The Promise (The 'Burg Series) Read online

  He also had a great face. It was more than just drop-dead handsome. It was expressive. Benny Bianchi was not a man who held back emotion. He let it hang out. And there was no time it didn’t look good.

  But when he was in a good mood, smiling and laughing, that was the best. I used to go for it—his smiles, his laughter. I used to work for it. Even when Vinnie was alive.

  That was how great Benny was when he was laughing.

  It was worth the work.

  Suddenly, I decided a nap at that precise moment was the way to go. The problem was, when I rested my head on the window, it kept bumping against the glass, which was not conducive to sleep.

  So I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes.

  Two seconds into this, Benny whispered, “Shoot that fucker again for takin’ the fight outta you.”

  At the low rumble of his words, which said he really meant them, I closed my eyes tighter.

  He’d shot the man who shot me. His shot was not the kill shot. But he’d shot him.

  “Can we not talk about that?” I whispered back.

  “Drill him full of holes for takin’ the fight outta you.”

  I felt the wet behind my eyes and said nothing.

  He took my hand again and I didn’t pull away again. In my effort at holding back the tears, I just didn’t have it in me.

  “We’ll get you fightin’ fit again, baby,” he promised me, deep and easy.

  We would, but that being the royal “we.”

  I didn’t share that.

  I took in a deep breath and let it out.

  Benny held my hand and he did this a long time. In fact, he did it until he had to let it go to hit the garage door opener on his visor. I opened my eyes when he let me go and I watched him do it. Then I watched him pull into his garage.

  Time to instigate Operation Drake.

  I did well, even allowing Ben to lift me out of the vehicle and carry me into his house and up the stairs.

  My plan fell apart when he carried me into his bedroom.

  It went up in smoke when he bent to lay me on his bed.

  As he was removing his arms, I caught hold of his wrist.

  His eyes came to mine.

  He now had his glasses shoved into his hair. No man could shove his glasses up into his hair and look that hot. But Benny could.

  God…so…freaking…totally hated me.

  “Why am I in your bedroom?” I asked.

  “’Cause you need a nap.”

  “I can nap in one of the other bedrooms.”

  He grinned.

  Torture!

  “Babe, got shit in my second bedroom,” he shared. “Packed with it. Can barely move, there’s so much shit in there.”

  “How do you have so much shit?” I pressed. “You’re a single guy. Single guys don’t accumulate shit.”

  “I’m the commissioner of the Little League.”

  I stared at him.

  Please do not tell me that Benito Bianchi, in a volunteer capacity during the summers, hung on his free time with a bunch of baseball-playing little boys.

  But I knew this could be true. First, Vinnie’s Pizzeria sponsored a Little League team every year and had for the last thirty years. Second, Vinnie Junior, Benny, and Manny had all played Little League, then went on to play high school baseball (Vinnie, catcher; Benny, first base; Manny, pitcher). And third, that was something Ben would do because he was a decent guy.

  “Season ended, storage space costs when we could use the money for things for the boys, so all their shit is now packed in my second bedroom,” he finished.

  “Then put me in your third bedroom.”

  “That’s my office.”

  This surprised me. “You have an office?”

  Another grin. Another indication I was not God’s favorite person. Then, “No. It’s the place where Pop’s old desk is collectin’ dust. Carm’s old computer is collectin’ dust with it. And the rest of the space is packed with the rest of the Little League shit.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Then I can nap on your couch.”

  His face got hard. “You ain’t sleepin’ on my couch.”

  “Ben—”

  “You’re recovering from a gunshot wound.”

  “I know that.”

  “So you’re not sleepin’ on my couch.”

  “For God’s sake, it won’t kill me.”

  He ended that particular conversation with, “Nonnegotiable.”

  It was at that point I wondered why I was fighting him. Sure, lying in Benny’s bed in Benny’s house, which had the unusual but unbelievably appealing scent of his spicy aftershave mixed with pizza dough clinging to the air, was a thrill I wished I did not have. But he was going to the pharmacy soon and that thrill would be short-lived.

  So I shut up.

  Ben looked at my mouth.

  I swallowed.

  Then Benny lifted away and moved around the bed.

  He took something from the nightstand opposite and tossed it on the bed beside me. “Ma’s already been here fillin’ the fridge and sortin’ shit. She bought you those.”

  I stared at the magazines lying beside me on the bed.

  There were a bunch of them and Theresa didn’t mess around. They were all the good ones: juicy, like People and Us, and slick, like Vogue and Marie Claire.

  Theresa so knew me.

  I swallowed again just as a remote bounced on the magazines.

  “TV,” Ben stated and I looked up at him. “Got HBO. Got Showtime. It’s a smart TV. Universal remote. Just hit the screen to get to the smart TV and you can get Netflix. Should keep you occupied ’til you nod off while I’m at the drugstore.”

  I looked in the direction of the TV and saw it was at least a sixty-incher.

  What human being needed a sixty-inch TV in their bedroom?

  This made me wonder what size TV he had in his living room.

  As I was wondering this, Benny was rounding the bed again. “Like I said, Ma’s stocked the fridge, but while I’m out, you want me to pick up anything?”

  If I knew Theresa, there would not be one thing anyone on the block needed that would be lacking in Benny’s fridge.

  However, this was a golden opportunity to buy more time.

  Especially if I sent him to more than just the drugstore.

  “Tapioca pudding,” I declared.

  He stopped at my side of the bed and looked down at me. “Say again?”

  “Tapioca pudding. Not the snack-pack size. The big tub.”

  He stared at me.

  I scrambled to think of more shit he could buy.

  “And a trashy romance novel. I don’t care which one, but the less the guy on the cover is wearing, the better. Tattoos are a plus. Leather is another plus. And if there’s an indication that he’s a shifter, buy the whole series.”

  “I am not buyin’ books with pictures of guys with no clothes on them,” Benny said, deep and not easy.

  It was worth a shot.

  I gave up on that and reeled it off. “Fanta Grape. Diet. Chocolate-covered cashews. Cookies from D’Amato’s. And a Lincoln’s sub wouldn’t go amiss.”

  His eyes had narrowed at my mention of D’Amato’s, as it would seeing as they were pizza competition to Vinnie’s.

  He let that slide, though, and instead noted, “Babe, Lincoln’s is in Hobart.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Francesca, I’m not drivin’ forty minutes to fuckin’ Indiana to buy you a sub.”

  “We have to have dinner,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah. So later I’m goin’ in to Vinnie’s to make you a pie.”

  My heart squeezed.

  I’d heard through the grapevine that Benny had succumbed to Vinnie Senior’s pressure and learned the sacred Bianchi art of making a pizza pie. A friend of mine even shared that Vinnie had put up a new sign for the restaurant, changing it from Vinnie’s Pizzeria to Vinnie and Benny’s Pizzeria.

  Since learning Benny had taken over the kit
chen at Vinnie’s, I’d wanted one of his pies. Ma always said, a guy who cooked was a keeper (advice she did not take herself). What Ma would say if she’d ever met one was that if you found a guy who cooked and looked like Benny, you should consider surgical attachment.

  Of course, I hadn’t allowed myself go to Vinnie’s and have one of Benny’s pies. This was because I would have been run out on a rail if I’d tried.

  I stopped thinking about Benny making a pizza and said, “Okay, subs tomorrow night then.”

  He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.

  I needed to move this along so I stated, “I think that’s all.”

  He looked at me. “You sure?”

  He was being sarcastic.

  I didn’t call him on that and just nodded.

  His eyes narrowed again.

  I attempted to look innocent.

  Eventually, he muttered, “Fuck. Be back,” and bent to take the envelope with my prescriptions out of my hand before he started to make a move to the door.

  This was a problem, seeing as he carried me in but didn’t carry my bag in. My purse was in my bag and I’d need that to order a taxi.

  “Ben, could you bring my bag in before you go?” I called to his departing back.

  He turned and leveled his eyes on me. “No. I can’t. ’Cause your shit is in that bag, including your wallet and phone. Got a cell, don’t need a house phone. So you got any bright ideas to take off, you can’t call a taxi, you can’t pay a taxi, and you sure as fuck can’t walk anywhere you could get a taxi. But don’t matter. I’m hittin’ old lady Zambino across the street and tellin’ her to keep an eye out. You know she’ll be glued to the window, I ask. And she’ll call me, she sees you attemptin’ a getaway. I’ll also be hittin’ Tony next door. He’ll keep an eye out back. So you got a bright idea, cara, get rid of it. ’Cause your ass is in that bed until you have a sit-down with Ma, let Pop say his words to make amends, and you and me got a meetin’ of the minds about the future.”

  That was when I felt my eyes narrow, even as what he said made my heart beat funny.

  “So, what you’re saying is, you actually have kidnapped me.”

  “You wanna look at it that way, go ahead. Don’t give a fuck. You took a bullet to the belly, babe. Didn’t hit your gut, but it did damage, so I gave you a week and a half to pull your shit. Now I’m done with that.”

  “I think I’ve noticed that since you’ve kidnapped me,” I returned.

  “Do you want your pudding and fuckin’ grape soda?” he asked.

  “Yes, because that’ll give me something to throw at you,” I answered.

  “Okay, both those are off my shoppin’ list,” he shot back. “Do you want your pain meds?”

  I snapped my mouth shut because the pain was nagging. I could ignore it while plotting my escape or arguing with Benny. When neither was an option open to me, I had a feeling I couldn’t.

  He watched me snap my mouth shut, hesitated only a moment, and then strode back to the bed.

  He, however, didn’t hesitate to lean in and wrap a hand around the side of my neck and dip his face so close, I could see those eyes now warm and gentle in a way my heart really wanted to melt. I just wouldn’t let it.

  “You’re crazy-brave, babe,” he said quietly. “You proved that a week and a half ago. You’re crazy-beautiful and I ’spect you been that way all your life. You’re crazy-funny. You’re crazy-sweet. But you’re just plain crazy if you think you can do what you did for this family, be the way you were with me that night before they took Cal and Vi, and think I’m lettin’ you move to fuckin’ Indianapolis without us havin’ a conversation. You know what this is. That’s why you’re freakin’ and hidin’. I know what this is. That’s why I’m not lettin’ this shit go.” His fingers squeezed and he got even closer. “We’re talkin’. You don’t like that, I don’t give a fuck. Seven years I been fuckin’ up. Right now, that shit ends.”

  And with that, he pulled me to him (but gently, God!), kissed my forehead, let me go, and before I could say a word, he disappeared out the door.

  I stared at it, feeling his words gather in my belly, and the way they did, I liked the feeling.

  Then I glared at it, wishing I had something to throw, even if he was long gone and I wouldn’t hit him.

  The only things I had were magazines and a remote, and if I threw any of them, I’d have to haul myself out of bed and go get them.

  So, instead, I took the only option open to me.

  I snatched up Ben’s universal remote, pointed it at the TV, and commenced fucking with all of his settings so it would take him at least an hour to sort that shit out.

  Done with that, I filled his Netflix favorites queue with programs that would make Homeland Security put him on a watch list.

  While I waited for his return, I selected the most non-Benny television show Netflix had to offer (Dr. Who, precisely), let it play in the background, and flipped through my People.

  While doing so, I fell dead asleep.

  Genuinely.

  Chapter Two

  Shakespeare

  I woke up feeling a t-shirt-covered chest under my cheek and hand, an arm angled down my back, hand resting on my hip, and I heard baseball on the TV.

  I opened my eyes and saw I was right, white tee stretched across a broad chest, a chest my hand was resting on.

  I instantly rolled to my back. The arm around me let me, but the tee came with me and then Benny was up on an elbow in the bed, forearm under me, upper body looming over me. Now I could see tee spread across a broad chest and shoulders, a handsome face with the beginnings of a sexy five o’clock shadow, tousled dark hair, and gentle dark brown eyes.

  “Sleep good?” he asked quietly.

  “Why are you in bed with me?” I asked back, not quietly.

  One side of his lips hitched up slightly and he repeated, “Sleep good?”

  I decided to dispense with the back and forth and snapped, “Yes,” then did my own repeating. “Why are you in bed with me?”

  “Watchin’ the game,” he replied.

  “Don’t you have a TV in your living room?”

  “I do, but got home, started up here to check on you, heard somethin’ that freaked me out. Thought you were takin’ a chainsaw to my bed. Got in here, saw it was you out and snorin’.”

  I closed my eyes.

  I opened them when Ben kept speaking.

  “Looked at the TV, heard the TV, knew it was fucked up. Babe, you messed with my contrast?”

  I fought my smirk by glaring at him.

  He ignored my glare and continued, “A man’s TV has gotta be the way he wants it to be. So I decided to sort that shit without delay. Took a while so I figured I should be comfortable doing it, and bein’ comfortable meant movin’ you so you’d stop makin’ that God-awful noise.”

  I said not a word, but what I thought was that my TV ploy was an epic fail.

  Benny did say a word, more than one. “Jesus, Frankie, you even fucked with the receiver.”

  “No one has surround sound in their bedroom, Ben,” I informed him.

  “I do,” he informed me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He leaned slightly into me and I tensed because Benny close was bad. Benny very close was very bad.

  “Tell me this, cara,” he started. “Why does a woman ask ‘why’ about shit a man does? I’m not askin’ just to ask. I honestly wanna know the answer to that. He does what he does. If it doesn’t hurt anybody, why does there have to be a ‘why?’”

  It was more than a little annoying that he had a point.

  “We want to understand you,” I explained.

  “Half the shit any woman I know does I do not get. Not even a little bit. And I do not care that I don’t get it. She does what she does. She doesn’t get in my face doin’ it, who gives a fuck?”

  “So you’re sayin’ you don’t give a fuck about how women think?” I asked.

  “I’m sayin’ I don�
�t need to know how you think,” he replied.

  “Is this why you’re thirty-five and single?” I went on snottily.

  “No,” he returned immediately. “I’m thirty-five and single because I am not gonna settle for somethin’ that doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel good, doesn’t bring me joy, doesn’t have my back, doesn’t know how to cook, keep house, listen, laugh, make me laugh, give great head, or ask me why I do shit.”

  “I’m not sure that woman exists,” I shared, and something changed in his eyes that I could probably read if I tried. But I didn’t try.

  “I’ll find her,” he replied.

  “I’m thinkin’ you won’t,” I told him, no longer being a bitch. I really didn’t think he would. The giving-great-head part especially. It was my experience, both personally and anecdotally, that most women found that a chore. It had to be done occasionally, but you went through the motions to do it.

  He leaned in even closer. “Then I’ll train her.”

  I felt my eyes get squinty. “We’re not dogs, Ben.”

  “A woman gets in a relationship, you’re tellin’ me she doesn’t do her thing to train her man?” he shot back.

  She did. Absolutely. She started building her lesson plans the day after a first good date.

  On that thought, I decided a change in subject was in order so I brought us back to priority one.

  “So you fixed your TV. Why were you still in bed with me?”

  “You felt good. I like you close. And when you aren’t sawin’ logs, you’re makin’ cute little noises, like little whimpers, that I like hearin’ nearly as much as I like you close.”

  Suddenly, we were catapulted into dangerous territory, and that dangerous territory was that what he said was making me feel warm inside.

  “Benny,” I whispered, but said no more.

  Benny didn’t need me to. He had plenty to say.

  “Seven years, fucked around. I knew. I figure you knew. Told you before I left, not fuckin’ around anymore. Playin’ it straight. You asked, I gave it to you straight.”

  I decided not to ask Benny Bianchi another question in my life, which meant I fell silent.

  Benny held my silence for long moments before he asked, “You hungry?”