Page 67 of Captive Heart: Armani
“Maybe you could just talk to him for a minute,” I suggest. “That way he stops stalking you. You can say you’ve been getting gold leaf facials and reflexology massages and you’re having a ball. I mean, it can’t hurt to check in.”
She makes a face. “No. The more I think about the shitshow that my entire life is, the more pissed off I get. And not just at Sergio. Maxim has been using me, too. I’m not talking to either one of them until I decide what to do about this wedding.”
“Okay,” I say placatingly, settling back onto the pillow.
We’re at an exclusive, VIP-only luxury spa for a full day of head-to-toe treatments. Normally, it’d be impossible to get into a place like this on such short notice, but Armani took care of it…presumably with cash. He insisted on sending us here with a driver and six bodyguards, which I thought was excessive until Juliana asked for two more.
She and I had a light breakfast at Casa Bellanti and arrived here at nine a.m. These massages are our first treatment—although mine’s a special prenatal massage. I’m not really sure what that means, but I hope it does something for all the stress I’m experiencing.
I don’t like that Juliana’s fiancé won’t stop calling, and I like it even less that she ignores him each time. Talk about adding fuel to the fire. I’m surprised a bunch of Russian mobsters haven’t burst in on us yet to take her into custody. Even texting the guy a dumb kissy-face emoji would go a long way toward keeping him pacified, but Jules refuses.
Maybe I should just steal her phone and do it myself.
My cell starts vibrating again. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Orloff again.
“You sure you don’t want me to pick up and just…make up an excuse for you?” I ask. “It’d get him off your back for a bit, at least. I’ll tell him your phone died because you forgot to charge it. Um, and that you’re in the sauna so you can’t talk.”
As scary as it would be to speak to Orloff myself, it’s the best solution I can think of. Not just because Juliana refuses to talk to him herself, but because even if shedid, her temper might get the best of her, and I can only imagine what might come out of her mouth. When she’s angry, she doesn’t think before she speaks. I’ve seen the devastating consequences more than once.
We need to do whatever it takes to keep him—and Sergio Bruno, too—from getting suspicious about Juliana’s loyalties. They can’t find out that she knows about her true identity.
“You don’t need to talk to him,” Juliana says. “He’ll just bully you into handing me the phone, and then I’d hang up on him, and then we’re right back at square one.”
Sighing, I set the phone on a teak table with a stack of towels on it and try to get some deep breathing exercises going. I can’t lie; I’m relieved that Juliana said no. Her fiancé intimidated the hell out of me when I met him at the bakery.
Juliana takes my hand and squeezes. “Thanks for offering, though.”
“You’re welcome.”
The tension between us is gone. She’s still pretty shell-shocked as she processes the fact that she’s a Bellanti, but it seems like I’ve been forgiven for tricking her into meeting with Armani. I guess if it weren’t for my gut feeling about her uncanny resemblance to that old photo of Liliana, Jules never would have found out that most of her life was a lie.
It makes me sick to think about all the years she spent in boarding schools all over Europe, lonely and abandoned to strangers, clinging to the belief that Sergio Bruno was her protector, her godfather, her only family left, when all along he was keeping this dark, terrible secret from her. He knew she was a Bellanti this entire time. He had to be responsible for Gabriella Bellanti’s death, too. I can’t think of any other likely suspect. But what was his plan? Did he dispose of the mother so he could steal her child? And why? To raise her as a pawn?
So many questions have gone through my mind since finding out the truth about her, but I don’t dare give voice to them. Not yet. Everything is too new and raw for her still. She needs time to adjust. Jules hasn’t mentioned my pregnancy, either—that’s how much of a tailspin she’s in. Maybe she blocked it out or forgot, with all the earth-shattering revelations about her DNA.
Our massage therapists finally bustle in, and Juliana and I surrender to the pampering. At some point, I completely doze off. I wake to Juliana poking me in the shoulder.
“Don’t wanna get up,” I mumble.
“Come on. We’re scheduled for facials next. You can sleep for that, too.”
Two hours later, my face is glowing, my cheeks are pink, and my lips are baby soft and exfoliated. My body is loose, my brain relaxed. I haven’t felt this calm in weeks, if not months.
“I’m going to sleep so good tonight.”
Juliana links her arm through mine. “Me, too. Let’s go find brunch. I’m starving.”
I let her lead the way, trying to ignore the mini army of black-clad, hulking security guards following us. Admittedly, I do feel safe. But it’s still unnerving.
We eat at the spa’s outdoor café, at a table overlooking the ocean. Goddess salads, avocado toast on sprouted whole grain, sunshine tea, goji berry coffee cake. Delicious, all of it.
Our last stop is mani-pedis, and then it’s time to leave. The guards escort us outside to the SUV that Donovan is driving. I’m about to slide into the back seat when my phone vibrates. Juliana’s face drops when she hears the sound.
“It’s him again,” she says flatly.
“Maybe not.” I pull the phone out of my pocket and wince. “Okay, it is him. It’s a text that says, ‘I am giving her two hours to call me, or else.’”
Her lips press into a hard line. “I’ll call him in one hour and fifty-nine minutes, then.”
