CANDI
Despite my reservationsabout the Las Vegas trip, it’s been smooth sailing so far.
We arrived late last night. I’d never stayed at the Bellagio before, so the rainbow of individual blown glass flowers blossoming across the lobby ceiling had me gasping in awe during check-in. After parting ways with Clayton, Armani and I headed up to our suite to find wine and chocolates waiting for us in the room, along with tokens for the casino. Armani would have none of it, goodies nor gambling, claiming he had to be up early for his meeting at the Wynn. So, like a supportive partner, I went to bed with him.
Though we didn’t get much sleep. Whether it was the recent revelations about my feelings for him or the hormones triggered by seeing Frankie and Dante’s new baby—likely a combination of the two—I couldn’t keep my hands off him. He didn’t seem to mind.
When my alarm went off this morning, he was already gone. As expected.
I’m trying not to freak out just yet, but I wish I knew exactly where he was. The Wynn property is huge. Vegas is huge, a desert sprawl that probably conceals more than a few mafia casualties. Armani could be anywhere, including other hotels or even somewhere far from the Strip. All I can do for the time being is try to distract myself. At least that part won’t be too hard. As it turns out, we’re staying at the hotel with the best spa in the city.
After my shower, I text with Becca, the Bellantis’ chef’s assistant, to make sure Mr. Sprinkles is being properly spoiled. After she sends me a series of photos of my cat, I set my phone aside and look over the email Armani sent me that lists out my full-day itinerary, as prepared by our hotel’s concierge.
I have reservations for brunch at a fancy French restaurant with a name I can’t pronounce (elegant, dressy attire required), followed by a tour of the boutiques with my own personal guide and a series of spa appointments late this afternoon. Fancy. I should be done around seven or eight tonight, at which point I hope Armani will have returned.
Obviously he wants me out of the way while he’s working, but I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I should be at his side. If only he’d left me his own itinerary instead of playing Mr. Secrecy. He’d answered my good morning texts, but only generically—I couldn’t glean any clues from them. I’m glad Clayton is with him, at least. It’s a relief to know Armani has backup.
My day is a whirlwind, precisely as Armani intended. I barely find time to fret over him during breakfast (pain perdu with orange blossom Chantilly cream and fresh raspberries), and then my guide picks me up from the restaurant as soon as I walk out the door.
Thanks to Juliana, I’ve done enough serious window shopping at designer stores that I’m not intimidated by all the outrageous price tags. Since this tour is just for fun, I take my time simply enjoying the luxury goods, letting the guide lead me from shop to shop as she details each label or house name with ease. I drool over the intrecciato leather bags at Bottega Veneta, admire individually spot-lit pairs of Prada heels that Jules would kill for, and practically break into a covetous sweat when I see all the star-spangled, lace, and tulle-embellished Valentino dresses.
The guide bids me farewell and suggests I grab a gelato before I head back to my room, and I’m happy to take her advice. We just spent hours walking through clouds of leather and perfume and silk, and it’s nice to get off my feet for a bit and check my work messages.
But when I get back to the room, my jaw drops as I walk into a foyer stacked high with shopping bags spilling piles of scented tissue paper. Prada, Valentino, fucking Gucci…every store where I lingered over something or commented on a specific cut or fabric.
At first I’m in shock, panicked thinking that my guide had misunderstood the purpose of my little tour…until I find the handwritten card taped to one of the Prada bags.“Compliments of Armani Bellanti.”
Holy shit. All of this ismine. Armani must have planned to spoil the ever-loving daylights out of me all along. I feel like royalty. This is like a dream come true.
Except…
My heart sinks.
I know I don’t deserve any of it.
My appointment at the hotel spa is minutes away, but as I head down to the lobby level in the elevator, I’m fighting back a mountain of guilt. All I can think about during my massage are the pros and cons of coming clean to Armani, once and for all. I can’t relax. I’m not enjoying myself. And in the end, I apologize to the massage therapist and walk out of the treatment room.
Because there’s no question anymore. No use keeping my head in the sand.I’m in love with Armani Bellanti.I can’t lie to him anymore.
I have to find him now and tell him the truth, before it’s too late. It’s dangerous to admit what I’ve been doing for the Brunos, but I’d rather Armani hear it directly from me. That way we can sit down and decide what to do next. Together.
He may not even want to be with me once he knows I’m a mole, but I pray he does. I’d happily spend the rest of my life with him, even if it means working my ass off to regain his trust. As for Juliana…I just hope I can extricate myself from all this spying business without losing her friendship. We’ve been best friends for half a decade, and I can’t imagine going on without her. This is a delicate tightrope I’ll be walking.
I hurriedly get dressed and head back to the room.
Shutting the door gently behind me, I’m in the midst of tiptoeing around my avalanche of designer bags when I pick up on the sound of raised voices from somewhere in the suite. Male voices. Armani and Clayton? Are they having an argument, or just bullshitting in that loud, performative way that guys do sometimes?
Curious but a little apprehensive, I cross the foyer and peek inside the first room, a lounge area with a kitchenette, a TV, and a fireplace. It’s empty. I pass the wet bar at the far end and make my way into the second, smaller lounge, which opens to a patio on the balcony. The voices are clearer now. I can make out the angry tones of two men, punctuated by groans of pain. Dread uncurls in my stomach. That’s definitely Armani’s voice.
The groans come again, followed by a thump, and a hiss of pain. Every sense goes on high alert and I flatten myself against the wall so I can’t be seen from the patio. Taking a breath, I lean forward just enough to peer out the glass door. Armani’s back is to me. Clayton is directly to his right. Their bodies are partially shielding a man who cowers against the railing behind him.
Who is the third man? Was he involved in the attempt to ambush Armani? Is this what Juliana warned me about? I’m practically shaking with adrenaline and fear. I’m not sure what Armani would do if he caught me eavesdropping, but it wouldn’t be good.
It’s almost laughable that a few minutes ago, all I was worried about was coming clean to him. Is he about to kill that man? Have I already seen too much? I might be a liability now.
Armani throws another punch, and I flinch back. Sliding down the wall, my insides clench at the repeated sound of fist on flesh. It does something to my image of him smiling at that sweet baby. How can there be two sides of one person that are such polar opposites?
True, I knew that Armani is capable of violent things. His family is in the mob, and he was raised by Enzo Bellanti himself. Armani has lived, breathed, and tasted the criminal lifestyle for a very long time. But to witness him rendering it with his own two hands is a different animal. It only drives home what Juliana has been saying about this family all along. That they are dangerous, evil people.
