Having Candi under my roof is a major distraction, one that I wasn’t anticipating. I should have given her a separate bedroom. That was my first mistake. And slipping into bed with her after she falls asleep, her warm body just begging for my touch…Jesus. Trying to keep my hands off her is pure torture. A serious test of my willpower.
That’s why I’ve been staying away from her as much as possible. So far, it’s working. At the same time, I’ve never had a woman in my bed when I wake up in the morning, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
Don’t get me wrong; I like it. Some.
But I’d like it a lot more if I fucked her the night before, with another quickie the next morning to top things off before I go to work.
Problem is, sex with Candi is what got me into this blue-balled predicament to begin with. I had everything in order before our date on the yacht. My plot to catch her red-handed in her lies and make her confess to me was all planned out, and I had every detail in place. All she had to do was play into my hands slowly but surely over the next six months, one step at a time. Sex was merely going to be my way of ensuring her compliance.
Which it did, at least in terms of getting her to agree to move in.
But I hadn’t considered that sleeping with her would throw me off my game like this.
Fucking Candi is practically all I think about.
Ever since our night on the boat, I’ve been fighting off a near-constant lust. And I can’t afford this kind of interference, especially from someone who’s almost certainly been working against my family, maybe even since the first time she set foot on Bellanti property.
Fuck.
The sun is just starting to sink toward the horizon as I pull onto the freeway. I had meetings today with the owners of two small wineries in north Napa County, neither of which run a tasting room, who want Bellanti Vineyards to sell their wines in exchange for a commission. Both meetings ran longer than planned, since I was asked to sample a wide variety of vintages and load up cases of wine for my sister-in-law Frankie to pass judgment on.
I have a pretty good idea of which wines she’ll choose for us to sell alongside our own, but she has the final say on the matter. Even though her pregnancy means she won’t actually bedrinkingthe other wines—she’ll have to do the swish-and-spit method.
Not quite ready to go home yet, I take a one-hour detour that brings me down to Dillon Beach in Marin County just as the sunset is reaching full blaze. Seeing the sunset calls to mind the date with Candi again, but I push those thoughts away as I ditch my socks and shoes and stroll along the edge of the rolling waves.
Unlike my little brother Marco, who needs speed to clear his mind, I like to take things a bit slower. There’s nothing like a walk on the beach to get my thoughts in order. I tend to get lost in my own head easily, especially when I’m working out a deeper problem. Some perspective and the scent of clean ocean air will do me a world of good.
This is no ordinary problem that needs fixing, though. Being in charge of my family’s personal and professional security (and also acting as our unofficial intelligence/investigations department) means I’m always prepared to respond quickly to worst-case scenarios—and my main takeaway from our recent feud with the Brunos is that mercy doesn’t get you anywhere when it comes to the mob. But Candi Gallagher isn’t my usual target. Far from it. I can’t just tie her up in a basement and make her tell me what I want. More subtle methods are required.
Slowing to a pause, I turn to gaze out at the water, enjoying the rumble of the crashing waves that splash over my ankles. After a few zen moments, I realize that things aren’t so far off course just yet. Sure, I can’t get the woman out of my head…but I have her in my house, where my brothers and I can keep a constant eye on her. And she’s working for Bellanti Vineyards, so I know she’s tied to some of my family’s interests, at least.
I need to find out for sure whose side Candi is on. All I’ve had to go on thus far is word of mouth intel and my own gut instinct. Neither of which constitute definitive evidence. So until I’m confident enough of her guilt to make a move, life needs to go on as normal as possible. I need to make sure she doesn’t know I’m watching, listening, waiting…
In the end, I know there’s nothing she can hide that I won’t be able to figure out.
After I grab an espresso from a coffee stand in the parking lot, I sip it slowly by my car as the sky turns a dusky blue. Finally, I crush the paper cup in my hand and head back to Napa.
Traffic is tough. When I realize it’s almost eight p.m. and I’m not even halfway home, I head south to Petaluma—once a hippie town, now a foodie haven—to have dinner at a steakhouse I like to eat at whenever I’m in the area. The place closes soon but it’s packed, so I ask for the manager. Recognizing me, she winks and has a private table set up for me near the kitchen.
“What’ll you have tonight?” she asks, setting out a plate of plump green Castelvetrano olives and a basket of sliced Italian bread with olive oil, balsamic, and fresh herbs.
“Whatever Chef Joe feels like making me,” I answer. “The man can do no wrong.”
“You got it,” she says, bustling off.
I enjoy my appetizers and the blessedly low-key atmosphere. Unlike the restaurants around Napa, there aren’t any mob men lurking over my shoulder, either trying to make a good impression on me or a bad one. Here, I can just kick back and eat. Soon enough, the chef himself brings out a few favorites—short rib gnocchi with summer squash, crème fraîche mashed potatoes, and a perfect cut of Wagyu steak.
“Joe! The man, the myth, the legend,” I laud him as he sets the plates down. “Thanks for the tableside service, man. I appreciate you.”
“Enjoy, Armani,” he says, shaking my hand before heading back to the kitchen.
Digging in, I barely suppress a moan. God, I love this place. Maybe I’ll bring Candi here one day. After charming the waiters and leaving an obscenely generous tip in cash, I’m given a bag of hot cinnamon donut holes for my drive home. I arrive at Casa Bellanti a few hours later, feeling like a new man.
Walking in the front door, my mood sinks. It’s quiet. Too quiet, ever since Dante and Frankie moved out. As for Marco and Karina, they’re always zigzagging across the country for racing events and whatever else newlyweds do when they’re still head-over-heels for each other. Lately, it’s been just the staff and me in the house. And now Candi. And that damn cat.
Pausing at the base of the stairs, I consider walking across the property to the Bellanti offices to get some work done. I feel edgy, overcaffeinated, and restless. But if the house is this tomb-like, the office is only going to be worse, so I head for my small home office instead.
Loosening my tie as I walk, I pull up short outside the door, surprised to see a light on inside. Cautiously, I push the door open with one hand, my other going to the waistband holster at the small of my back. And then I go completely still.
