The Promise Read online

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “You good?” he asked.

  I was better than I’d ever been, in the arms of Benny Bianchi.

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” he murmured, then kissed the top of my head, let me go, and went to the noodles on the stove.

  I turned to the counter and dealt with the rest.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Ben and I went to the market.

  We got napkins.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Crazy

  I was hustling out of the staff kitchen on my way to my office with my clean coffee cup because it was Friday and no one wanted to come back to the office on Monday seeing the dried remains of last week’s coffee in their mug.

  Even though it was barely four o’clock, the place was nearly deserted. It was May, summer was coming on strong, and people were way past cabin fever. They wanted out and about and to make as much of the weekend as possible.

  I was one of the last in the office, because even though I’d been there seven months, I wasn’t the kind of person to slow down. I had numbers to reach, but I never looked at numbers to reach as numbers to reach. I looked at them as numbers whose asses needed kicked. I was guiding my reps to kicking that ass, and even though Ben was right then at my apartment, having called ten minutes ago to tell me he’d arrived, I wanted to make sure it was all good at work before I left. I hadn’t seen him since I spent the week with him two weeks ago. He was down for a long weekend, leaving on Tuesday, and I was taking Monday off.

  So I had to have my ducks in a row so I could be all about Ben and not have work encroach on that.

  I’d already packed up so when I got to my office, I put down my mug, grabbed my purse and my computer bag, nabbed my keys and cell off my desk, and hightailed it out the door.

  I was walking by Randy Bierman, the Director of Research and Development’s door and saw he was the only one left in the office. He was mostly turned in his chair to look outside, phone to his ear.

  In all the time I’d been there, I still didn’t know what to make of Randy, seeing as most of the time he was kind of a dick. He treated his assistant like shit, was cranky nearly every day, and he was intensely secretive. Always behind closed doors. Rushing to his office the instant his cell phone rang. Shutting the blinds on the window wall to his office, like we all could read lips or had superhuman hearing.

  The guy was research and development at a pharmaceutical company, so secretive was part of the job description. But on my first day, I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement that was twelve freaking pages long, and I was management, as was everyone on our floor. I had stock options. I liked getting my salary. I liked the zeroes at the end of that salary. I’d hardly screw that pooch, nor would anyone on that floor. Especially since, if we did, we’d be memorizing the inside of a courtroom and selling a kidney to afford our attorneys because Wyler would sue us until we were living in a box on the street.

  Still, a girl had to make an effort and I worked with the guy.

  So I stopped by his door and was about to knock, just to give him a wave as a nonverbal good-bye, when I heard him speak.

  “I don’t give a fuck. It’s the last time, no more. You come at me again, you will force my hand, and how you force it, you will not like. Are you understanding me?”

  He didn’t sound happy, and the words were definitely not happy, so I did not knock. I backed away and headed to the elevators, thinking maybe I should give up on Randy. Nothing Randy did gave any indication he was anything other than what he seemed to be.

  A dick.

  And it was my experience that dicks weren’t worth the time, even (and maybe especially) when you worked with them.

  I gratefully left that behind and was in my car, happy to be heading home. A home that was a kickass apartment that had a courtyard with patio furniture I could finally use. A home in which a hot guy I was coming to love (okay, I was mostly there already) was waiting for me, and after two weeks of phone calls with him, we had three unadulterated days together.

  These were my blissful thoughts when my phone rang.

  I’d tossed my cell on my purse in the seat beside me, but my Bluetooth was in the vinyl around my stick shift.

  I snatched it up, put it in my ear, and hit Go.

  “You’ve reached Francesca Concetti,” I greeted.

  “Frankie, amata.”

  Sal.

  “Hey, Sal.”

  “You’re well?” he asked.

  “Yep. You?”

  “Things are good,” he answered.

  “Gina?”

  “Gina, not so good.”

  I felt my neck get tight.

  I knew I shouldn’t. Ben was right, Sal was probably a sociopath. But I still liked him.

  I could easily blame him for Vinnie’s death, but he didn’t twist Vinnie’s arm to make Vinnie work for him. He didn’t say no to Vinnie joining his crew, but still, that was all on Vinnie.

  And when Vinnie was working for Sal, before, and definitely after, Sal and his wife, Gina, were good to me. Take out the Mafia part and they would have been the parents I would have wanted to have.

  I’d never say it to Vinnie Senior and Theresa, because they’d lose their minds and probably never speak to me again, but Sal and Gina were a lot like them.

  Sal was a little more intense, rougher around sharp edges that were covered in a veneer of refinement that came with money and power. Gina was a little quieter than Theresa, but she found ways to do what she had to do as an Italian woman, mother, and grandmother, which consisted of meddling, getting her way, and controlling her family.

  Sal did not like me and look after me just because Vinnie died and he felt that was his duty. He cared about me. Genuinely. The same with Gina.

  Seeing as he was a crime boss and she was his spouse, the smart thing to do after Vinnie died would have been to extricate myself from their lives to the point it was just about Christmas cards, eventually losing their address and stopping even that.

  But I was me. Frankie.

  And apparently, even when I should, I didn’t bail.

  This thought would have made me smile, but I didn’t smile because I was worried about Gina.

  “Something’s wrong?” I asked cautiously.

  “Yeah, amata, somethin’s wrong. She’s got a lotta love for her Frankie. She hears her girl has moved to Indy but comes home to Chicago frequently and she doesn’t get a call? She doesn’t get an offer to meet for coffee? Her girl doesn’t come over and sit at our table?”

  Shit.

  I drew in a deep breath and shared quietly, “Sal, honey, you probably know, but I’m seeing Benny Bianchi.”

  “I know, cara, and good for you. Good for him. It’s about time that boy pulled his head outta his ass.”

  I blinked at the road.

  Sal kept going.

  “Now he’s shoved it right back in. He finally got you where he’s been wantin’ you and where are you? In Indy. He’s in Chicago. Amata, what is that?”

  “I had a job to take in Indy, Sal.”

  “And he’s got a pizzeria that makes more money than Tiffany’s, Francesca.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, slowing for a stoplight.

  I heard him expel an exasperated breath, then explain like I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, “It isn’t like you gotta work.”

  Oh. That was what it meant.

  “That’s not the kind of woman I am, Sal.”

  “Benny got his head outta his ass…again…he’d have words with you and make you that kind of woman.”

  I reminded myself he was a mob boss—a mob boss who loved me, but a mob boss who very likely did a variety of pretty scary things to people who pissed him off.

  Therefore, I didn’t turn my full attitude on him when I said, “Love you, Sal. You know it. And no disrespect. But the fifties were a really long time ago.”

  “I’ll give you that, Frankie, but you couldn’t get a job in C
hicago?”

  “This isn’t a job, Sal, it’s a career. And you don’t jack people around like that or you’ll find your career gets real short real fast,” I informed him as the light turned green and I hit the gas.

  He was silent as I shifted to second, then into third and moved toward the next light, hoping it would stay green.

  Finally, Sal spoke again.

  “Benny and you, this mean not-so-good things for my Gina?”

  I knew what he meant. He knew Ben detested him. Ben might not detest Gina, but Gina came with Sal so he had nothing to do with her by extension. Me with Benny—a Benny who might not demand that I keep his house while he’s out making pizzas, but still was a man who was all man, not to mention Italian American man—meant that he could very well, by extension, demand I had nothing to do with either of them.

  Sal was asking for Gina.

  But Sal loved me, so Sal was also asking for Sal.

  I thought that was sweet and it was precisely why they hadn’t fallen off my Christmas list in eight years.

  “We haven’t really worked that out yet,” I said to Sal.

  “I see,” Sal murmured.

  “Though, I will say, I’ll be at your table again, but I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that Benny won’t be with me. You know you and Gina mean the world to me, but Ben and I are working this out long-distance, and when we have time together, it’s been all about taking that time to be together. That means I lost track. But next time I’m up, I’ll make certain to take some time with you and Gina.”

  I approached my turn and hit my turn signal as Sal replied, “That’d make Gina happy, amata.”

  His voice said that would make Sal happy too.

  Another five years on my Christmas list.

  At least.

  “Okay, Sal. Tell her I said ‘hey’ and I miss her.”

  “Will do, Frankie. Addio, mia bella.”

  “Ciao, Sal.”

  I hit the button on my Bluetooth to disconnect and tried to decide if I should share that call with Benny.

  I was driving through The Brendal by the time I decided I would, but maybe I’d do it Monday.

  Or on the phone on Tuesday.

  I was swinging into my spot next to Ben’s Explorer, again feeling happy at the same time perplexed as I saw my other guest spot taken up by a shiny blue Chrysler sedan with Illinois plates, when my cell rang again.

  I was seconds away from Benny, however, so I decided the call could wait.

  The caller obviously decided the same thing because my phone only rang twice before it stopped ringing.

  I was out of my Z and fighting back the urge to skip (or run) to my front door when the door opened and Ben prowled out.

  Tee, jeans, running shoes.

  Top-to-toe yummy.

  I decided on running but didn’t get that first stride in because the look on Ben’s hard face stopped me. If that didn’t do it, him lifting a hand palm toward me did.

  I met him on the sidewalk at the end of the path to my door.

  “Called you just as you hit your space,” he announced and immediately kept announcing, “Five minutes ago, you got company.”

  I looked back at the car in my guest spot that I’d never seen before, then up at Benny and I heard it.

  “Frankie!”

  Loud. Jovial. Nothing ever got him down because he wouldn’t let it.

  I knew that voice.

  Enzo Concetti, Senior.

  My father.

  “Shit,” I whispered, not tearing my eyes from Benny.

  “Your dad,” Ben confirmed what I already knew. “I wanted to slam the door in his face but couldn’t. Decided to call but you showed.”

  “Fuck,” I got out before Dad descended.

  Regardless of the fact I had a purse and computer bag, which would make any embrace awkward, he wrapped his arms around my waist, picked me up, and shook me.

  “My baby girl!” he shouted.

  I couldn’t move my hands so I just looked down at him and greeted, “Hey, Dad.”

  “Heya, gorgeous.” He grinned up at me, then dropped me to my heels, let me go, turned, and clapped Ben hard on the shoulder, leaving his hand there and squeezing. “Girl, you scored yourself the good Bianchi.”

  Ben’s face turned to granite.

  As for me, my insides shriveled up.

  Dad seemed not to notice Ben’s response, or the unbelievable inappropriateness of his words, and squeezed Ben’s shoulder, swaying it forward and back while saying, “No offense to the dead or that other one, uh…Manny.”

  I watched as slowly, Ben looked down to the hand on his shoulder before he turned his eyes to me.

  This forced me to jerk out of my horrified stupor and cry, sounding desperate and, therefore, loud, “Let’s take this inside.”

  Dad, who gave Ben one more sway while I held my breath, hoping Benny wouldn’t blow before Dad let him go, said, “Excellent idea.”

  Thankfully, Dad let Ben go, but regretfully, he did it in order to move toward my front door.

  I caught Benny’s eyes, giving him a nonverbal, yet still screaming, I’m so sorry.

  Ben reached out and took my computer bag, then with his free hand, grabbed my hand and started me up the path my father was already taking.

  “How’d you find me, Dad?” I called to his back, shifting the handle of my purse to my shoulder.

  He stopped, turned, and smiled at me.

  In that glance, I saw what I’d known a lifetime: I got a lot of him—dark hair that was shiny and lustrous (even without product); light brown, almond-shaped eyes with lashes I never had to curl because they were naturally curly; good bone structure.

  Dad was tall, though, and I wasn’t, not really. And I got Ma’s curves and her light skin.

  Looking at him now, well past his prime, he looked better than most men in their prime could ever hope to look. Vital. Strong. Handsome.

  “Was it a secret?” he asked on a big smile. Sharing it was all the same to him, if it was or wasn’t. He didn’t give a shit. If I didn’t want to see him, he was coming anyway.

  I knew this because he did.

  But actually, it was a secret. He was one of the many reasons I escaped Chicago. So it was not great news he found me in Brownsburg.

  Before I could answer, he went on, turning back to the door, “Enzo Junior.”

  At that moment, I decided that once I found a way to get rid of Dad, calmed Benny down, fed him, and had sex with him, I was heading straight out to the drugstore to buy a big, fat, red Sharpie. I would then go home and use it, crossing my brother’s name off my Christmas list.

  “Babe,” Ben said low and with a weird hint, not of anger…of warning.

  I didn’t like the idea of what amounted to a further warning, especially when the bad news had already picked me up and shook me not a minute before.

  Still, I looked up from watching Dad disappear into my apartment to catch Ben’s eyes.

  The instant I did, he said, “Not a lotta time, cara, but brace. He’s not alone, and you get in there, don’t figure you’re gonna be happy.”

  What did that mean?

  I had no chance to ask.

  We were at the door.

  Luckily, I braced. Further to that fortune, Ben tightened his hand in mine, and for once, he moved into my house before me.

  This gave me a view to what was inside so I had a moment to process it, the kick it dealt to my stomach, and partially recover before I had to face it.

  Standing among the calm, muted blue, green, and purple colors of my furniture, and the fêng shui hand I had at decorating that was uncluttered and reflected the subdued tones of my furniture in harmony with my personality (or what I wanted my personality to be, which was far from subdued), stood my father’s woman.

  I didn’t remember her name because I’d only met her twice. Once when Dad stopped at my apartment in Chicago when she was with him. He’d dragged her up, but he was only there because, “Bab
y, your daddy’s seriously gotta pee.” He did his business while she and I made awkward conversation. Then he came out, gave me a kiss, and they took off to wherever Dad preferred to be without him even telling me her name.

  The second time, Enzo was in town and we were all together—Nat, Davey, Cat, her husband, Art, Enzo, and the girl he was dating at the time (who he also broke up with during that trip, making the trip home less than enjoyable, freaking Enzo).

  Of course, this dissolved into pandemonium when Cat said something that set off Nat. They started fighting, loud and foul-mouthed. Enzo tried to play peacemaker and got sucked in, so he got loud and foul-mouthed. Dad lost his mind because we were “embarrassing” him in front of his woman, and he kicked us all out, even me, and I wasn’t doing anything.

  That had been at least a year ago. Maybe two.

  But in the end, I’d long since learned not to remember their names. They came, they went. When I was younger, I would latch on, hoping one would have staying power and maybe give me what I didn’t know at the time I’d needed. Most of the time, they were pretty cool and a few of them were very loving, sometimes genuinely, sometimes doing it thinking they could get to Dad’s heart through his kids.

  They never stuck, though, and after a little girl gets heartbroken repeatedly at losing woman after woman who drifted through her life, she learned.

  I learned.

  So I didn’t remember this one’s name.

  Dad got older, but his women’s ages stayed the same. The problem was, he had age, experience, and although not much maturity, he had some. His women usually didn’t, at least the last part, so he got bored of them easily.

  This one had lasted a lot longer than most.

  And I was seeing she was probably going to last even longer (though this was not a guarantee) because she was obviously very pregnant.

  My brother had two women who were imminently going to give him children, as well as lawsuits for child support.

  And my father’s next child would be aunt or uncle to someone who was their same age.

  Now.

  Seriously.

  What the fuck was up with that?

  I didn’t realize I’d frozen just beyond my small foyer until I felt Ben’s hand give mine a squeeze.