Page 49 of Captive Rival: Armani
So no, I won’t indulge Candi’s fantasy version of our marriage. That’s not what we have. We keep each other company. We fuck. She does what I tell her to do, including delivering false intel to the Brunos. She’s useful to me for the moment, which is why I’m keeping her around. That’s it.
The problem is, I can’t stop thinking about our day at the waterfall, and I don’t know why. It’s like…seeing her smile and laugh and marvel at nature, the way her pupils dilated as we shared that plum, the loud, lusty cries I drew out of her while we were having sex, the feel of her warm, welcoming body beneath me, all of it just…itmoved me.
It wasn’t just yesterday, either. If I’m honest, something shifted for me when she cut her foot open at the beach and I saw all that blood…even knowing logically that it was a minor injury, I felt anxiety and adrenaline pump through me the instant I realized she was hurt. I couldn’t take care of her fast enough. I was compelled. I had to make it better.
Aside from my brothers, I’ve never experienced that kind of urgent, primal protectiveness toward anyone before.
What is happening to me?
“Car’s all packed,” Candi says from the bedroom doorway. “You ready?”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
We head downstairs, climb into the car, and make our way to the island’s tiny airstrip.
Once we’re aboard the private jet, Candi settles into her seat across from me and requests plain soda water with lemon from the flight attendant. I wave the woman away when she asks if I’d like a drink, turning to stare out the window instead. I’m trying to avoid interacting with my wife.
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.
