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 withme. 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 offbesidesyou?”
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.
Sheismy wife. And dammit, I’m going to get her.
4
