Chapter 3
DANTE
Marco and I have been trying to figure out the identity of the man Bregman implicated in our father’s murder, but we keep coming up empty-handed.
He sent Bregman’s phone to a woman named Yael who we contract with (under the table) for help with tech stuff, but despite her detailed sweep of the cell, it was no dice.
The burner phone didn’t have any clues as to who—or where—the blonde man might be.
To boot, the international number he’d texted from was, in fact, another burner phone.
Which meant it wasn’t registered to anybody.
Yael traced the number to an old school phone card company, but they sell prepaid phones all over the world, so we essentially hit a dead end.
Yael also turned off the tracking on Bregman’s phone so that no one would be able to trace it back to us—and so, out of options, we made a last-ditch attempt to pose as Bregman and text the blonde man.
But our efforts to fool him into dropping clues hadn’t worked.
After our initial exchanges, we didn’t receive any more responses.
Marco says there was probably some kind of code word in the texts that we didn’t reply to properly.
We do, however, continue to receive texts from Bregman’s employer, girlfriend, and mother.
Concerned at first that he’s missing, then angry that he apparently skipped town, and finally back to more concern and even panic.
My insides go sour every time another message comes through.
One of them will be calling the cops any day now, and we’ll have to destroy the phone for good.
This whole business with Bregman has been one more reminder of why my brothers and I are divesting ourselves for good of the sordid empire our father built.
Still, knowing that people care about Bregman doesn’t make me regret putting him out of his misery for the part he played in my father’s murder—and would have played in Marco’s, if he’d gotten the chance to tamper with Marco’s race car. Hell, I’d kill a hundred Bregmans to keep my family safe.
Even with Bregman out of the way, I can’t stop thinking about somebody tampering with my little brother’s car.
Marco is reckless in almost every aspect of his life.
Speed and adrenaline feed him. And while I’m sure his team is careful to check over his vehicle before he gets on the track, a skilled professional mechanic would know how to subtly tamper with it.
I’ve had dreams almost every night of Marco’s Porsche going up in a ball of flame.
And if Marco is a target, I’m sure that Armani and myself are too. Likely Frankie as well. I don’t know yet how deep this goes, but we’re going to find out.
Speaking of Frankie, my wife has been gone for several weeks now.
My calls and texts to her initially went unanswered, and then were blocked.
So I went back and retraced her activities the last day I saw her, which led me to Ruby.
She’d told me all about the financial documents Frankie had demanded for review. Including one very incriminating one.
“If you need to fire me, Mr. Bellanti, I understand,” Ruby had said, chin up.
“Ruby, you’ve been working in these offices for almost forty years,” I told her. “You’re not going anywhere. Unless you want to.”
She’d shaken her head emphatically. “I care about my job, and I care about your family. I’d like to stay.”
That loyalty is exactly why I’d never fire Ruby. On top of which, she’s a damn good admin. Competent, professional, highly discreet when necessary, and generally very pleasant.
What’s not so pleasant is the fact that my wife knows everything now. About the debts I forgave…and the one I didn’t. Her own family’s debt.
And while she has no idea why I did the things the way that I did, knowing her, she assumed the worst. And then she ran. Even though she had everything she could have possibly wanted here.
Well. Maybe not everything. I never gave her the full truth.
Obviously I know exactly where she is and what she’s been doing since she left.
I’d turned on the GPS theft tracker on the Jag soon after she turned up missing, and watched her drive clear across the country.
Straight to her mother’s place in Miami.
Which I admit did surprise me. I would have checked a very long list of places before even considering looking for Miriam Abbott, who also goes by Miriam Wright, and who works a part-time job at some women’s boutique in Coral Gables and appears to have an active social life.
Armani hasn’t had any trouble digging up information.
It’s taken all my willpower not to force Frankie to come home.
In truth, the only reason I haven’t tried is because I don’t know if it would work.
And if she runs again, she won’t be so sloppy with the trail of breadcrumbs next time.
She’s a clever woman, even if she gets some of her facts muddled from time to time.
At least with her in Miami, I can keep tabs on her.
I get up from my desk and take my tablet over to the window to look once more at the photos Armani’s surveillance guy sent me this morning. Good God, Frankie is really bad at waitressing.
The Miami-based associate Armani hired has been following her around for weeks, sending images to Armani’s phone a few times a day.
I’ve seen pictures of her spilling a drink on a customer’s lap, dropping a plate of fries on the floor, getting yelled at by her boss—which pisses me off.
I make a mental note to find out his name as I swipe to another image of Frankie, wearing the best resting-bitch face I’ve ever seen as a customer appears to be complaining.
Enough is enough. What is she getting out of all this?
How can this be what she really wants?
Frankie belongs here, at Bellanti Vineyards. She belongs with me. As the weeks have gone by, my patience has worn thin. What was slightly amusing at first is now a constant source of frustration and ill temper. I’ve mostly taken it out on Armani.
As if on cue, I hear a rap on my office door and look up to see him letting himself in.
“I don’t believe I invited you in,” I tell him coldly.
My brother just ignores me, pointing to the photo on the screen.
“I sent that guy in there to act like a customer and leave her a big tip,” he says. “A very generous one.”
Slamming the tablet down, I spear him with a glare. “Why the hell would you do that? I want this to be hard on her, not let her skate through. She needs to fail so she can decide to come home. Do you think she’ll do that if people are tipping her generously?”
“Calm down. I felt bad for her. Not that it made a difference.”
He picks up the tablet and scrolls to the next image. A busboy is looking over his shoulder as he slips the three one-hundred dollar bills off the table and into his apron pocket.
“Okay, good. She needs to hit rock bottom.”
Armani doesn’t hide his annoyance. “Says the man who made her run off in the first place.”
“That’s assumptive of you,” I snap. I haven’t discussed the reasons behind Frankie’s disappearance with him, and he never asked.
“Would there be another reason for her to take off besides you?”
Fuck. I want to be angry with my brother, but he’s right. I am the reason she’s gone.
“I may not have been completely honest with her about…a few things,” I admit.
“Wow. Imagine that. You, not being honest.”
I shoot him a glare. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
My brother just shrugs. Deep restlessness courses through me and I look back out the window, seeing nothing but the green blur of the grounds.
“Look, Dante. In a way, I don’t blame her. You should have just told her the truth.”
That’s real fucking helpful. “Stay out of it,” I growl.
“Is this really what you want for your wife? Or would you consider actually talking to her and sorting this out?”
“When you get your own wife, you can do things your way,” I tell him. “Until then, you can fuck off.”
He doesn’t answer. I spin in time to see him opening the door and letting himself out.
A frustrated growl loosens from my throat as I return to the window and press a fist against the glass.
Francesca is good at wine. Very good. She’s one of the most knowledgeable and skilled professionals I’ve ever met, and I know a lot of people in the industry.
She was made to do this. Not waitress at some shithole.
Not spend her days living in a subpar neighborhood.
Anything could happen to her there. Bad people, a drug bust gone wrong. Drive-by shootings. My mind races with every possible disaster.
I don’t want her living that life any longer. So she’s not going to.
She is my wife. And dammit, I’m going to get her.