Captive Rival: Armani

Copyright © 2023 by Stella Gray All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Paige Press Leander, TX 78641 Ebook: ISBN: 978-1-957647-39-5 Paperback: ISBN: 978-1-957647-46-3 Editing: Erica Russikoff at Erica Edits Proofing: Michele Ficht CONTENTS Also by Stella Gray About This Book 1. Candi 2. Armani 3. Candi 4. Candi 5. Candi 6. Candi 7. Candi 8. Armani 9. Candi 10. Candi 11. Candi 12. Armani 13. Candi 14. Candi 15. Armani 16. Candi 17. Armani 18. Armani 19. Candi 20. Candi 21. Candi 22. Armani 23. Armani 24. Candi 25. Candi 26. Candi 27. Candi 28. Armani 29. Candi 30. Candi Paige Press Also by Stella Gray About the Author ALSO BY STELLA GRAY * * * The Zoric Series Arranged Series The Deal The Secret The Choice The Arranged Series: Books 1-3 Convenience Series The Sham The Contract The Ruin The Convenience Series: Books 1-3 Charade Series The Lie The Act The Truth The Charade Series: Books 1-3 * * * The Bellanti Brothers Dante Broken Bride Broken Vow Broken Trust Marco Forbidden Bride Forbidden War Forbidden Love Armani Captive Bride Captive Rival Captive Heart ABOUT THIS BOOK I thought I could walk away…but Armani Bellanti wants me for keeps. My intentions were good. I thought I was on the side of angels. But all my plans led me straight to hell. There’s nowhere for me to turn. My whole world is his cage. I have no one. No one but him. He silences me with cruel kisses. I taunt him with his desire for me. We don’t trust each other, but we can use each other. Armani can take what he wants from me. And I can keep pretending I’m not falling for the devil. 1 CANDI People are going to be talking about my wedding celebration for a very, very long time. Just not in the way that Armani and I had intended. Our extravagant reception at Bellanti Vineyards was abruptly cut short after a group of armed Bruno soldiers burst in during our cake cutting, guns on display, effectively dispersing most of our guests. Some quietly excused themselves, some ran, and the ones who froze in terror or tried to stick around to rubberneck were soon hastily escorted off the winery grounds by Bellanti security. I’m just grateful no weapons were discharged. The volley of rounds exchanged between my husband and the leader of the Brunos’ men was strictly a verbal one. After Armani hustled me back to the main house, he left me with a few guards for protection and then returned to the reception area to circle back with his brothers. I haven’t stopped worrying since, my ears straining for the sound of gunshots or screams or squealing tires on gravel. I’m currently glued to the front window with my eyes on the string lights that still glow softly around the perimeter of the party space. From here, I can see a few tables knocked over, trampled flowers on the ground, an upended punch bowl, a single high-heeled shoe left behind in the mad rush to get away. The scene of a fairy tale turned into a nightmare. A sick, nauseous feeling twists in my gut, and I realize I’m shaking. I sink into one of the chairs by the window and reach for the hot tea that one of the kitchen staff brought out on a tray for me. But the cup rattles against the saucer so badly, I end up spilling half of it before I can even take a sip. “Mrs. Bellanti?” one of the guards says gently from the doorway of the sitting room. “I’m fine,” I snap, the tremor in my voice loud and clear. I take a breath and set the tea back on the tray. “I’m going to my room.” “We’ll come with you,” the guard says. Upstairs in the lounge area of the bedroom, I find my cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and cradle him in my arms for emotional support. I should change out of this ridiculous satin dress, take a hot shower, climb in bed and burrow under the blankets—but I can’t do any of that. Not until my husband returns in one piece. I start trembling again, and I pull a blanket around my shoulders, but it doesn’t banish the cold inside me. The horrified looks on our guests’ faces are still riveted in my mind. Their initial hushed shock and confusion at the symbolic blood-red liquid running out of the white frosted wedding cake when Armani and I cut through it with the knife. The rising murmurs of fear when those Bruno thugs sauntered into the tent like they owned the place. I’d known this would be a night to remember…but now I wish it was something I could forget. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I hear footsteps echoing on the stairs, down the hall, and then my heart leaps when I catch the low rumble of Armani’s voice as he converses with the guards outside the door. I get up off the sofa just as he steps into the room wearing his trademark scowl. “Armani.” Relief nearly overwhelms me as I rush to meet him, even though the hard set of his jaw tells me his anger has not cooled. Unless—maybe something else happened. “What did you find? Are the Brunos all gone? Did anyone get hurt? Are you okay?” I babble. He strides across the room, away from me, barely giving me a second glance. “There was nothing to find,” is all he says. I follow him into the bedroom, where he’s working his tie loose. “I don’t understand,” I say. I’m still reeling, and I can’t stop asking questions. “Why did the Brunos send those men here with guns? Just to intimidate