Chapter 14
FRANKIE
After the tasting, Dante appears and helps me give the Zorics an impromptu tour of the winery, after which the glamourous couple head back to their rental car—a luxury convertible, of course—with a few bottles of complimentary wine and promises to visit Bellanti Vineyards again soon.
The work day finished, Dante and I head up to our room to get dressed for the apparently extremely fancy dinner party we’re hosting tonight at the most expensive Italian restaurant in Napa. This is the first I’m hearing about it.
“And who all is supposed to be there?” I ask as I work on my hair with the bathroom door open. Getting the details out of Dante has been like pulling teeth.
“Just some old friends from out of town,” he says vaguely. “Guess I forgot to mention it.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, pushing back a wave of annoyance.
The list of things my husband has been “forgetting” to tell me about lately just keeps growing by the day.
And I know for a fact that he doesn’t enjoy spontaneity—so a last-minute party like this only adds to my suspicion that these strangers are somehow connected to the mob.
Why else would we be bending over backwards to impress them?
Finally satisfied with my French twist, I walk over to Dante so he can zip my dress.
He’s fixing his tie in front of the walk-in closet’s full-length mirror.
He looks dashing, as always, but there’s more tonight.
The deep silver of his button-down sets off the darker tones in his skin and the flecks in his eyes.
He runs his fingers loosely through his slicked-back hair, making the strands less severe while keeping the “don’t fuck with me” vibe.
His silk suit is impeccable, the color a shade between steel gray and black depending on the light.
All he needs is a fat cigar and even I might be tempted to call him Don. Don Bellanti.
“So what are you thinking about the helicopter tours?” I ask as I turn my back to him. “And what about Dean? I like him. He’s actually kind of a genius.”
As he zips me up, he says, “The numbers are good. It’s a good idea. But you’re not going to be the one leading the tours.”
I spin around to face him, my rush of excitement dampened by his stipulation. “Why not? We can charge a premium if an actual Bellanti gives the tour. Like a grand per head, minimum—maybe even two, depending on which wines we offer at the tasting.”
His fingers trace the straps that crisscross my chest. “Then Marco can do it.”
“Marco’s building his own life,” I say. “He’s not going to be at the winery forever.”
Dante doesn’t budge. “He’s part of this family and he’ll do as he’s told. And so will you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Excuse me?”
His eyes move in the slightest of eye rolls as if he’s completely exasperated. I step away as he tries to reach for me.
“You are my wife, Francesca. You’re my responsibility to keep safe and I can’t do that if you’re flying around in a deathtrap all day long. Since you don’t seem to have enough common sense to stay on the ground, I’m going to make sure you stay there.”
Oh…boy. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I cross my arms over my chest and think about what to say that won’t result in me totally losing my cool.
“Here’s the deal, husband. I can see the twisted love logic you’re operating under. But you need to straighten it out before you talk to me like that again, or I’ll gladly spend the rest of this pregnancy in New Orleans with Livvie, riding airboats and hunting alligators every day.”
Dante is unamused. “Why don’t you value yourself?”
“What the hell does that mean?” So much for keeping my cool.
“You’re pregnant—yet you were working in a diner, eating garbage food—”
“I only just found out—”
“You could have anything you want, yet you insist on rejecting all of my attempts to make your life easy. You don’t have to hustle, Frankie. You don’t have to work. Can’t you just relax and…be a housewife? Be a mom? What’s so wrong with that?”
I silently count to three before I open my mouth again.
“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with it. For other women.” I step closer. “Dante, I do value myself. I know what I can contribute to this world. You’re the one who doesn’t see it.”
He looks past me and smooths his tie in the mirror one last time. “We’re going to be late,” he says, turning on his heel and walking out the door.
Letting out a sigh, I give my reflection one last look.
My slinky, pale lavender evening gown—my favorite color—flows over my body like a dream, but I swear I can see the fabric clinging to the tiniest hint of a baby bump across my middle.
There’s a baby in there. It still surprises me sometimes.
I grab my wrap and my handbag and follow my obnoxious husband to the car waiting outside.
The restaurant has been closed to the public, of course, to accommodate our private party.
The moment we step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the rich scents wafting out from the kitchen—roasted garlic bread, pesto, something…
meaty. Objectively, I know these are mouthwatering smells, but they hit me like an assault.
My stomach does an impressive somersault, and I pull my hand from Dante’s arm and excuse myself to visit the restroom.
“Don’t be long,” he warns. “We have people to greet.”
Right. Not my top priority. My main focus for the night is to not throw up on anyone important or dangerous.
The posh ladies’ room has two stalls with frosted glass doors and an Italian marble double sink with an elaborate Venetian mirror, two additional full-length mirrors flanking it on either side.
A diffuser fills the air with some kind of cloying floral fragrance that almost has me spewing before I can safely lock myself in one of the stalls.
I dig out the silver flask of cold tummy tea I brought in my purse and swig half of it down, praying it will work. And fast.
A few minutes later I hear the restroom door open, followed by the click, click of heels on the floor. Finally feeling less nauseous, I screw the top back onto the flask and exit the stall.
The woman turns.
Fucking lovely. It’s Jessica, fixing her lipstick in the mirror. Of course. If I do throw up tonight, I vow it will be on this woman.
She raises a brow as she spots the flask in my hand.
“Oh, Frankie. Are things really that bad with Dante?”
“Please do fuck directly off,” I tell her as I set the flask on the vanity and wash my hands.
“I’m not going anywhere, Francesca,” she says in a mocking tone. “My career, my future, is with Bellanti. I’ve put years of my life into that winery. And no drunk whore is going to run me off with a bad attitude and some spicy vocabulary.”
With that, she gives me a smirk and flounces her way to the door.
“I’m having his baby.”
Jessica freezes mid-step. When she turns around, I can clearly see the hurt on her face.
Her eyes drop to the flask. “Well then—”
“It’s tea,” I cut her off. “For my morning sickness. All day sickness, really. I hear it gets better after the first trimester.”
Her resting-bitch face crumples as she blinks rapidly, her eyes going glassy. Good God, is she actually going to cry?
But then her expression smooths out, the fake smile back on her face. She shrugs. “I moved on a long time ago. There’re two more, aren’t there?”
She opens the door with an exaggerated tug and walks out.
I wait a few seconds before following, wondering what exactly she meant by that. When I enter the dining room, however, I’m slapped in the face with the sight of her hanging all over Marco, who wraps his arm around her as well. Just like that, her meaning is clear. Huh.
Could she have been blowing Marco that day at the house? That…actually makes perfect sense. And it also explains why she hasn’t managed to stay permanently fired. Huh.
Still. What a bitch.
I don’t get time to dwell on it as Dante rises to kiss my cheek and then sweeps me around the room to make introductions.
I see Charlie chatting with a few of the other spouses.
Meanwhile, Armani appears to be the only man without a companion—he really should have invited Candi—and he looks a little tense.
Though I doubt not having a date is the cause.
Soon enough, our group is led outside to the restaurant’s courtyard, where a beautifully decorated table sits under a canopy of string lights.
The center has a sunken arrangement of running water surrounded by small pools of flame, and several outdoor fire cages throw delicious heat against the early December chill.
Slipping my wrap around my shoulders, I’m glad when Dante pulls out a chair for me close to one of the firepits.
Everyone else is still mixing and mingling as they stroll around the dramatic, gas lamp-lit courtyard in groups of two and three, drinks in hand.
I chat with Charlie for a bit, but then Dante reappears to steal me away.
He’s in the process of pointing out a few new arrivals who I haven’t met yet, but doesn’t get to make all the introductions before the first course is brought out and we have to take our seats at the table.
All told, there are seven couples (plus Armani) gathered around the huge table.
I’m positioned between Dante and my sister Charlie, Clayton on her other side.
Beside Dante are Officer Bryant and his handsome partner.
I’m charmed by the warm atmosphere and the glamorous company, even though I’ve already forgotten the names of the rest of the people closest to us.
Charlie must notice me studying them. She leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Most of these are West Coast family connections, the others are from the Chicago family. Pretty sure that one’s wife is an elected official in Illinois.”
I take a sip of water and whisper under my breath, “Criminals, senators, mobsters, and princes.”
Charlie gives me a confused look.
I laugh. “Never mind. Inside joke.”