1
CANDI
People are goingto be talking about my wedding celebration for a very, very long time.
Just not in the way that Armani and I had intended.
Our extravagant reception at Bellanti Vineyards was abruptly cut short after a group of armed Bruno soldiers burst in during our cake cutting, guns on display, effectively dispersing most of our guests. Some quietly excused themselves, some ran, and the ones who froze in terror or tried to stick around to rubberneck were soon hastily escorted off the winery grounds by Bellanti security. I’m just grateful no weapons were discharged. The volley of rounds exchanged between my husband and the leader of the Brunos’ men was strictly a verbal one.
After Armani hustled me back to the main house, he left me with a few guards for protection and then returned to the reception area to circle back with his brothers. I haven’t stopped worrying since, my ears straining for the sound of gunshots or screams or squealing tires on gravel.
I’m currently glued to the front window with my eyes on the string lights that still glow softly around the perimeter of the party space. From here, I can see a few tables knocked over, trampled flowers on the ground, an upended punch bowl, a single high-heeled shoe left behind in the mad rush to get away.
The scene of a fairy tale turned into a nightmare.
A sick, nauseous feeling twists in my gut, and I realize I’m shaking. I sink into one of the chairs by the window and reach for the hot tea that one of the kitchen staff brought out on a tray for me. But the cup rattles against the saucer so badly, I end up spilling half of it before I can even take a sip.
“Mrs. Bellanti?” one of the guards says gently from the doorway of the sitting room.
“I’m fine,” I snap, the tremor in my voice loud and clear. I take a breath and set the tea back on the tray. “I’m going to my room.”
“We’ll come with you,” the guard says.
Upstairs in the lounge area of the bedroom, I find my cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and cradle him in my arms for emotional support. I should change out of this ridiculous satin dress, take a hot shower, climb in bed and burrow under the blankets—but I can’t do any of that. Not until my husband returns in one piece.
I start trembling again, and I pull a blanket around my shoulders, but it doesn’t banish the cold inside me. The horrified looks on our guests’ faces are still riveted in my mind. Their initial hushed shock and confusion at the symbolic blood-red liquid running out of the white frosted wedding cake when Armani and I cut through it with the knife. The rising murmurs of fear when those Bruno thugs sauntered into the tent like they owned the place.
I’d known this would be a night to remember…but now I wish it was something I could forget.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I hear footsteps echoing on the stairs, down the hall, and then my heart leaps when I catch the low rumble of Armani’s voice as he converses with the guards outside the door. I get up off the sofa just as he steps into the room wearing his trademark scowl.
“Armani.”
Relief nearly overwhelms me as I rush to meet him, even though the hard set of his jaw tells me his anger has not cooled. Unless—maybe something else happened.
“What did you find? Are the Brunos all gone? Did anyone get hurt? Are you okay?” I babble.
He strides across the room, away from me, barely giving me a second glance.
“There was nothing to find,” is all he says.
I follow him into the bedroom, where he’s working his tie loose.
“I don’t understand,” I say. I’m still reeling, and I can’t stop asking questions. “Why did the Brunos send those men here with guns? Just to intimidate us? What was the point? And the cake—”
“The cake turned out exactly as expected,” he says, nodding in self-satisfaction.
“What? Thebleedingcake? It was horrible.”
“It was a test, Candi,” he says coolly.
“A test of what? For who? And why do you seem so damn pleased about the whole thing?”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket and lays it over a chair. The X of his shoulder holster makes a stark contrast against the white of his dress shirt, the dark leather crisscrossing over his back. He has two guns strapped to his body that I can see, and I’m sure there’s a third tucked away somewhere. Armed and dangerous as hell, as usual, and yet all I can think about is ripping off his clothes.
“When you ordered that cake, you gave the Brunos an opportunity to make us feel small,” he says. “They took it. Thanks to you.”
“But…I just ordered the cake you asked for, from the bakery you wanted,” I say, shaking my head. “I had nothing to do with how it turned out.”
