“We’ve been driving around on our own personal wine tour today, but we justhadto come see the winery that’s causing such a stir,” Tori adds. “Is Dante available to join us? He and Stefan haven’t seen each other in ages. Fraternity brothers, if you can believe it.”
That’s when I realize: these aren’t mob people. I instantly relax.
“Well,” I say brightly, warming up, “I believe my husband is a little tied up at the moment, but I’d love to offer you a private tasting in the Little Cellar until he’s free.”
“That sounds amazing,” Tori says, excitement on her face. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we?”
Stefan nods, though he’s stoic. Reminds me of my own husband. No wonder they’re friends.
“And Donovan,” I add, “you’re very welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellanti, but I’m still on the job,” he says, gesturing for us to go ahead.
I lead the way to the private cellar. With a little squeal, Tori hooks her arm in mine, surprising me as she falls into step with me. Stefan follows us, with Donovan at the rear.
“I’ve heardallabout how incredible Bellanti wine is,” Tori goes on. “I can’t believe I’m getting a front-row seat to the deliciousness.”
Her personality is nothing but bubbles and light, a million miles away from all the darkness and mob business I’ve been dealing with lately, and I can’t help liking her right away.
“Believe me, you’re in for a treat,” I tell her.
I wish I could taste the wine with them, but maybe a little friendly distraction is exactly what I need right now.
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 apparentlyextremely fancydinner 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. “Excuseme?”
