Page 32 of Captive Heart: Armani
The counters are already filled with bowls of potatoes, vegetables, bread, and salad, and two coffee pots plus a variety of generic sodas in two-liter bottles.
“Mom,” I say gently. “I think there’s more than enough. It’s okay.”
She frowns. “Better to have too much than not enough. Just do what I told you.”
Less than an hour later, we’ve got macaroni and cheese, baked beans, and the reheated meatloaf ready to go, along with plates of crackers and cheese and cold cuts that Mom scrounged up while I was setting everything out on the table. Some of the guests have already left.
“What took you so long?” my dad snaps, coming into the room. “Everyone’s gone already.”
Her entire body melts, the energy draining right out of her. Something in my chest flares.
“There are still plenty of people here,” I say pointedly. “Mom, I’ll go tell them the food is ready. Why don’t you sit down and rest? You haven’t taken a break since we got home.”
Soon, the mourners and my family are flooding into the dining room, heaping their plates and returning to sit in the living room around the television. My dad keeps the channel on sports, which at least seems to be distracting everybody. Once everyone is done serving themselves, I sit at the end of the dining room table and stare at the food, the smell turning my stomach.
It’s not just the pregnancy hormones. My insides are in knots. I want to leave, but I feel guilty about my husband’s part in Sean’s death, so I don’t. Glancing through the doorway into the living room, my eyes stray to the TV. The sound of everyone eating makes me even more nauseous. I’m about to call it and go when my brother Liam slams his fist on a folding tray.
“I’m going to make that Russian bastard pay.”
The mouth sounds and clinking of silverware quiets down.
“Not now, Liam,” Dad warns.
“If not now, when?” he insists. “If we sit around waiting, we’ll be next.”
Pretending not to listen, I stir the potatoes, glad my mother is in the kitchen and can’t hear this crap.
“What do you have in mind, boy?”
“Easy. I find out where he lives, slip inside in the middle of the night, and take him out.”
My God, does he really think it would be that simple? Pressing a hand to my forehead, I have to stop myself from interrupting. My husband, who is an experienced mafia insider, couldn’t manage to pull off a well-organized attack and take Orloff down, but my brother…my inexperienced, hot-headed, ego-inflated brother, is going to do it. Sure.
Dad cracks open a beer. “Yeah. That could work.”
That could work? Is he serious? He’s actuallyencouragingthis?
“Cassandra! Bring me a cold beer. This one’s warm!” he bellows, making me jump.
It takes a second for me to realize that he’s speaking to my mother and not me, because of course we share a name. But we don’t have to share this dysfunctional trainwreck of a family. Touching my belly, I get up and slip the strap of my purse over my shoulder. Nothing in this house will ever change. One by one, my brothers will stupidly attempt to get revenge for Sean until they’re all cold in the ground and the only one left is my father. Who will probably either die of a heart attack or hire a hitman who will eventually turn on him when he doesn’t pay.
I don’t want any part of this. And my baby sure as hell won’t be part of this family either.
Without a word to anyone, I dart through the kitchen and leave, giving my mom a tiny wave as I silently close the back door behind me. I’m sure she’ll understand my Irish goodbye, her more than anyone.
Digging my keys out of my bag as I make my way along the side of the house to the curb out front, I spy Armani’s men parked down the street. Someone drives by the opposite way in a blacked-out SUV. When the driver’s window rolls down, I gasp at the face staring back at me.
It’s Maxim Orloff, dragging his eyes across my face until he suddenly speeds away, avoiding my guards and making his point very, very clear.
13
ARMANI
Pullinginto the parking lot of the doctor’s office, I take a deep breath and steel myself for what’s about to happen. Candi seems to be doing the same. Once the car is off, I turn to her in the hope that I can say something soothing or encouraging, but she’s already got her back to me, reaching for the door handle without so much as a glance in my direction.
We’ve hardly spoken since her brother’s funeral. If I ask her a question, she answers in monosyllables. If I try to touch her, she jerks away like she’s been burned. Sean’s death is clearly weighing on her heavily. It weighs on me, too, more than she’ll ever know. If it wasn’t for me, her brother would still be alive. A fact that I am certain she is well aware of. I have no idea how I’m supposed to bridge this chasm between us. I don’t even know where to start.
Jogging to catch up with her before she reaches the door of the clinic, I gently place my hand on the small of her back. She doesn’t push me away, but she doesn’t slow her pace either.
