Page 1 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
PROLOGUE
MARCO
I can sense morebad news coming my way.
My brother Armani returned from Italy not half an hour ago and he’s already called a meeting in his office at the winery. Dante, our oldest brother, gets there first. When I arrive, it’s apparent that the two of them have already been talking, because Dante is tense, his jaw clenched, and Armani has his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Both indicators that something ugly is definitely up.
I took my time responding to Armani’s “get to the office in ten” text message. He’d gone on the trip to source information about the person responsible for our father’s fatal accident, and although I’m anxious to hear what he’s learned, I also know it won’t be anything good.
I’ve been completely overwhelmed by everything that’s transpired in the past few weeks. Every day, there’s more bad news or another threat against our family. It never stops. My father’s death is a bitter taste I can’t stop choking on. But although I despised the man, his death wasn’t a damn accident—and that’s something I can’t tolerate. Someone tampered with his car, causing the fatal crash, and I want to see the person responsible for it taken down.
And then I want to go back to worrying about my own shit. Unlike my brothers, I don’t live, eat, and breathe everything Bellanti. I’m not invested in the winery or keeping up the family name.
I just want to race. That’s it. Me in my car, tires on the track, fucking flying. Beating everyone’s ass as I dominate the checkered flag.
I could walk away from the winery forever without a second thought. I’ve got my own plans, and soon, people will know the Bellanti name from my mastery on the racetrack as much as they do for our world-class wine.
Armani rakes an irritated glance over me as I walk into the office. “You’re late.”
“So what else is new?” Dante quips lightly.
“Shut the door, Marco.” Armani drags his fingertips across the top of the desk and sits in the leather chair behind it.
I comply and stand there with my arms crossed. Dante gestures to a chair. I ignore him.
“What did you find out on your trip?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
Dante and Armani share a look.
“Ah,” I snap. “So I’m the last to know, as usual.”
“Settle down. You were late.” Dante stands and runs a hand through his hair.
God, the posturing. I can’t stand it. “I’m here now, so fill me in.”
“He’ll fill us both in,” Dante says. “He was just about to get to the good part when you walked in.”
Tension fills the room. For a second, no one speaks. The silence puts me on edge.
“Sometime today would be great,” I say. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Armani nails me with a cold glare. Anyone not accustomed to his intensity usually shrinks away from “the look,” but I find it irritating. He has a knack for being quiet, contemplative, and scary as hell when it suits him. Doesn’t work on me, though. Not anymore. Hasn’t since we were kids.
“We’re getting pulled back in,” Armani says.
I freeze, those five words running down my spine like cold, dead fingers. “What do you mean we’re getting pulled back in? We’re out. We’re staying out. That’s what we agreed on.”
He might as well have left out the word pulled because I can tell by the look on his face that we’re dancing with our vow to stay out of the mob. We’re close to throwing that vow over a fucking cliff.
We got out after out father’s death. Not many people are able to completely cut ties with mob life, but we had the chance to walk away completely clean and we took it. The three of us vowed to never, never, go back in. Our entire lives had revolved around who we owed favors to, who owed us, who owed who money, who was getting a loan with a blood-stained repayment plan. For the first time in our lives, we’re completely free. Or we were.
Yes, we skirted the edges after our father’s death to get a little help in gathering information on who arranged the hit, but we never jumped completely in.
There’s a light rap on the office door.
“Come in,” Armani says sharply.
The door cracks and a familiar female voice rings out. “Armani, welcome back!”
He ditches the scary expression and stands as Candi, our lead wine distributer, comes inside. They’ve had this ridiculous thing going on between them for a while. They’re obviously attracted to each other, but neither will throw down the gauntlet and go for it. Honestly, the constant dancing around is old, and her interruption came at a shitty time.
Candi bids us good morning. She’s an attractive woman with thick auburn hair and an hourglass shape. A wine-colored suit hugs her body, drawing Armani’s eye. He looks away before she notices, but I see him sneak another peek. His eyes narrow appreciatively right before he puts his professional face back on. Funny how he can switch between Mob Armani and Lover Armani in the blink of an eye.
She hands him a folder. “This is the purchase order for the upcoming gala. How was Italy? I’ve never been.”
He opens the folder, not making eye contact. He probably doesn’t dare take another look.
“It was fantastic,” he says easily, as if the trip was merely a vacation he’d gone on.
“I’d love to hear about it sometime,” she says, pointing to the form. “Just sign there.”
He does so with a flourish, then hands the file back. Candi smiles up at him expectantly. She’s obviously angling for a date, or even just a coffee. It’s a little adorable. But my brother either doesn’t take the hint or is pulling his stone-cold businessman act, the one that requires he not even allow himself the thought of fraternizing with one of Bellanti Vineyards’ colleagues.
This is killing me. I have to step in. “You know, you could tell her all about Italy over lunch, Armani…”
There. I’ve done him a solid. Thrown him a lifeline. All he has to do now is take it.
“I’ve got meetings all afternoon,” he tells Candi. “Maybe some other time.”
