He takes a clipboard from a wall rack and gives me a formal walk-through, showing me the process from physically receiving deliveries from Bellanti Vineyards to the data entry process in their software to order intake to shipping back out. My mind is reeling, but I’m enjoying myself. Suddenly, the sound of a loud horn blasts from outside. Armani leads me out the yawning shipping doors and onto the pier, where a barge is settling into its slip. The workers begin tying the barge into place and preparing to load up the shipments.
“I have a few things to check on before we go,” Armani says. “Why don’t you take a break and finish your coffee.” It’s not a suggestion.
Back in the cavernous main room, I settle in at one of the desks with a smile and my now-cold coffee from the bakery. I pull out my phone and start tapping around, flashing Armani a quick smile. Seemingly satisfied, he walks back toward the docks, leaving me alone.
I wish I could poke around here without being obvious. But there’s no place to lurk, not without getting in the way of the workers, and I wouldn’t be able to easily talk my way out of it if I was caught snooping. Perking my ears, I listen for any scraps of conversation that might filter my way, but the muddled tones are impossible to translate. What I wouldn’t give to take a closer look inside those shipping crates being loaded right now.
Armani returns quicker than I expected. He’s expressionless, giving nothing away.
“Ready? I have to swing by the pressing room next. I’ll walk you through the process.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
That means we’re heading back to the Bellanti complex. I’ve been inside the building before, but haven’t actually seen the presses in action.
Walking back out into the morning sunshine, he pauses just outside the door as his phone rings. Motioning for me to wait for him, he moves a few paces away and turns his back to me. When he picks up the call, he starts speaking in Italian, his tone clipped and clearly annoyed.
Why is he speaking in Italian? Even though I can’t understand the words, I listen as best I can. He might switch to English, and then I could maybe grab enough to figure out what he’s talking about. It hits me then, how desperate I am to find something I can use. Just a tidbit or two of important information would go a long way. So far I’ve gotten practically nothing.
Back in the SUV again, I try not to look as dejected as I feel. The warehouse was interesting, of course, but I wasn’t able to observe anything truly useful. When Armani puts the car in gear, I notice the tightness in his jaw, the frown line between his deep brown eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask, wondering what happened on his call.
“Fine.”
“You seem upset. Was it the call?”
“It’s nothing,” he says curtly.
Hmm. Defensive. “Okay.” I keep my voice neutral and look out my window.
He lets out a long breath. I pretend not to notice the tension in the car. Finally, once we’re back on the freeway, he breaks the silence.
“It’s Kaspar, one of our men. He’s defected, we think. We’ve been looking for him, but he’s gone completely MIA.” Armani glances at me and his lips press into a thin line. “If he’s not dead, we need to work like hell to find him before the Brunos do. He knows too much about us.”
I swallow down a flutter of excitement. This is exactly the kind of info I need to be sharing. Except…do I still want to? Suddenly, I’m not so sure which side I’m on.
“That sounds intense,” I say. “I hope he turns up soon.”
“We’ll find him.”
Nodding, I go silent again. I know I should try to draw him out some more, dig deeper, but I don’t want to be reminded of the grittier side of this man. I already miss his softer side.
Playfully squeezing his bicep, I look over at him. “Weren’t you ever the making-mudpies, playing-in-the-sandbox, crayon-up-the-nose type, or were you born this serious?”
He doesn’t crack a smile. “I don’t know, honestly. I barely remember my mother being alive, and I certainly don’t remember much about being a kid. My childhood was…not carefree.”
His stoic tone doesn’t at all reflect the sorrow implied in his words, but my heart breaks.
“I’m sorry you don’t remember her,” I say. “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, driving the nail deeper on his lack of emotion. “She and my sister took the boat out on a summer day. They never made it back. It’s the kind of accident that happens every day, but it was the first time I found out that bad things existed in the world. And most of them seemed to exist in my father after that.”
It’s easy to put the pieces together, to imagine what life must have been like with the Bellanti patriarch after such a devastating loss. My mood instantly shifts from curious to somber.
“I was nine,” Armani adds.
My heart breaks all over again. Frankie had told me about Armani, Marco, and Dante’s mother and sister a while ago, but it’s a completely different perspective to hear it from Armani. I hate that he and I have something like this in common, but I feel a kind of kinship blooming.
