Chapter 10
KARINA
Dante sits on the kitchen counter next to the sink. He’s cradling his right arm with his left while Armani cuts off his brother’s bloody shirt in pieces with a pair of stainless-steel shears.
Frankie’s shrill, panicked voice pierces the tension in the room. She’s freaking out. I don’t blame her. I am, too, though I’m holding it in.
My entire body went cold when the Bellantis burst through the front door a few minutes ago, cursing and frantic.
As Frankie and I abandoned our dinner and rushed into the hall in time to see Armani hauling Dante toward the kitchen, Armani coldly ordering the staff out.
Clayton and Marco followed moments later, sweating, bloody, weapons still strapped to their bodies.
“How could you let this happen?” Frankie rails. She wedges herself between Armani and Dante and homes in on the bloody wound in her husband’s arm. “Where else are you hurt?”
“Nowhere. I’m fine, Frankie. It’s just a scratch.”
“It’s not just a fucking scratch! You got shot! Don’t you dare downplay it. Especially not after you already lied to me tonight.”
Dante takes her wrist gently, searching her eyes. The look that passes between them shreds my heart.
Armani doesn’t seem to read the room very well. “Frankie, move. Let me handle this.”
He tries to give her a gentle nudge out of the way, but she slaps his hands.
“You’ve already handled it, Armani. And to be honest, I’m sick of the way you handle things. Someone always ends up hurt.”
She puts one hand to her round belly but steps back enough for Armani to work his way closer.
Together, he and Frankie get the rest of Dante’s cut-up shirt removed and fully reveal the laceration just above his right bicep.
The bullet only grazed him, thankfully, though the leaking wound it created still makes my stomach turn.
Armani grabs the handheld sprayer next to the faucet and turns on the water.
“Lean over the sink a little more. This is going to hurt,” he tells Dante.
“You think?” Dante grinds out sarcastically.
He’s already pale, but when the gentle spray of water assaults the wound, his face goes completely waxy.
Marco jumps in to steady his brother while Frankie moves to a stool at the island, brow creased, chewing her lower lip.
I stand off to the side, unmoving, watching the blood run into the sink.
First bright red, and then it slowly turns to pale pink.
Satisfied, Armani shuts off the water and presses a clean towel against Dante’s shoulder.
“Let’s get him into a chair. I need to stitch him up.”
Clayton and Marco help Dante into a wooden chair at the small table by the window and Armani excuses himself to go get supplies. Frankie takes Dante’s face between her hands. Her eyes flash a mix of fury and bone-deep concern.
“I am about to have our baby. How could you put yourself in danger like this? Do you want me raising our daughter alone?”
Dante weakly shakes his head. He seems suddenly exhausted as he slumps against the back of the seat. “I’m sorry.”
It does nothing to placate his wife. She paces next to his chair, a hand pressed against her chest. Her forehead scrunches as if a million thoughts race through her head.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Dante. This isn’t the kind of life I want for our child.”
This gets his attention. He straightens in the chair. My chest goes tight. Slinking back against the far counter, I have the urge to leave and give them privacy. Marco stands behind his brother, arms crossed, and looks away.
“You promised me that things were going to be different and here you are, shot. Remember when you almost died before? You said never again, but then you run off and—”
“Frankie.” Sweat beads Dante’s forehead.
“Don’t,” she interrupts. “I have to leave. I can’t stay here and watch this.”
Armani strides back into the room with a bulky medical bag. “No one is leaving.”
Setting the bag on the small table where Dante sits, Armani unzips it, takes out a clear plastic kit, and peels it open.
It’s a suture kit. He has Marco flip all the lights on and then puts on a pair of gloves, ripping open a package of iodine swabs like the ones they use to clean wounds in the emergency room.
“This is going to hurt again,” he warns Dante.
He doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic as he swabs the wound. When it starts bleeding again, Armani staves it with some gauze like a professional. The whole room goes silent as he picks through the suture supplies and then gets to work sewing up Dante’s arm.
I look at Clayton questioningly. He shrugs.
Even Frankie seems stunned.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” she asks.
“Just one of the many benefits of being Dad’s favorite,” Armani says sardonically.
“Along with torture tactics, sharpshooting, and tactical mafia warfare?” she spits.
Frankie’s bitter voice resonates with me.
I can attest that Armani is a skilled interrogator and I have no doubt that he’s also well versed in inflicting pain to get the answers that he’s after.
What kind of father instructs his child on how to torture and kill, while also teaching him the skills to save a wounded person?
Just what the hell kind of family is this?
But I already know the answer: a mafia family. Just like mine.
Frankie continues to chastise the brothers, but her voice fades into the background.
How much of this happened in my own family, and I didn’t even know about it?
I was like one of the princesses from my fairy-tale stories, locked away in a tower, oblivious to the goings-on around me as I was groomed to essentially be sold off to the highest bidder.
Losing myself in my books, I grew up in a world that didn’t even exist, hiding from the one that did.
I’m not at all equipped to handle this level of casual violence and constant danger. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I quietly leave the kitchen and head to my and Marco’s room.
Lying in bed after my shower, I stare up at the ceiling through tears that sting my eyes.
Frankie has every reason to worry about her child’s future.
Won’t I have the same fears? This is not a good life for babies, for families.
It’s not what I want. But I love my husband, and the idea of leaving him guts me.
There’s no easy answer.
I wake in the middle of the night and realize Marco is asleep next to me. Tucking myself against his body, I wrap an arm around him and breathe in time with the rise and fall of his chest. The next time I open my eyes, he’s gone and it’s morning.
Breakfast is set out on the dining room table, but no one is there, so I drink my coffee alone and then grab a slice of buttered toast to eat on my way to the winery.
My mind strays to Dante and Frankie and what they went through last night.
I considered checking on her before breakfast, but I didn’t want to intrude.
It’s unlikely that she’s in her office at the tasting room, but I decide to check anyway, just in case she came here to take her mind off things.
But of course I find it empty, as I suspected.
“She didn’t have that baby prematurely, did she?”
Spinning toward the female voice, I find Candi leaning against the doorway in a pretty orange dress.
“No, no baby yet. She’s just tired today.”
“Do you know if she’s coming in later? I have some papers for her to sign.”
“I’m not sure.” There’s tension in my voice.
One of her eyebrows arches lightly. “Everything okay?”
Kicking myself for being so transparent, I smile and wave her off. “Yeah. All good.”
Her smile says that she knows I’m lying.
But even though Candi is close to the Bellantis, it’s not my place to spill the details of the family business.
Especially when it comes to which of the Bellantis were recently involved in a shootout with a rival mafia family.
Still, there is so much bubbling up inside me that wants out.
Pulling a breath through my nose, I get a grip on my temptation to tell her about yesterday. Sort of.
“There was a bit of a mishap last night, I guess. The men…got into a little trouble.”
She nods knowingly. Turning my wedding ring around on my finger, I fiddle with it and mentally chastise myself for saying anything out loud when my uncle is going to hear it all.
“Is everyone okay?” she asks, brows knitting.
I drop into a chair and shrug. “Yeah. Well, he will be. He’ll be fine.”
God, I’m rambling now. And I can’t seem to stop. “I don’t know how Frankie does it, you know? How she deals with the stress of being married to a Bellanti and the trouble that seems to go along with it. How would anyone ever feel safe in a situation like that?”
Candi lifts her chin. Her expression is thoughtful and blessedly nonjudgmental.
“It hasn’t been easy for her, make no mistake,” she says. “If I was in her shoes, pregnant and all that, I don’t think I could handle it. But she’s strong. She makes it work.”
“How?” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Sometimes, you just do what you have to do. You know? Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Yadda yadda. You just have to decide what’s worth fighting for.”
There’s a slightly bitter tinge to Candi’s voice that piques my attention. I feel like she’s speaking from her own life experience, but I don’t know her well enough to pry.
“Hm,” I reply.
“Well, I guess I’ll stop by again tomorrow,” Candi says cheerfully, as if we hadn’t just been talking about something heavy. “See you later.”
“See you.”
I watch her leave, and I can’t help feeling that she’s right.
Marco’s worth fighting for—there’s no doubt in my mind about that.
All the doubts I have are about me.