Page 55 of Captive Rival: Armani
My entire future seems dangerously uncertain.
Taking a deep breath, I go to Juliana’s contact and hover my finger over the call button.One, two, three, call.My finger doesn’t move.Come on. Just tap the damn button.Still, I don’t budge.You can do this, Candi. You’ve called her a million times, it’s no big deal. Let’s get this over with. Aaaaand GO.
But even with all the silent pep talking, I still can’t force myself to call her. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and my hands are shaking. I need to work up to it a little more, I guess.
First things first, I go downstairs to the kitchen to make myself another cup of tea. Something calming, soothing, stress relieving…and then I find it. A tin of lavender honey chamomile. Perfect. Steaming cup in hand, I’m about to head back to the bedroom when I pass the Bellantis’ home office. Oddly, the door is cracked open. Someone is pacing inside the room.
I hesitate outside for what must be a moment too long, because suddenly the door flies open and I’m face to face with Armani. Shit. This is not a good look.
“I wasn’t eavesdrop—” I start to say, lifting my tea as if in explanation.
Armani shakes his head at me, gesturing to the phone pressed to his ear. I didn’t even realize he was talking to someone.
“Non buono abbastanza,” he says coolly into the phone, and even with my limited Italian, I can translate it: Not good enough.
Sorry, I mouth to him, about to tiptoe away and leave him to his call. But he rests his hand on my shoulder and steers me into the room, gently closing the door behind us.
I’m led to the couch, where I sit down and proceed to slowly sip my tea. Armani goes back to his pacing, something I’ve noticed all the Bellantis do when they’re angry or upset or otherwise in some kind of turmoil. Clearly, this isn’t a productive call he’s having.
The person on the phone must be done talking, because Armani starts barking at them in rapid Italian again. The words roll off his tongue so quickly, I barely recognize anything aside fromno. Which must be why he’s letting me sit here—because he knows I won’t understand the conversation anyway.
Still, the tone of his voice is enough for me to put together that things are heated. This must be a mob thing, right? Or am I reading too far into it? Maybe the reason I’m allowed to listen in right now is because he’s talking to an Italian vendor of Bellanti wines, and nothing of import is being said. For all I know, they could be arguing about discounting the price of the Elite Reserve.
Armani’s voice rises again. He’s been tense since we left the island, even more so than usual. I don’t know if it has to do with the Brunos specifically or just the Bruno-Bellanti war in general…or if there’s more to it than that. It’s probably wishful thinking to hope that he’s reevaluating the terms of our marriage, but I can’t stop replaying our day at the waterfall, remembering how tenderly he’d looked into my eyes while we were sharing that plum, and then everything that happened afterward. I felt so connected to him. It wasn’t just the sex, either. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
What if it’s all in my head, though? Is it completely idiotic to believe he’s starting to feel something real for me?
He ends the call and stares out the window for a while, his jaw clenched.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Everything okay? That call sounded a little…intense.”
I try to sound as casual as possible, so he doesn’t feel pressured or even more stressed out. My voice seems to pull him from his thoughts and he slips his phone into his pocket.
“You mean you weren’t following? I thought you were getting pretty fluent in Italian,” he teases.
“Yeah, no. I’m still just working on basic vocabulary. You were talking way too fast.”
Turning to face me, he seems to consider, and then says, “Our allies are still hesitant to back us if we end up going to war with the Bratva. Aka Sergio Bruno’s new best friends in Russia.”
For a moment, I sit in stunned silence, trying to process my husband’s words. I’m shocked. Because that wasn’t some frivolous sales call about wine. It was a call regarding serious mafia business.
And Armani just made an admission of his family’s vulnerability that could hurt the Bellantis very, very badly if I ran back to the Brunos with it.
Which means that…if he’s sharing that intel with me, Armani must actuallytrustme.
It doesn’t escape me how much this means.
“Wow,” is all I can say. “No wonder you’re so stressed out. Maybe you’re the one who should be drinking this lavender tea.”
A laugh escapes him, though it’s not the humorous kind of laugh. More of a, “we are well and truly fucked” kind of laugh.
“I’m sure your allies will come around,” I tell him, though I don’t know if that’s true. I hope it is.
“Honestly, I’m not so sure they will,” he says. “But if they do, they’d better do it fast.”
Pensively looking out the window again, Armani exhales as if he’s deeply exhausted.
I hesitate and then plow forward with the burning question on my mind: “Why did you just tell me that? Why did you even let me into the office in the first place?”
