Chapter 8
DANTE
For the first time in far too long, I wake up with Francesca in my arms.
Her warm body pressed against me feels like a dream at first, until I skim her bare skin with my palm and weave my fingers into her silky hair. Francesca. She’s really here with me.
Francesca. The mother of my child. Our child.
I can still scarcely believe it. I’m going to be a father.
It had always been there, of course—the idea that I would have children.
My father had drilled it into my brothers and me that upholding and continuing the family line was critical.
The fact that I’d eventually become a father was inevitable.
But now that it’s real…it feels different.
Having it actually happening right now feels nothing like merely being aware that it would come to pass at some future point in time.
So here I am, holding the woman who’s carrying my child.
Is it a son, or a daughter? I look up to the ceiling in the soft morning light.
Do I even care? I don’t know anything about raising a child.
But a son, I can figure out. As for a daughter…
I don’t really know what I could offer a daughter.
The parenting example I’d gotten from my father—the violence, the scheming, the murder and intrigue—that was all over now.
A way of doing things that my brothers and I would never carry on.
As for my mother…I barely remember her. I know she was warm, funny, and attentive.
But only in a general sense. I struggle to recall actual memories of her.
It’s like she’s faded to a gentle blur over the years, along with my sister.
Had they been around while I was growing up, I’m sure I’d be more well-versed in how to interact with females, but as it is, I’m constantly feeling my way in the dark.
And it’s not like Frankie had it much better, considering that her father is a monster and her mother walked out on them.
What the hell kind of parents will we be?
We’ll be better together, won’t we? We’ll get help.
They have counselors and books and TED Talks to help people be good parents.
I’ll do some research, make a list. Find the best parenting books.
And pregnancy books, too. She’s going to need birthing classes.
No, we’re going to need birthing classes.
And then during the actual labor part…how am I going to get through all the screaming and pushing and bodily fluids?
Oh, God.
I can feel my blood pressure rising, my skin getting uncomfortably hot. Air. I need air.
Gently shifting Frankie off me, I ease toward the edge of the bed and sit up, trying to take slow, calming breaths.
Panic is not useful. But planning is. Making plans for the future is a much better use of my time than worrying about things I can’t control.
I guess that’s one thing my father taught me that actually turned out to be useful. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.
And even though I can’t change the way my father raised me, I can be sure that I don’t make the same mistakes. It’s bad enough I wasn’t there for Frankie when she got the results of her pregnancy test—I’ve already missed one pivotal moment of being a parent. I won’t miss anything else.
Slipping off the bed, I quickly dress in slacks and a shirt and head into the suite’s separate living room area.
I sit on the sofa and pull up the calendar on my phone so I can try to figure out when Frankie likely conceived and when the baby will be born.
I do the math in my head and come up with some ballpark dates for conception and delivery.
We still have some time to get everything in order.
But I know the time is going to go fast, and there’s so much to do.
We should start looking for an au pair. Whomever we hire will be living in our house, of course, so she’ll have to be carefully vetted. Especially considering that someone is gunning for my family. We can’t be too cautious.
My blood nearly freezes at the thought of something happening to my wife and child. Jesus, and what if my family’s enemies find out about the pregnancy? It’d put a target right on Frankie’s back. She’s going to need to be protected at all times. Around the clock.
I stand and begin pacing the room. I’ll assign Donovan to her full-time and make sure he’s well-armed.
Maybe I’ll call on a few of the cousins in Chicago—see if there’s any way I can get some of them to come stay on the Bellanti property and stand guard detail for the next year or so.
Maybe Frankie should have more than one bodyguard…
and our kid is certainly going to need one.
We don’t know how far the threat to our family extends, who all is against us, or even how safe we’ll be once we find and dispose of the person—or people—who ordered my father’s death.
Right now, anyone even associated with the Bellantis could be at risk.
Especially if our enemies don’t succeed at breaching the Bellanti compound or taking out my brothers and me.
They’ll be getting more and more desperate.
Dammit. Bregman’s inability to help identify the man targeting us has put my entire extended family in the worst kind of limbo.
We know the threat is out there, but we don’t have any idea where it’s coming from.
So we’re sitting here twiddling our fucking thumbs, waiting for the enemy to make the next move.
But I refuse to let my family be a bunch of sitting ducks.
In fact, Frankie shouldn’t even leave the house—but I know that’s not realistic. She’ll need medical care, and so will the baby. Plus, she’d go stir crazy. I’ve already put her through enough, and I can’t expect her to live like a hermit until the threat has been fully terminated.
That settles it, then. She’s getting a full guard detail.
First things first, I’ll get my hands on an armored SUV for Donovan to use.
We’ll have to make a schedule of her comings and goings so I always know where she is, expand the property’s security features, and hire more guards.
Maybe I should look into guard dogs, too.
Trained attack dogs with excellent temperaments, the kind that are safe to have around children.
My mind is racing now. I grab a hotel pen and notepad, open up my laptop, and set myself up on the sofa again, furiously making lists and drafting emails.
I only take a break to make a pot of coffee in the suite’s kitchen, and once I have a steaming cup in my hand, I dial Armani. It’s still somewhat early on the West Coast, but we need to talk.
The second he answers his phone, I blurt out, “She’s pregnant.”
Silence fills the line.
“Is this…good news?” he asks carefully.
“Yeah. It is.”
Armani lets out a relieved-sounding laugh. “Then congratulations, man. I’m thrilled for you both. This is wild. So what’s next? What can I do?”
“First things first, we’ve got to make some immediate changes in security.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
Glancing at the list I made earlier, I say, “Let’s get into contact with the cousins in Chicago. We need armed men.”
“Sure. What else?”
“Extra security around the winery, especially the visitor areas. Install more cameras, hire more personnel. Pay closer attention to who’s coming onto the property. No one that we don’t know gets anywhere near the house. What about attack dogs?”
“Uh…”
“Never mind. We can hold off on that for now. But find out where we can get an armored car in a hurry. I mean fully decked out. Better than whatever the Secret Service has.”
“Better than the Secret Service?”
“And I need you to call the airport and have the plane gassed up, since we’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. And if you can—”
“No, we’re not,” Frankie’s voice calls out behind me.
“Hang on,” I tell Armani, turning to face my wife.
She’s standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing the FBI shirt with the skirt half of her waitress uniform sticking out the bottom.
“Or at least, I’m not leaving tomorrow,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
I frown. “Armani, why don’t you go ahead and start marshaling the troops. I gotta go. Talk soon.”
I hang up without waiting for his reply. As I get up and move toward Frankie, I realize that her expression is standoffish and cool. Whatever connection we had last night seems completely gone. Does she really think I came all this way only to leave without her?
“Listen,” I say gently. “I know it seems like things are moving really fast, but we need to be back in California as soon as possible so that we can—”
She closes her eyes as if I’m giving her a headache. “You’re not hearing me, Dante. I live here now. With my mother. My life is here.”
I scoff. She’s being ridiculous. “And that makes you happy?”
She glares at me. “It makes me free.”
Involuntarily, I take a step back. It’s almost as if she’s slapped me. That…really hurt. More than it should have.
“You don’t need to be ‘free,’ Francesca. You’re my wife. You’re going to be a mother. To my child. You have responsibilities, obligations. But believe me, your safety and comfort are my top priorities, and—”
“I’ve already called an Uber,” she interrupts. “The Jag is still at the diner, so thanks for that.”
She grabs her purse from a side chair, slipping the strap over her shoulder as she stalks toward the door. I feel like I should do something to stop her, but I can’t move.
Turning back toward me, door handle in her grip, she adds, “And damn it all, my first responsibility is to myself. I’ve let the men in my life absolutely ruin it and I’m DONE. So please, do kindly fuck off.”
All I can do is watch in stunned silence as she whips the door wide open and leaves.
Yesterday, she gave me the best possible news I could have ever imagined—and today, she’s stormed back out of my life.
Fuck. This little Florida experiment has run its course.
She’s my wife and she’s coming home where she belongs.
I can’t keep her safe if she’s this far away, and now that she’s pregnant, it changes everything.
I grab my phone and dial Armani.
It’s time to stop playing nice.