God, I want off this plane. I have no intention of continuing this conversation.
Some of my father’s classic words of wisdom suddenly come to me unbidden:Women are for men to enjoy, and discard once we’re done with them. They’re disposable goods. Don’t forget that, boys.
The man may have been an asshole, but he had a point. Keeping emotions out of the equation makes everything easier. I can have a wife and not love her. It’s not what my brothers have, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work for me.
My father wasn’t someone I’d ever wish to emulate, but maybe it’s too late for me to pretend I’m not just like him. Cold and unforgiving. Calculating. Mercenary. Not the type to nurture someone else. Obviously, the last thing I should be doing right now is giving Candi false hope that there can ever be more between us than the marriage of convenience I tricked her into.
Getting out of my seat abruptly, I say, “I’m moving to the back of the plane to do some work.”
“Want some company?” she asks, already gathering up her notebook and dictionary.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I say, “No.”
I can see the effect of my rejection register on her face like a slap.
Tempted to explain myself or at least apologize, I decide against it and simply walk away.
Let her pout until we land, for all I care.
18
ARMANI
My skin creepswith a chill as I descend the stairway to the Deep Cellar.
Pausing outside the arched wooden door at the bottom, I hesitate before knocking. I can hear the sound of my heavy, thudding pulse rushing in my ears. Whatever comes next is going to change things. I’m fully aware of that. Regardless, I’m prepared to do what needs to be done.
Which is why I came straight here the second Donovan dropped me and Candi off at home after he picked us up from the airport. I didn’t even go upstairs, I just sent Candi away with our luggage and instructions to get some food and take a nap, and then I drove one of the UTVs to the cellar compound. The staff at the Bellanti estate will see to her needs. As for me, I have my own priorities.
It’s not like I have a choice. I’ve got to remember who I am: Armani Alessandro Bellanti, the dangerous brother, the violent enforcer, the family protector. Hell, my middle name means “defender of men.” It’s up to me to take care of business, just like I always do. And then handle whatever comes next.
Clayton nods at me when he opens the door. He steps aside and I stroll into the huge concrete chamber. A familiar form sits with his back to me on a folding chair in the center of the dimly lit room. I don’t need a clear visual to know that it’s Donno. Bound tightly, head lolling, shoulders sagging.
I also take note of how snowy white and thin his hair has gotten. It’s shaved, showing pink scalp through the stubs. It hits me suddenly, how old he is.
Movement from the corner catches my attention. In the shadows, I make out Marco and Dante, slouching against the wall. My brothers step forward, their mouths set hard and expressions grim.
“The fuck are you two doing here?” I ask.
“Nice to see you, too. Welcome home,” Dante says.
I don’t like this. Not one bit.
“Get out of here, both of you,” I practically growl. “This isn’t a show.”
Marco pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s something he used to do as a kid when he was anxious, to the point of chewing it bloody and raw. I haven’t seen him resort to that in, hell, forever.
“I mean it, Marco,” I say as authoritatively as I can, hoping that if I sway my youngest brother, Dante will go along with him. “You don’t belong here.”
“I’m staying,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to hear for myself what he has to say. The man who used to drive my ass to school and taught me how to shoot a no-fail three pointer.”
A low cough. A gurgle. “Ah, Marco, you…made it every time,” Donno wheezes.
His jagged voice makes my gut clench.
“You’re damn right. Every time,” Marco echoes, unable to keep the emotion from his voice.
Looking over at Clayton, I ask, “How far did you get?”
