Page 31 of Captive Rival: Armani
“What, you don’t remember?” I prod. “He offered to‘take care’ of me. What exactly did he mean by that?”
Nothing.
“He wanted torent meand thentake care of me, Armani. Did you make some kind of bargain?”
Instead of answering my question, he says, “You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”
“It was kind of hard not to. When a woman’s husband entertains conversation about sharing his wife, especially when it’s in the same room, a wife tends to take notice.”
He takes a sip of his drink while holding my gaze. A chill races down my spine at the pure impassivity on his face. He doesn’t give a shit about me or my concerns.
“Since you were eavesdropping, you should have also heard the part where I said I don’t share.”
I frown. “I did. But you also said you’d entertain his offer.”
“Mm,” he grunts.
“So? Did you?”
“I did.”
My stomach drops.
“But in the end,” he goes on, “I told him I wasn’t selling. I said I’d take care of you myself.”
A wave of nausea crashes over me. The room tilts, as if I’ve actually been poisoned or drugged. But it’s not because of the food. It’s because of this cold, reptilian criminal sitting across from me.
“What are you planning?” I ask angrily, trying to come off formidable and tough even as my knees tremble under the table.
A muscle twitches in his cheek.
“Answer me, dammit. What’s going to happen to me?”
Silence beats between us before he pulls a long breath in through his nose.
“Stop assuming I plan to dispose of you.”
“You just said as much!” I point out.
“I’m still deciding,” he says cruelly.
His tone belies the seriousness of what he’s just said. To him, this is normal, everyday conversation. Killing is what he does. Hell, I witnessed it with my own eyes. I thrilled in his revenge. But there’s no thrill in knowing that I might be the next person at the receiving end of his violence.
“Eat,” he commands, gesturing at my full plate. He must have finally noticed I’m only playing with my food. “Idris is a master chef. This risotto is…senza paralleli.”
Without parallel.Thanks, Italian dictionary.
I shake my head. “I’d rather not.”
Armani searches my gaze and then starts laughing.Laughing. Like this is some kind of joke.
“I get it now,” he says.
“Get what?” I say tersely.
“Here.”
He cuts a bite of the osso buco and leans over in his chair with his fork outstretched.
