Page 3 of Captive Heart: Armani
“Yes, of course. This was so fun,” I gush. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Oh gosh, thankyou. I couldn’t have done this without your help,” she insists.
Frankie shifts the baby as she begins to cry. Standing, I begin to gather the photographs and crafting papers.
“You go ahead and I’ll clean this up. I’ll just leave everything in a neat little pile.”
Frankie’s eyes light up with gratitude. “That would be great. And I’m really glad we did this. I’ve—missed having you around.”
I nod, but I don’t respond because the lump in my throat prevents words from forming.
Once they’re gone, I stare down at the scattered photographs again. I know I shouldn’t do it, but when I spy the picture of Liliana Bellanti standing with Armani, Dante, and Marco by the Christmas tree, I slide it into my back pocket.
Frankie will notice, of course. Eventually. And I’ll have to admit what I did, explain why I took it…and I will. But first, I need to dig into this with both hands.
I think about Armani again as I head outside and text Donovan for a ride back to the Bellanti estate. I know I need to bring this information to my husband soon, but I’m not sure that he can be objective right now. The Bellantis are hard at work pulling together a plan to prevent Juliana’s wedding, and they’ve all got more than enough on their plates at the moment. Suggesting that Juliana is their sister might push Armani over the edge.
But if I’m right…if Juliana truly is a link in the broken chain of this family…how can I prevent her from destroying her own brothers?
2
ARMANI
I hate poker.
And yet here I am, once again, playing it with my associates. I just can’t escape it.
Why the disdain? Because it’s a vile game that requires little cunning and no skill to win. Luck of the draw and knowing how to keep your mouth shut and your expression blank are the only components needed to walk away with someone else’s cash. Obviously, I’m good at it. But personally, I’d much rather immerse myself in a game of chess with a worthy opponent.
Unfortunately, that’s literally not on the table tonight. The men I’ve come to see are elbow deep in their cards with the spoils creating a volcano of coins, bills, a watch, and other assorted valuables heaped on the table between them. The sight brings me right back to my childhood, walking in on my father and his colleagues playing the same game, Dad sending me on errands so he didn’t have to leave the table. The man loved poker.
No wonder I despise it.
Antonio Bakka is expecting me, and he nods in curt greeting as I enter the private card room in the basement of the Andaz Napa hotel. The five other players turn hastily to look at me, likely to ascertain if the newcomer is friend or foe. But they all know me, and they know I’m not a threat…unless I have to be.
Bakka gestures for me to pull up a chair. The deep scar running down his cheek and temple almost looks purple in the overhead lights. I give each of the other men a nod in turn.
Every one of them was on the yacht during my honeymoon trip with Candi, save for one. I recognize him as one of the Colosimos, who I consider more or less trustworthy since the family basically acts as an extended branch of the Bakkas. Besides Colosimo and Bakka, it’s Clio Romo, the Marzello brothers, and Nicolo Riggante.
I know that this is more than just a card game we’re playing here. Everything I’m about to say and do during this meeting counts. These men and I had discussed stopping the Bruno-Bratva alliance on the yacht, but now it’s time to take action.
A cocktail waitress arrives to freshen everyone’s drinks, and I order a top shelf whiskey. Then I settle into my chair. Cards are set face down in front of me as I’m dealt into the game.
“It’s 500 bucks to get in,” Bakka says.
Unblinking, I pull out a thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills and throw them into the pile. No one raises a brow, and the game continues.
I play a hand. Lose. Hold back my irritation at how long it’s taking for the cocktail waitress to bring me my damn drink. She finally does, and I toss it back in one hard swallow, then hand the glass back and indicate that I want another.
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” Bakka asks suggestively, making a show of eyeing the waitress’s ass cheeks that spill out the bottom of her black spandex shorts.
“I’m not here for a fuck.” I pull a card.
He scoffs and low laughter comes around from the table.
“That wife of yours must be keeping you on a short leash.”
I don’t respond. He can bait me all he wants, but he won’t get a rise out of me.
