Page 9 of Captive Heart: Armani
Juliana draws back, looking at me like I’m nuts. “I thought—”
“I need to borrow you to the back,” Orloff interrupts.
He doesn’t wait for her to agree or not as he pulls out her chair, takes her hand, and tugs her along with him. She looks over her shoulder and gives me a little wave.
“Be right back. Keep on tasting.”
Two of the three guards go with them, leaving one here with me.
So far, my fact-finding mission has been a failure. I didn’t find out much about Juliana’s childhood or her memories of her mother, nor what actually happened to her parents. Ididconfirm that she was young when they died—young enough to not remember them well—but that’s about it. Thus, Plan B must be enacted, whereby I ply her with enough alcohol to get her talking without putting up all her walls. Should I propose a girls’ night out?
Just then, a loudclickgoes through the room. The guard instantly goes tense and looks around to locate the source of the sound. That’s when the light coming in from the large front window suddenly blacks out.
I do a double take, hardly believing what I’m seeing as something big and dark—fabric?—shifts over the window. More clicking. What the fuck?
The guard grabs the door handle, but it doesn’t budge.
Loud, angry voices sound from the back of the bakery.
Heart pounding, I ask, “What’s going on?” though I know I won’t get an answer.
The door and window are barricaded. We’re trapped inside.
I press a hand to my chest and go completely still as my senses detect something new.
Something dangerous.
The scent of wispy, acrid smoke.
4
ARMANI
I havea bad feeling in my gut.
Considering how often things don’t go to plan, it’s no surprise that I’m uneasy about the takedown planned for the Bruno bakery. Particularly since I have far less control of the operation than usual. It’s not my standard MO, of course, but because I approached my associates for help, setting aside my ego and letting them run point was necessary. Otherwise, I’d never let someone else run the show.
The whole drive back home from my meeting this morning with Nicolo Riggante, I try to convince myself to sit back and enjoy not having to be front and center for once. All I have to do is wait for the phone call that tells me it’s done. Nothing could be easier.
And yet. This nervous energy just won’t leave me. I’ve been on edge all day.
I haven’t spoken to Candi about what’s going to happen because I can’t risk having her tipping off the Brunos by trying to warn her friend. It’s no skin off my back if this Bruno “niece” gets hurt in the crossfire—it would serve her right for linking herself to the Bratva—but I know it will devastate my wife if something terrible happens to her best friend.
There’s nothing I can do. I can’t very well let Candi in on the plan. But…I suppose I could encourage her to inadvertently protect the woman by taking her out for lunch this afternoon. Or shopping. Or whatever it is that women do when they meet up. It’s the closest I can get to telling Candi that Juliana is in danger without compromising the entire operation.
Frustrated with myself for not working this out earlier, I speed the rest of the way home and then burst into the house like the devil himself is chasing me. A few concerned security guards call after me as I take the stairs two at a time to the bedroom to find my wife.
“Everything’s fine!” I shout over my shoulder.
Our room is empty. I call her cell and then her office number, but she doesn’t pick up. She’s not in any of her usual spots inside the house, either. The disconcerting feeling I’ve had all morning grows stronger. Where the hell is my wife?
I text her and stare at my phone, waiting for an immediate response. Then I call her again. When she doesn’t pick up, I dial the office line of Bellanti security.
“Morelli,” a voice answers.
“Tony. It’s Armani. Did my wife leave the property this morning?”
He pauses. “Her vehicle was brought around to the main house just over an hour ago. She said she didn’t want a driver.”
