Chapter 18
DANTE
As I watch the Escalade pull away with my brat of a wife in it, I have to remind myself that I probably can’t handcuff her to a radiator in the basement. Probably.
Never mind that we don’t actually have a basement.
This is California, after all. But we do have cellars, a lot of them…
and I’m sure she’d be fine wedged between a couple barrels of aging wine.
At this point, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
Not just from outside sources, but apparently also from herself.
I don’t understand why she won’t take this threat seriously, especially after what happened with her little sister.
Frankie just stood in front of me joking about being murdered.
What will it take to make her understand that none of this is a joke?
She has no idea how many people are gunning for her—and worse, neither do I. That’s what scares me.
Still fuming, I head to the dining room. My brothers are already there, both looking stoic.
“Francesca will not be joining us for lunch today,” I tell them as I take my seat.
Marco raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Taking out my phone, I check to see if she’s texted. Of course she hasn’t. Which makes me worry. I don’t care that she’s with Donovan. I can’t stop thinking the worst is going to happen.
“I suggest we take advantage of the opportunity to talk shop,” I add.
Marco nods, Armani just grunts. His lips are pressed together in the way they are when he’s irritated or thinking about a problem. I never like it when he wears that expression.
“I know that look. Whatever it is, spill it,” I demand.
Armani looks up, then returns his focus to the tablet in front of him. “Which part?”
Fuck. “All of it. Start wherever you want.”
An assistant from the kitchen appears and sets a plate in front of me—lemon pasta, broccoli rabe, some kind of fish in white wine with capers—and I take two quick bites to get something in my stomach before I lose my appetite.
“The Friscos are happy with their books,” Armani says.
I swallow a sip of wine. “Good.”
“So happy,” he goes on, “that they’ve asked me to set up a new book for the spring baseball training camps. A less-often tapped market, but still lucrative enough for them to ask me for help. And they are asking rather…heavily.”
Holding my fork above my plate, I stare at my brother. “Fuck the Friscos. You’re not a bookie.”
“I am now, it seems,” he says dryly. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation.”
“Copy that.” I take a few more bites. “What else? Marco—you heard from Bryant?”
Marco shrugs. “Jim’s pretty confident the tattooed guy is no longer in Napa. He’s most likely been tipped off. We’re increasing the search radius.”
I grunt in response. We figured the guy had probably skipped town, but I’d held out hope for some sort of lead. Unfortunately, every bit of information Bryant has been able to turn up has resulted in a dead end. This tattooed asshole is some sort of ghost.
Considering the size and type of tatt on his neck, you’d think he’d be fairly recognizable.
Which means a hell of a lot of people are covering for him.
He must be a big shot in the underground to be able to pull this kind of disappearing act.
That, or he’s wanted by so many that he’s learned to master the art of vanishing.
Marco gestures at Armani with a slice of garlic bread. “Tell Dante what you heard from the Chicago fam.”
Armani sets his tablet aside, and I brace myself for bad news.
We didn’t make any official deals with our Chicago connections at the restaurant the other night—I hadn’t lied to Frankie when I told her that—but we’d laid out our needs in terms of protective muscle from them, and in turn they had left us hanging on what the cost would be for lending a hand.
Now, it seems, they’re ready to offer terms.
“They need to wash a few million in cash.” Armani’s cold eyes flick to mine. His mask is in place, hiding what he’s really feeling. “They’re willing to contribute the manpower if we help them out.”
“There are a few people around town who still owe us a favor, or three,” Marco cuts in. “We could get it done.”
I let out a slow breath. Honestly, I’d imagined the price would be worse. Though I’d much rather just pay them in dollars and be done with the whole thing.
“They won’t accept actual cash from us?” I ask.
“We, uh…” Marco folds his arms on the edge of the table and glances at Armani.
Armani clears his throat and cautiously says, “We don’t have enough in personal cash reserves to meet their price. The number is high enough that our only option would be to take funds from the winery.”
“No. We’re not taking from the business.” I shake my head.
“Agreed,” Armani says. “But washing a few mill is going to be hard to do under the radar. We’ve got the winery to think of. We can’t afford bad press, rumors, or speculation without damaging the Bellanti name.”
“Pretty sure Dad already accomplished that,” Marco points out.
Armani tosses his napkin on the table. “And we’ve done a hell of a lot to reverse it. Yet here we are again.”
We go quiet, a brooding silence falling over the table, and I think about how deeply unsettled I’ve been since the dinner party the other night.
I couldn’t be at ease around the Chicago family.
They’re old school, by the books—there’s no leeway in how they do business—and it was obvious at dinner that they were observing us to determine how easy we’d be to maneuver.
They know we’re vulnerable, so it’s a perfect time for them to pounce.
Maybe my unease with them is more than just concern over how hard they can be to deal with.
“Do we even know for sure it’s not Chicago behind the whole fucking thing to begin with?” I muse. “How do we know the tattooed man isn’t on their payroll?”
Armani frowns. “Farman has been solid in doing his research. He’s turned up nothing that would connect them to Dad’s accident or Marco’s car. Reasonably sure it’s not them, but…”
“Is Farman digging deep enough? You know how the mob buries things.” Sitting back in my chair, I rest my knuckles on my chin. “We’re going into this blind, and you’re asking me to take Farman’s word for it. We barely know the guy.”
“That’s what we hired him for, Dante,” Armani says, exasperated. “At some point, we have to let him do his job so we can take the next step. This is it.”
“Damn.” My frustration gets the better of me, and I slam my fist down on the table, sloshing wine out of my glass.
Pushing back my tendency to overthink everything, I make a fast decision. We have to protect our family. It’s worth any price.
I scrub my hands over my face and then look hard at my brothers. “Okay then. Just the cash. One last favor. That’s it.”
Marco’s eyes widen. “But what about the business—”
“Are we getting out or are we diving back in?” I say, cutting him off.
“We grew up mired in a world of shit and lies and unspeakable things because of Dad. I don’t want my kid to go through that.
Hell, I don’t want the two of you to go through it anymore.
I keep seeing those fucking posters around town and it just… ”
Missing posters, with Bregman’s face on them.
Bregman, whose life Armani snuffed out in order to protect Marco.
Bregman might not have been a good man, but even still, he had a girlfriend, a mother…
people who cared. We did what we had to do, there’s no question about it, but it wouldn’t have been necessary if our father hadn’t been tangled up in the kind of shit he was.
Which is why, after this payoff, we’re done.
“Okay.” Marco nods slowly. “We’re getting out, then.”
“Out,” Armani agrees. “We’ll give them the cash. That’s it.”
We take some time to eat, to process what we all just agreed to do and the implications it will have for the winery, our finances, the business decisions we’ll have to make going forward.
Looking at my youngest brother, my pulse picks up and something clicks inside my head.
He’s the baby, isn’t he? The one I used to piggyback around the vineyard.
The one who always looked up to me and Armani, tagging along on whatever we did and driving us nuts.
He never went anywhere without a toy car in each hand, right up until middle school damn near.
Racing is in his blood.
And he’s my blood. I can’t let anything happen to him while he’s doing what he loves—or ever.
“How’d the race go in Vegas?” I ask him. “First time on the pro circuit, right?”
Marco’s head snaps up at my question. He looks stunned that I care enough to ask. “Ah, good. We came in third, in a race that some people thought we might not even finish.”
“Some people, huh?” I say.
“We showed them. And no shady characters popped up, either. Well, no more than the usual ones, of course.” His voice lightens.
“Congratulations.” Armani raises his wineglass. “I assumed you’d lost, considering that you didn’t bring any women home with you to ‘celebrate,’ or whatever you’re calling your weird sex stuff now.”
Marco shrugs. “I mean, I would have, but there wasn’t enough room in the cab of the truck with my huge…trophy.”
It’s a lame joke, but it’s enough to break the tension in the room. We all laugh and it feels like a weight has come off a little bit. It’s good to see my brothers’ good-natured bickering.
“I somehow doubt your trophy is as huge as you think it is,” I say.
“Look man, when you’ve got a huge one, you use it to your advantage,” Marco says.
Armani rolls his eyes. “Which you didn’t, considering that you came home alone. You see, there’s a difference between size and skill, brother.”
Marco spreads his hands. “I got size and skill, bro. Size and skill.”
On that note, I get up and excuse myself.
As I walk out the door, Marco calls after me, “At least we know you’re not shooting blanks, Dante.”
“Fucking right, I’m not,” I call back.
And I’m inordinately pleased about it, too.