“No. You don’t want this. You’re just…pushing me away in self-defense. You’re panicking over everything that’s happened. You don’t really want me gone.”
He nails me with a glare. “I do, Cassandra. There’s no question.”
“But…what about our baby? We’re still working on the nursery, we’re—”
“The baby will be well taken care of and provided for, for the rest of their life. And so will you. Stop trying to guilt trip me. You’re leaving. End of discussion.”
Pushing away from the wall, I walk toward him. He puts a palm out to stop me.
“You’re not going to change my mind. My decision is final. What’s done is done.”
He says it with no emotion, as if he’s not talking about us at all, but a simple business transaction. A month ago, a week ago, I might even believe that he still felt that way about our relationship. But not anymore.
That’s how I suddenly know with 100% certainty that my suspicions are correct. That he really is planning something dangerous. This is his attempt to get me out of the way.
To save me.
I stand straighter. “I know you love me. Even though you can’t let yourself say it. And you love this baby, too. Don’t push us away.”
“I’m keeping the cat,” he says coolly. “They don’t allow pets at the condo. Mr. Sprinkles will be well cared for until you make other arrangements.”
He’s keeping my cat. The absurdity of it is almost enough to make me laugh, but it’s too late because I’m already crying.
“Armani, please. Don’t do this.”
I try to touch him, but he shoves my hands aside. I try again and he grabs me by the upper arms to keep my hands pinned to my sides.
“If this is really over, why won’t you let me touch you?”
“Because I don’t want you!”
“I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “Youdowant me. And I want you, too. I want to be with you. I want to stay. Whatever is going on, whatever you’re about to do, I want to be at your side for it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe or what you think you know. All you need to be concerned about right now is taking care of our child.”
The lump in my throat gets bigger. “Just tell me, then. What are you planning?”
The question hangs between us before he finally looks away and brushes past me.
“Goodbye, Candi.”
29
ARMANI
This is Armani Bellanti.I’d like to talk. Tell me when and where to meet you.
I sent the text message to Maxim Orloff late last night, and he’d responded almost immediately with an address and a time.
Now, driving myself to the meetup point, I’m having a hard time focusing on what’s ahead. Because my mind keeps straying to what’s behind me.
A wife, a baby on the way. Brothers and a younger sister—a sister only discovered and welcomed back into the fold a few days ago—as well as sisters-in-law and a niece.
But if I die today, I’ll die knowing I sacrificed myself for my family. And the Bellantis will thrive. Without me, my brothers will finally be able to quit the mafia for good.
Yes, my brothers (and Juliana) will have to sell off the winery, the house and the acreage, the horses, the Abbott B&B and the vineyards, all of it. But then they’ll split the proceeds and get to leave the country to go live quiet, normal, comfortable lives. Candi and our child will inherit my share, so they’ll be just as comfortable.
I’ve already handled the legal channels with my lawyer. My will has been changed. Business documents updated. Everything signed in my hand. The legacy I’ve structured will stand up in any court of law, even if my brothers try to contest it. Not that they would. I’ve made things extremely fair, and the logistics are very precise. It won’t be a headache for anyone. I consider that going out on a high note.
