“No. It’s not fine. No more riding, you hear me?”
Narrowing my eyes, I tell him, “Ytse is unflappable, and I’m more than experienced. We walked the entire time. You’re overreacting.”
He’s shaking his head, refusing to listen to reason. “If you don’t promise to stop riding, I’ll sell every horse on the property by tomorrow.”
Oh, that’s it. “Are you done being a damn dictator yet?”
“I am not being a—”
Pulling off my riding gloves, I smack him in the chest with them. “Fine. How about we get a medical professional’s opinion at my appointment this afternoon?”
“Yes! He’s going to say it’s a bad idea.”
“She’sgoing to say that moderate exercise is fine, even into the third trimest—”
“NOT on the back of a wild animal!” Dante spreads his hands as if I’m an idiot.
“DONOVAN!” I yell, startling Dante with my volume.
My driver appears, remarkably fast from wherever he’d been posting. He’s never far away anymore.
“Get the car ready, please,” I tell him. “I need a hamburger. And please, do stuff as many burly men into the car as you think I need to go to In-N-Out without getting murdered.”
Forgetting about the shower and change of clothes, I follow Donovan out the front door, my riding boots clipping an echoing quickstep of rage across the marble floor.
Leaning back into the foyer, I call out, “See you at the doctor’s at two, my dearest love,” with as much sarcasm as I can muster.
Then I slam the front door behind me.
18
Dante
As I watchthe 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.
