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When we turn into the pasta aisle, Mrs. De Santis gives me a rundown of what dishes each of the pastas are used for.
“I won’t remember it all,” I say, wishing I had thought to record the lesson so I could listen to it again.
“You’ll learn with time,” she assures me.
As we continue to shop, she asks, “Did Mrs. Aslanhov teach you how to cook?”
“Yes, and I can bake. She taught me how to be a good wife.”
“Hmm…” Mrs. De Santis glances at me. “What did she teach you?”
Damn. I think it’s too soon for such a personal topic, but okay.
“She told me to always stay out of my husband’s way, especially when he comes home from work. His meals should always be ready.” I leave out the bedroom stuff because there’s no way I’m telling my mother-in-law-to-be about it.
Mrs. De Santis rolls her eyes. “Tsk. So old-fashioned. Don’t stay out of Armani’s way. He’ll think he did something wrong. He wants to spend time with us when he comes home from work. We’re the good in his life and there to balance out the bad he deals with.”
I take mental notes of everything.
“He likes to have a tumbler of whiskey and relax before having his dinner. Normally, I’d prepare the meat and wait for him to get home before adding the finishing touches. That way, the aroma hangs in the air to welcome him home.”
“Yes, Mamma,” I say, eager to learn more.
“When he makes it home before the sun goes down, he likes to take a walk and enjoy chicchetti with a glass of wine.”
“Chicchetti?” I ask.
“They’re small bite-size snacks you’ll get at market stalls along the streets. Meat, or cheese, or fish on bread. It’s a nice way to interact with your neighbors because most of them will be out and about on the streets before dinner.”
“That sounds nice.”
We approach the cashier and wait in line.
“I don’t like fish,” Zia Giada whispers.
I lean into her. “That makes two of us. It tastes funny.”
When she smiles at me, it feels as if I’m given a miracle.
After we’ve paid for everything, we all grab bags and make our way home. The atmosphere is pleasant, and my nerves from earlier are long gone.
I’m going to love living here with Armani.
As the thought pops into my mind, I wonder if he’s okay. It’s only been five hours since he left, and I already miss him.
Ugh, it’s going to be a long three days.
Chapter 23
Armani
I’ve worked my way from Bari, to Naples, to Rome, to fucking Florence. Finally, I find myself in Bologna, where Prodi lives.
I’m fucking exhausted, but I’ve managed to recover over ninety-eight million euros for Luca.
Now for the biggest problem.
Ignazio Prodi was a member of the mafia for over thirty years. When shit went down with the Aslanhovs, Alek killed Prodi’s eldest son.
Since then, Prodi refuses to work with the mafia because of the brotherly bond Luca has with Viktor. He despises the mafia and bratva working together.
Luca gave Prodi three years to mourn, and his time is officially up.
This is the impossible task I was given. Not the other eight men. They were all child’s play compared to Ignazio Prodi.
Honestly, I don’t see Prodi bending the knee. Today will end in bloodshed.
Sitting in the car, I brace myself for the battle.
You can’t think of the shit they did to Alek. This is not personal. Force Prodi to pay what he owes or kill him and make his youngest son, Lorenzo, pay what’s owed to the mafia.
That’s it. Get in, get the money, and get out.
If only it were that easy.
Tiana’s waiting for you. You’re getting married to a fucking angel. Do this for her.
I take a deep breath and look at the villa ahead that sits in a cul-de-sac.
Do this, and prove your worth to Luca.
Getting out of the car, I leave every weapon I own behind and walk toward the imposing gates. I lift my arms to show I’m unarmed, wearing only my clothes and the bulletproof vest that won’t do shit if they shoot me in the head.
The gates swing open, and I count three guards at the guardhouse. One walks toward me, and I stop so he can search me.
“Armani De Santis on behalf of Luca Cotroni for Signor Prodi,” I mutter as his hands pat over my body.
He announces my arrival via a two-way radio and, a moment later, nods. “You’ll be received at the front door.”
“Grazie.” I proceed to walk up the driveway, constantly glancing around and counting how many men there are on the property.
Eight in the front yard.
Probably eight at the back and two of his best men in the house.
Twenty at most.
My mind stills, and an eerie calmness washes over me.
If you take out Prodi, you’ll have to deal with the men in the house and the eight at the front as you make your escape.
