Page 28 of Captive Heart: Armani
Dante huffs out a breath and then looks to the ceiling. “Okay. Okay. We’ll just have to try to take him out again. It’s the only way.”
He’s not wrong. I need to come up with another plan—as soon as fucking possible.
“What are we doing about Guerra?” he asks. “We need to find out if she’s our sister.”
I shake my head, “Don’t go there, Dante.”
“Why not? What if Marco is right, and she is—”
“Stop it. You’ve already convinced yourself that she’s Liliana, but we have no proof.”
“So let’sgetproof,” Dante pushes.
“Are you listening to yourself? Right now, it doesn’t matter if sheisour flesh and blood. We’ve got a war to fight. That’s what we need to be focusing on.”
And if I don’t act fast, none of us might live long enough to find out the truth anyway.
11
CANDI
I can’t believeI’m doing this.
My hands are cold as ice as I pick at a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the café table. A glass of sparkling water collects condensation while the top erupts with tiny, fizzing bubbles. The waiter has come by three times now to see if my lunch date has arrived. He eyes me as he wanders past again, probably annoyed that I’m clogging up his afternoon flow.
Mom hasn’t arrived, and I’m not so sure that she will. I’ve never invited her out to lunch before; maybe she’s just as uncomfortable with the idea as I am. It’s just not something that we’ve ever done together, and honestly, once I left home and started growing into my independence, the thought of spending time with her—with any of my family, really—made me feel…not good. Because whenever I’m around them, I somehow revert to my childhood self. It’s like I’m a worthless little kid all over again, like I’ve taken a huge step backwards.
But for some reason, I want to tell her about the baby. I don’t know why. I just do.
I debated inviting her to the house, but ultimately figured neutral territory would be best. After all, Armani and I will be getting divorced in a few more months, right? I don’t see the point in pretending I’m a happy little Bellanti wife, just for my mother’s benefit.
When I tried to leave the house earlier, I found out that Armani had assigned me a driver-slash-bodyguard. Thanks to my near-death experience at the bakery, I’m apparently not allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied anymore. I didn’t argue, for the baby’s sake. The bodyguard brought me to downtown Napa, where I’d reserved a table at Julio’s for lunch. There are people everywhere, and my guard is seated just a few tables away, not exactly blending in with his black suit and bulging muscles and oversized dark sunglasses. But I have to admit, I do feel safer.
When I check the time on my phone again, I realize my mom is half an hour late now. She’s probably not coming. Her response to my text invite was, “I’ll try,” which wasn’t exactly a yes. Maybe this was a bad idea. All I’ve done is set myself up for disappointment.
Speaking of disappointment, Armani told me that they finally confirmed Juliana survived the fire—and although I’m over the fucking moon that she’s alive, her phone is still off and I still haven’t heard from her.
Where is she? Why hasn’t she reached out by now? Have I been officially cut off? Does she blame me for what happened at the bakery? All the worrying is making me sick.
Plus, I’m afraid Sergio Bruno is planning to retaliate against the Bellanti family—which includes me, at the moment—for the fire. I’m getting more anxious by the second as I sit here. My entire life is in shambles.
I push back from the table, but then hesitate as my chest wells with an inscrutable emotion.
It feels like regret, but I’m not sure if I’m regretting the fact that I got my hopes up about my mom showing up, or that I invited her to meet me in the first place. We don’t have the kind of relationship where I tell her anything of importance, really. She’s always kept me at arm’s length, even when I was young. A therapist would probably say it was because she was in survival mode, dealing with years of my father’s verbal abuse and the constant stress of caring for my four rambunctious brothers before I finally came along. And I can kind of understand that. But this baby news is important. I need her to show up for me.
Doesn’t every daughter want her mom involved in her grandchild’s life? And in my case, doesn’t my mom deserve a chance to make up for lost time with me by showering her grandkid with all the love and attention I never got? And yes, I’m hoping she might want to be a part of my little family circle. Because once Armani and I are separated, it’ll just be me and the baby. I’m sure I’ll need all the support I can get, being a single parent.
Not that Armani won’t support us financially—I’m sure he’ll want to help with the money part of raising his kid, and I’m not going to turn that down—but I’m going to need emotional support as well. And my baby is going to need a lot more family than the mafia.
Then again, is it sheer wishful thinking to believe I can trust my mother to be a safe place for my child? She certainly wasn’t a safe place for me. Staring at the fizz misting from my seltzer, I feel shame this time. Shame for thinking that things could be different. That she’d actually show up for me for once.
“Cassandra?”
My head snaps up at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Mom. You made it.”
The hostess beside her smiles and hands my mother a menu after pulling out her chair across from me.
