanwhile, his assistant ducks or catches as necessary. They make a good team.
