The Promise

Chapter Three Sweet and Spicy

“Francesca, baby, wake up.”

Benny’s voice—deep, easy, and sweet—was at my ear, his mouth so close I could feel his lips whisper there.

My eyes fluttered open and I immediately felt the pain. To alleviate it, I shifted from my side to my back. Benny, sitting on the bed next to me and leaned onto a hand on my other side, shifted to accommodate me. As I untwisted to lie flat on my back, I made the mental note that being a woman who snored was better than waking with this kind of pain.

Still half asleep, I was unable to hide it and I knew it when Benny murmured, “Brought you coffee. Your girl’s downstairs. She just showed. I’ll send her up with some water and a pill.”

I focused on him to see his hair a sexy mess from sleep, his eyes warm and somnolent, his white tee on.

Asheeka had woken him. Asheeka had gotten a load of all of that opening the door. Therefore, even if the option of enlisting Asheeka in an escape plan was still open, she probably wouldn’t take it, seeing as she knew I was currently occupying all that was Benny’s bed; thus, she would not lift a finger to help me escape due to the fact she’d think I was insane for wanting to.

“You need help gettin’ out of bed and to the bathroom?” Benny asked, and it was then I knew I really wasn’t hiding the pain because I also felt stiff, like my body would break if I moved it another inch, and I didn’t want to try.

It was this way in the mornings. It got better as I got more lucid, moved around a bit, warmed up, and, most importantly, got some drugs in me.

I was looking forward to the time when I didn’t wake up this way. It was getting better. But it was also taking its fucking time.

“I—” I started to refuse, not only because this was Benny and I wanted to make it clear I didn’t need or want his help, but because I would do the same if it was anyone.

It was a pride thing. It was stupid. But it was me.

Benny knew I was going to refuse and didn’t allow me to do it. He shifted again, wrapping an arm around my waist, carefully moving me with him. He exited the bed, sliding me out from under the covers as he did it.

As for me, as he did it, I winced outright, not having it in me to attempt to hide it.

I ended up with my feet on the floor and my side pressed close to Benny’s, his arm around my waist, his other hand coming out to settle on my hip. He was holding my weight and steadying me at the same time.

“I’d carry you to the bathroom, cara, but you gotta get used to doin’ this on your own,” he said gently.

I looked up at him and nodded because he was right. I would be alone soon enough and I had to get used to it, in a variety of ways.

He nodded back, his lips tipping up, his eyes warming. Then he moved us toward the bathroom. He got me in and to the basin and kept hold of me until I put my hand to the counter. Even then, his hold only loosened. He didn’t let me go.

“You good?”

I kept my eyes to my hand on the counter. “Yep.”

“Francesca.”

I lifted my eyes to his.

The instant I did, he lifted his hand to rest it light on my jaw and leaned in. Brushing his lips against my cheekbone, when they left it, his thumb shifted and brushed across the touch as if he wanted to seal it there.

And as it was sealing there for what I knew would be eternity, I completely forgot about the pain.

“I’ll send your girl up.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

He didn’t move. Just held my eyes as I looked into his and held my breath.

Then his thumb shifted again, gliding along the edge of my lower lip. I felt my toes curl, my fingers curl, and last, a curl in my belly that had nothing to do with pain.

“She’s sweet in the morning,” he murmured.

Oh God. He was totally going for it. He was taking advantage. He was getting his licks in before the bell even rang.

“Ben—”

“Sweet and spicy. What more could a man want?”

Oh God.

Before I could get another word in, his thumb did another brush of my lip, his arm around me gave me a squeeze, and then he let me go and walked out of the room.

***

I stood at the basin in Benny’s bathroom in a pair of undies and a bra, my new bandage that Asheeka taped on me covering my skin several inches under my breasts, slightly to the right.

I had my roller brush in hand and was blasting a thick lock of dark hair with heat from Benny’s hair dryer.

I did not allow myself to consider why Benny had a hair dryer.

I didn’t do this because I knew why Benny had a hair dryer.

The first part of what I knew was that it wasn’t for Benny’s personal use. Asheeka had amused herself (and me) by calling out an inventory of Benny’s bathroom cabinets while I showered. We learned he had product for his hair.

This was not surprising. With all that hair, he’d need something to rule it. Though, I was slightly surprised (as was Asheeka) he used a designer brand that cost a whack and could only be bought at upscale salons. That didn’t seem very Benny.

But the hair dryer wasn’t for Benny. He probably put that gel in when his hair was wet, did a slapdash job when he did it, and didn’t give a fuck mostly because he simply didn’t give a fuck and partly because, no matter how half-assed he did it, he had such great hair, it was just going to look good.

I didn’t think of Benny standing in front of his bathroom mirror, probably inattentively running his long, strong fingers through his hair by rote and doing this with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

No, I absolutely didn’t think about that.

I thought that it was certain a lot of women had been through that bedroom and, thus, in that bathroom. One either had left that hair dryer (this was the greater possibility), or he’d bought one as an act of consideration for all the women who’d been through that bathroom and needed one (this wasn’t very likely).

I was thinking with some irritability about using another woman’s hair dryer, and I was doing this in an attempt not to think about the fact that I was doing my hair. If I allowed my mind to go there (which I unfortunately did), I would tell myself it was me (something else I did).

I was out of the hospital. It was time to get back to me and I was a girl who did my hair. I did it big. I used beaucoup products. I put creams in for heat protection, oils in for frizz prevention, mousse in for lift and volume, spray in for hold. I teased. I flipped. I fiddled. I could work on one curl for ten minutes to make it lay right.

But I was not...absolutely not…doing this because Ben Bianchi had seen me for a week and a half looking like shit and now I had my opportunity to look decent.

Even Jamie knew how important this was to me, thus, when she brought my packed bag to the hospital, she’d included all my products, my teasing comb, and my roller brush.

Alas, she’d failed with the makeup, only bringing my moisturizer, powder, one single shade of blush (when I had at least twelve in my makeup drawer at home), and mascara.

When I did the makeup part earlier, I’d had to make do.

What I wouldn’t do was make do with the single tube of lip gloss (by Asheeka’s report, shade: “Berry Promising”) that was rolling around in Ben’s drawer with black barber’s combs, Band-Aids that, for some reason, had found themselves box-less, nail clippers, used razors that should have been dropped in the trash, not in that drawer, random pills that found themselves out of the bottle, and the like.

That lip gloss was definitely not Benny’s.

Later, in a moment of alone time, I’d do what my doctor ordered: get some exercise, walk to the bathroom, grab that lip gloss, walk to the bedroom, and throw it out the window.

I turned off the hair dryer, put it on the basin, and used the roller brush to fiddle with the lock I was currently drying.

“This pains me to say, babe,” Asheeka started, sitting on the toilet seat and watching me. “Seein’ as that boy looks like that boy looks, but I’ve got three older brothers. My brothers have got their own brothers. By the look of the biceps on that man downstairs, not to mention other stuff on that man downstairs, he could hold his own. Ten black men show up at his door to get the woman he’s holdin’ captive out of his house, I’m thinkin’ that won’t go down too great for him.”

Asheeka was tall, big of chest, and abundant of booty, with short, straightened, styled-to-the-teeth hair and eyes that made you wish she’d find a man and have babies because children needed to see that kindness directed at them from birth to the last glance she gave them on her deathbed.

She also called work that morning to say she’d be late since she was taking care of me. When she was not calling down the inventory of Benny’s bathroom, she was reminding me my soon-to-be-ex boss would not mind if she was a half an hour late, or three hours late, due to the fact she was seeing to me.

This was because he liked Asheeka. This was also because he loved me.

I knew he loved me partially because he wanted to get in my pants.

Mostly he loved me because I was the top salesperson on his sales force. When I put in my resignation, I thought he was going to cry.

I understood this. I was a hot commodity. I could sell. It was a gift. I had the knack, even I had to admit that.

It started when I got my first job in sales at age twenty selling cars. The man who hired me did it as a joke. He wanted to watch me try to sell cars and he wanted to make fun of me with his boys when I failed.

What he didn’t get, as many car salesmen didn’t, was that there were some women who actually knew cars, and one of those women was me.

Another thing he didn’t get was that there were other women who bought cars on their own without a man attached to their hip and speaking for the both of them. Those women wanted someone they could trust, someone they could relate to, someone they didn’t think would screw them, and that was also me.

What he also didn’t get was that I was not hard on the eyes, I was not above flirting my ass off to make a sale, and ninety-eight-point-seven percent of the male population thought with their dicks.

So I killed.

But I didn’t stay at that job long, mostly because he was an asshole. Even though I’d shown him and wanted a goodly amount of time to crow about it and hit the top of the sales board month after month and crow about that to the good ole boys he employed, no one likes to spend time with an asshole. When another dealership made an offer, I took it.

Then I sold a car to a man who owned a huge office supply business who recognized my skills and he hired me away. I was later poached by my current boss who sold hospital supplies.

Since then, I’d had headhunters come to me frequently to try to lure me away.

I’d stayed for stupid reasons, holding on to a life that didn’t want me.

But I also stayed for good reasons. I liked my job, made better than good money, had great clients, a boss who wanted in my pants but, even so, respected me, and nearly all my co-workers were friends.

Two months ago a pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis approached and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Even though I had no pharmaceutical sales experience, I had hospital sales experience so I knew the drill and a number of the players. I’d be heading up my own team and my base salary would be nearly double my current salary. The area my team and I were going to cover was vast, which meant travel—an idea I liked.

The escape hatch opened, I decided to slide through.

But I was going to miss my boss, my clients, my co-workers, and especially Asheeka.

I prepared my hair in the brush for another blast of heat, aimed my eyes on Asheeka in the mirror, and told her, “You do that, old lady Zambino will come outta her house with her bowling ball. She might be eighty-two, but she’s got mad skills with that ball. So I’m not sure it’ll go too great for your brothers and their brothers.”

After delivering that, I blasted my hair with heat.

When I was done and moving on to new territory, Asheeka said, “I’m worried about you.”

She said this, I knew, because, while she was taping the clean bandage to me, I told her about what Benny was up to. Since then, she’d been biding her time, likely looking for when she’d have my undivided attention. As that was not happening and she actually did have to go to work eventually, she was winging it.

I turned my eyes from my hair to her and assured her, “I’m gonna be okay.”

“Boy like that can be persuasive,” she replied.

I knew that and was scared shitless of it.

“I’ll be okay,” I repeated.

“Honey.” She leaned toward me, putting her elbows on her knees, but her eyes didn’t leave mine in the mirror. “My next question should come with wine and relaxing music after we’ve had facials and our hair done, but I gotta throw it out there. And that question would be, why wouldn’t you want him to persuade you?”

I pressed my lips together and blasted the curl with heat.

When I switched off the dryer, Asheeka kept at me. “Avoidance? From Frankie Concetti? The girl who lets it all hang out?”

“He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother,” I said for the millionth time in less than two days. Though, this time, it was telling her something she knew already.

She nodded. “I see why you wouldn’t wanna go there. I totally see that. But I saw that boy down there, and when I say that, I’m not only talkin’ about the fact that he looks good enough to eat. It’s that he was sweet but firm when he told me I had to look out for you. Not fall for any of your shit when you tried to convince me you could do somethin’ on your own that I didn’t think it smart that you be doin’. And that I needed to get that pill down you ’cause you’re prideful and stubborn and tryin’ to hide the pain.” She paused, didn’t release my eyes in the mirror, and finished, “He cares, Frankie. A lot.”

“That’s not the point,” I told her.

“What is the point?” she asked.

“The point is, it’s just not right,” I explained.

“That’s not the point ’cause that’s bull-hockey.”

I fiddled with my curl and blasted it with more heat because I didn’t want to be talking about this again.

When I was done, Asheeka got right back in there. “You’re holdin’ a grudge.”

I looked back at her in the mirror. “Uh…yeah.”

She shook her head. “Only God can judge him and his family for the way they treated you. Here, on earth, the right thing to do is forgive. Harder to forget and that’ll mess with you, honey. That’s your cross to bear and that’s the whole thing about forgiveness. They gave you that cross and it’s you who has to bear it at the same time findin’ a way to forgive. That’s the reason forgiveness is divine. ’Cause someone wrongs us, we live with that wrong right alongside them, but it’s us who has to find the strength to let them off the hook. If they work for it, ask for it, only you have the power to offer it to them so their soul can be less heavy. And the right thing to do is use that power.”

“I am. I’ve already decided that. That’s why I’m not taking you up on the offer to rally your brothers. I’m gonna let them heal the breach,” I shared before I ended it. “Then I’m gone.”

She stared at me in the mirror.

I went back to my hair.

My arms were tired, I had a nagging ache that prolonged standing and moving was beating through the medication, and I knew I should give up on my hair.

But I didn’t.

Asheeka said no more. Just when I got down to sliding my fingers coated with elixir through my hair and putting another coat of mascara on, she walked into the bedroom and came back with a fresh nightgown.

I pulled it on over my undies and saw it was really cute. The one I’d chosen last night was kind of a caftan—flowy and comfortable, but full coverage.

This one had a high-low hem, the front of which hit me several inches below the knees, the back dip went nearly to my ankles. The neckline plunged to an empire waist, with gathering at the bodice and waistline that drew attention to the cleavage. And last, it was a bright coral color that looked great with my hair.

You could see the turquoise lace of my bra at the neckline but…whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time I showed hints of a bra, including to Ben and Theresa.

“Cute nightie,” Asheeka observed, giving it a once-over.

“Gina. She has an eye for cute,” I told her.

“Sexy-cute,” she told me.

I looked into the mirror. The cleavage was sexy. The material was semi-shiny and clingy.

Jeez, it was sexy-cute. Who knew Gina had that in her?

“I’m thinkin’ you’re good for now and need to take a load off,” Asheeka said.

I turned to her and took the hint.

She needed to go.

“Sorry, babe, my mind’s all over the place. You gotta go.”

“Happy to stay as long as you want, but yeah. There are syringes to sell and we’re one girl down in sellin’ ’em.”

I grinned.

She shifted out of the way and swung an arm toward the door.

I took her invitation and headed that way. Once in the bedroom, I didn’t waste time taking a load off, stretching out on the bed, pillows tucked behind me, upper body resting back.

That was a lot better.

“You want me to come tonight, company and a buffer?” Asheeka asked and I looked up at her.

I would love that. It was sweet as all get-out and would help a lot.

But she was late for work for me and I’d need her to come around to Benny’s for at least a couple more days. I didn’t need to suck all her time and goodness. I was not a fan of owing markers, and with me moving away, I wouldn’t have many opportunities for her to call them.

“I’ll be okay,” I answered.

“You keep sayin’ that, and I know you want me to believe it, but gotta say, honey, not sure that I do.”

I gave her a face and she returned a grin. Then she bent down, grabbed my hand, and gave it a squeeze.

“You need me, you know how to get me.”

“Yeah, babe. I do. And I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe. Thank you,” I replied.

That got me another squeeze and a smile before she let me go and walked out.

“Later!” I called as she did.

“Later, girl!” she called back.

When she was gone, I looked to the nightstand to see if Ben left the remote.

He did not.

Something about that made me want to giggle out loud.

Perhaps my TV ploy did work.

I was reaching for Vogue when Benny walked in. I watched him do this. I also watched him come to a dead stop five feet in, eyes on me.

“I attacked my hair this morning,” I declared. “That’s a feat that’s difficult to conquer on the best of days, so, Warden, if you intend to force me to walk down to the commissary for breakfast, I’m gonna have to starve until lunch.”

Ben said nothing.

I kept talking. “If you bring me something to eat and more coffee, I’ll be nice to you for fifteen minutes.”

Ben still didn’t speak.

So I allowed, “Okay, twenty.”

Benny planted his hands on his hips but said not a word.

I went on. “And you can bring the remote back. Last night, I saw the Entenmann’s coffeecake on your counter. For a slice, I won’t fuck with your TV all day.”

“Told you, you can’t have sex. Doctor’s orders.”

I felt my head jerk in surprise at his words before I asked, “What?”

“Babe, you want me to fuck you, you give me big hair, a hint of a bra I’ll wanna see covering your tits before I’ll wanna take it off, and skin.”

My stomach tightened and not in a bad way.

But…

Was he crazy?

“What?” I asked, louder this time.

“Actually, you want me to fuck you, you gotta breathe. You want me to fuck you immediately, you give me that hair, a hint of bra, and show some skin.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What is up with you?”

“You play games with all that” —he flicked a hand in my direction— “you get repercussions.”

“Benny, what…the hell…are you talkin’ about?” I demanded to know.

“Hair, bra, nightie, skin,” was his absurd (and repetitive) answer.

“Gina bought me this nightie, Ben,” I informed him. “It’s like a dress.”

“It’s clingy and shows skin,” he informed me.

“It’s one of the only choices I have, seein’ as you didn’t take me home so I’d have different choices,” I retorted.

“Then I’ll set Ma on hittin’ your house to get you different choices.”

This would be a wasted chore as the nighties I had at home were way clingier and showed a whole lot more skin.

Therefore, I advised, “Actually, if you can’t control your base instincts, you should send her to the granny section of Macy’s.”

He got my drift and I knew it when his jaw got hard. “You doin’ that shit to fuck with me?”

“Fuck with you how?”

“Bein’ a tease, babe. A tease recovering from a fuckin’ GSW, which means I can’t teach you the lesson you should get for bein’ a tease.”

I felt my blood start to get hot, and this time, it was in a bad way.

“What, in all that I’ve done and said in the last week and a half, would give you the impression I’d tease you, Benny Bianchi?” I snapped.

“You, lyin’ in my bed, dressed like that, lookin’ like that.”

“I did my hair and put on a nightgown!” Now I was shouting.

“Precisely,” he returned.

“Are we really having this conversation?” I asked sarcastically, as well as still loudly.

“You got a robe?” he asked back.

Oh shit. I did.

Since I did, I glared.

Benny read my glare, dropped his hands from his hips, stalked to my bag, and dug through it, yanking out my robe.

He then stalked to the bed and dropped it in my lap, whereupon he announced, “Ma’s on her way over.”

I closed my eyes and forgot to be pissed because panic was gathering around my heart.

“She’s gonna be cool with you, Frankie,” Benny stated.

That was what I was panicked about. She was going to be cool. Sweet. Kind. Motherly. All this while feeling badly because she’d been in the wrong and something extreme happened that brought that to light. And her feeling badly would make me feel badly. Then I’d have to accept all the goodness of her, knowing I’d have to give it up again, my choice this time.

The bed depressed and my eyes flew open to see Benny sitting on it, again, hip to hip.

“Can you give me a hint why this is so difficult for you, babe?” he asked, sounding less peeved.

“Which part?” I asked.

“Any of it,” he answered.

“No,” I finally answered his question.

“You’re not gonna let me in there, even a little bit.” He stated this as a fact, but I decided to take it as a statement that needed affirmation.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed.

“Then I’m gonna hafta dig in there.”

I drew in a breath.

Benny digging in there.

God seriously freaking hated me.

It was time to put my plan in motion so I did.

“Your family blamed me. They turned their back on me. I loved you all. That hurt. Things have changed. I get that. But they changed while I was recovering from getting shot, Ben. You need to get that. I’ll be cool with Theresa. I’ll sit down with Vinnie Senior. And after I get through that, you and me’ll talk. But you gotta cut me some slack. This isn’t easy on you. Think how it feels for me.”

He leaned closer and didn’t look or sound peeved at all when he asked, “Was that hard?”

It was.

Absolutely.

And as time went on, it would get harder until it eventually killed. But I’d lived through bad. I could live through worse.

Or, at least, I hoped so.

“Uh, yeah, Benny. That was hard. That’s the point.”

He bent in, leaning onto a hand in the bed on the opposite side of me as he took my hand in his free one, lifting it to hold it to his tight upper abs.

There it was. It happened right away. My hand on Benny’s tight abs that I’d never really get to explore. It got worse.

“You got nothin’ but good comin’ your way, Frankie, I can promise you that,” he said softly.

He was wrong. I never had nothing but good coming my way. If I got good, I lost it. That was my life. I’d learned to live with it. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice.

I didn’t share that. If he hadn’t figured that out for himself, I wasn’t going to enlighten him.

He squeezed my hand and pressed it tighter to his abs. “You open yourself up, you could find it’ll be the best you ever had.”

I didn’t know what he was promising, but I had a feeling it had a variety of nuances. I also had a feeling he was right—about all of those nuances.

The problem was, he should find the best he’d ever have, and he couldn’t get that from me.

“Can we stop talking now?” I requested.

His eyes got soft, but his lips said, “Yeah. About that. I’m gonna go get you some coffeecake, but before that, I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go down.”

I had a feeling I knew what “this” was, and, admittedly, I was grateful he had a plan. This would likely come as an order, which would be annoying, but I needed to be prepared and I’d take whatever I could get.

“When she gets here, I’ll bring Ma up. She’ll do what she’s gotta do and I’ll be here with you in the beginning. Then I gotta get to the restaurant. Got paperwork to do and Pop’s takin’ my back at nights while you’re here. He does things his way. I do things my way. Obviously I like my way better. He fucks up my kitchen, I’ll deal. He fucks up my system in the office, that will not go good. So I gotta see to shit. Ma will stay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

This was a good plan, the best part being I’d get a break from Benny during it. I’d take dealing with Theresa over Benny any day.

“Gotcha. But just sayin’, if you need to be at the restaurant at night, I’ll be good here alone.”

“You’ll be here alone and schemin’. So that shit’s not gonna happen.”

To preserve the precarious mellow mood I had going, I decided not to reply.

“So, you’re down with that plan?” he pressed.

“Do I have a choice?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“Then yes, I’m down with that plan.”

He smiled at me.

I allowed myself a nanosecond to long for a life where I could be lying in a sweet nightie in Benny Bianchi’s bed with him sitting close, holding my hand against his taut abs, smiling at me, and what I would be free to do in that pleasant happenstance, before I shut that shit down.

“Bring the remote with my cake,” I ordered.

“Back to spicy,” he muttered, still smiling.

He liked spicy. If I was playing it smart, I wouldn’t give him spicy.

But I was Francesca Angelica Concetti. That just wasn’t in me.

“I was under the impression I’m here to finish recuperating, Benny. I can’t do that if you starve me to death.”

I felt those tight abs shaking with his silent laughter and I liked that feeling a whole lot. Too much.

Dangerously much.

Then he gave my hand a squeeze, let it go, and pushed up from the bed, muttering, “At your service.”

I should have let it go, I really should have. But I didn’t because it was just…not…me.

“I will note at this juncture that if I was in my own apartment, which doesn’t have steps and is a lot smaller, I could get my own coffeecake.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not looking at me and walking toward the door. “But you probably wouldn’t have coffeecake.”

“No, I would have Gina makin’ me ciabatta toast with homemade ciabatta, which, incidentally, she’d deliver to me in bed without the hassle.”

“Then lucky you’re here,” he returned, walking through the door. “Entenmann’s cheese coffeecake with crumble is better, even than Gina’s ciabatta.”

There it was. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Because he was right.

***

I lay in Benny’s bed, eyes glued to the TV, plate in my hand with a slice of coffeecake the size of which, coupled with last night’s dinner, proved irrefutably that Ben didn’t intend to starve me.

I did this as Benny took a shower.

I was good, resting, eating, a fresh cup o’ joe sitting on the nightstand and a huge slice of fresh Entenmann’s in hand, but I was wishing for pain. Pain would take my mind off Benny in the shower.

Fortunately, the shower turned off.

Unfortunately, this conjured images of Ben standing at his sink in nothing but a towel, running his hands through his hair.

I was reconsidering Asheeka’s offer of her brothers and their brothers coming to my rescue when Ben, with excellent timing, exited the bathroom.

Looking his way, I found I was right. He gelled as a necessary afterthought to tame all that thick, unruly hair. It was wet and an attempt had been made, just not a very good one, which left it wet, messy, and hot. This meant it would dry messy and hot.

He was wearing another white tee but different jeans—more faded and there was a worn white patch that was nearly threadbare at his crotch.

My mouth got dry.

The doorbell rang.

Theresa was there.

My mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

Ben’s eyes came to me. “You’re good,” he said quietly.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled disbelievingly.

“You think I’d let anything harm you?”

Oh God. More dangerous territory.

A man, any man, said that to a woman, he dug his way in there, straight into your heart. A man who looked like Ben said it, that hole he was digging went deep. A man who looked like Ben said it and meant it, he got in so deep, he’d never get out.

“Ben—”

“You think she would, even before you took a hit?”

I didn’t reply.

“You’re good, cara,” he whispered, then moved to the door.

I hastily set my plate aside and took a sip of coffee.

After putting the mug back on the nightstand, I didn’t know what to do with my hands or eyes.

I didn’t figure it out before Benny appeared in the door again.

He came through and on his heels came Theresa.

Later, I would process the fact that Ben positioned himself in the room halfway between me and his mother. I would also process the fact that he did this as a show of support for both of us. He took no sides. What he was saying was, if this started to turn bad, he was in the position to deal, for either one of us.

It was a good thing for a son to do. It was a good thing for a woman’s man to do.

At that moment, though, I only had eyes for Theresa, who looked unsure of herself, and that look cut straight to the bone.

Theresa Bianchi had a husband, four children, three grandchildren, and ran the front of a very busy, very popular restaurant for forty years. She wasn’t unsure about anything. There was not an occasion when she didn’t know what to do.

Except one like this one.

She stopped three feet in the room and I watched as she struggled with how to place her body, what to do with her hands. She even visibly struggled with holding my gaze.

Watching it and unable to stand it, I blurted, “Thanks for the magazines.”

Her head twitched and her body got tight.

“And the coffeecake.” I threw out a hand to the nightstand.

Her eyes went there.

“There’s leftover,” I said, explaining the remaining cake quickly, “because Ben cut a slice for Refrigerator Perry, not a woman who’s been subsisting on IVs, then Jell-O, making her stomach the size of a golf ball.”

“You did all right with the pie last night, cara,” Benny put in, and I looked at him.

He was grinning, happy, relieved, and his eyes on me were proud.

He was a man who could easily take a girl’s breath away.

Standing there, looking at me like that, he’d never been more breathtaking.

“It was a Bianchi pie,” I returned and said no more for that said it all.

Ben’s grin got bigger.

Theresa made a noise and we both looked back to her.

She was fighting tears and I knew she’d win just because that was who she was, so I shut up and gave her time.

I was right. She won.

And when she did it, she lifted her chin slightly, took two more steps into the room, and declared, “That coffeecake was for sweet tooth snackin’. Not breakfast.” She looked to her son. “You didn’t make Frankie bacon and eggs?”

“She asked for coffeecake,” Benny replied.

“Tomorrow she gets bacon and eggs,” Theresa decreed.

“Tomorrow she gets what she got today, which is whatever the fuck she wants,” Benny shot back, and this was killing me because I liked his words, but more, I liked watching his banter with his mom.

I missed it and it hurt to have it back because I wasn’t going to be able to keep it.

Theresa crossed her arms on her chest and set her expression straight to severe.

“I am uncertain why you, your father, and your brother feel the need to include the f-word in every other sentence.”

At this point, Ben looked at me. “And there it is, tesorina—a woman askin’ a man ‘why’ when the answer doesn’t mean shit.”

I couldn’t hold it back.

I grinned at him.

The instant I did, I wished I’d held it back because his face changed in a way I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

“The s-word is not much better, Benito Bianchi,” his mother snapped, but Benny didn’t look from me.

Instead, he came at me, bent in, grabbed me behind my head, and pulled me gently to him until I felt his lips on my hair.

He let me back and I tipped my head to catch his eyes.

“I’ll get to the restaurant so I can be back quick,” he said quietly.

“All right,” I agreed.

He gave me a smile and his hand cupping the back of my head gave me a squeeze before he let me go, straightened, and strode to the door.

“Are we done talking?” his mother asked his back.

“Yep,” he answered his mother by way of the hall.

She turned an exasperated look to me.

I grinned at her too and, again, wished I’d held it back.

Because her face took on a look I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

“Later, Ma!” Benny yelled and, thankfully, the spell was broken.

“’Bye, Benny!” she shouted back, then looked at me. “Now, Frankie, is there anything I can get you before I call your doctor to make your checkup appointment?”

I shouldn’t have done it.

But I did it.

I looked into her eyes and, again, I smiled.

***

On his way home from the restaurant, Benny’s cell rang.

He leaned forward, pulled it out of his pocket, checked the screen, and took the call.

“Yo,” he greeted.

“She at your place?” Cal asked, and Benny shook his head at the windshield.

“Yep.”

“She spittin’ fire?” Cal went on.

“Occasionally.”

“Recuperating,” Cal guessed as to the reason it was only occasionally.

“Yep.”

“You’ll get it when she heals.”

He fucking hoped so. “Yep.”

“Vi wants a visit and the girls wanna meet her,” Cal told him.

Ben’s cousin’s woman had two daughters, Kate and Keira. Gorgeous. Sweet. Just like Violet. So Benny was not surprised by this request. He also wasn’t surprised by the fact that it wasn’t exactly voiced as a request. That was Cal.

“She just got through the reunion with Ma. Pop’s chompin’ at the bit. And she’s still got considerable pain, cugino. Doesn’t get ’round too good. Give us a few days.”

“You got until the weekend.”

At that, Benny grinned at the windshield.

Pure Cal.

“Just to say, man, it’s Friday so it is the weekend, or near on it.”

“I’ll rephrase. You got until Sunday.”

Suddenly, Benny wasn’t finding this amusing and he didn’t hesitate to get into why.

“You comin’ up to let your woman commune with Francesca, or are you comin’ up to make sure I’m not fuckin’ that shit up?”

“Two birds,” Cal replied.

Yes, he was no longer finding this amusing.

“Reminder, Cal, you let your life stay fucked for nearly two decades and it was only Vi pullin’ your head outta your ass that bought you what you got today.”

“Yeah, so, I learned. Now I’m makin’ sure a man who means somethin’ to me doesn’t waste as much time or more, and worse, lets the woman who should be in his bed waste her life waitin’ for him to pull his head outta his ass.”

Definitely not finding this amusing.

“I got this,” Benny said low.

“And I’m gonna give my woman time with the woman who kept her company during a serious-as-shit situation, let my girls meet the woman who kept their mother company and kept her alive, and rejoice in the fact that you got the other shit under control.”

Benny decided to shut this down. “We done talkin’?”

“Yep.”

“See you Sunday.”

Cal might have said something, but Benny didn’t hear it. He’d disconnected.

He parked in his garage and was walking up his back walk when he saw his mother come out the back door and down the stoop.

“Where you goin’?” he asked, his body tensing, hoping like fuck she wasn’t escaping because things went shit with Frankie.

“Frankie’s,” she answered, bustling to him, eyes to the massive handbag over her shoulder that she was digging into. She yanked out a sheet of paper and stopped just short of slamming into him, which was why he’d stopped one step earlier. She waved the sheet of paper at him. “I got a list. She needs to get back to normal, not be wanderin’ around in nightgowns. Gonna pick up some stuff.”

That he would allow. Frankie wandering around his house and lying on his bed in nightgowns was not conducive to him having patience through the delicate operation he was attempting. As was evidenced by his ludicrous overreaction to seeing her—all her hair, that body of hers, and her flawless skin—in his bed hours before.

“Right,” he said to his mother. “Her purse is in my truck.”

“Okay, caro,” she muttered, leaning up distractedly to kiss his cheek before she was bustling toward his garage.

“Ma,” he called. She stopped and turned back. “All good with you two?”

He watched her face get soft and she nodded.

Thank fuck. She wanted that and Frankie gave it to her.

That said a lot about Frankie. He couldn’t say he was in her shoes, he’d ever give that shit to anyone. They’d treated her like garbage, all of them, Benny especially, with Theresa not far behind. If it was him, he’d hold on to it until the day they died and then he’d spit on their grave.

It was good to know Frankie wasn’t going to put his folks through that. Fuck, it was just good to know she was the kind of woman who had that kind of forgiveness in her.

The tough stuff over, Benny got to the good stuff. “Cal and Vi are comin’ up on Sunday, bringin’ the girls.”

He watched then as his mother’s face lit with joy and Benny smiled at her.

After years of Cal’s distance that he took while he was nursing wounds most men would never recover from, having him back was good for his ma, his pop, him.

Having Frankie would be icing, a thick, rich layer of it.

But, hope to God, he succeeded in talking Frankie around to his way of thinking, Benny would be the one who’d get to eat it.

He watched his ma smile back.

The family all back together, healthy, happy, and growing with the addition of Vi and her girls. The only thing his mother ever wanted in her life she was going to get and Ben liked to see her get it.

“Good news,” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

Her smile got bigger. She waved and, again, started bustling away.

Benny moved to his house.

Frankie was not in the kitchen and he didn’t bother searching downstairs. He went upstairs and straight to his bedroom.

When he hit it, though, she wasn’t there. The bathroom door was open and he couldn’t see the whole of it, but he also couldn’t imagine her being in it for any purpose where she didn’t close the door.

He turned and looked down the hall, stopping when he saw the bathroom door open, as usual, one of the bedroom doors closed, as usual, and the other one open, not as usual.

He moved to the room he called his office, but it was just another room where he and members of his family dumped shit.

When he bought the house, it was four bedrooms. All the occupants of the bedrooms, when he filled them up one day, would need to share that hall bath.

This meant the only thing he changed was converting the smallest bedroom, which was the size of a big closet, to a master bath.

He’d liked doing it. It reminded him of working construction, something he also liked doing. Building things. Using his hands, his body, seeing something form from his work. He also liked working days, having nights off to go out and throw back a few, shoot the shit with the guys, watch a game, pick up a woman who had promise, see how that panned out.

Working in the kitchen at the restaurant was hot and it was a pain in the ass dealing with the kids who worked with him. Kids who were more worried if the girl they texted would text back in a way that meant they’d soon get laid than getting the pies out of the oven or not burning the meatballs.

He’d often catch himself in that kitchen and wonder what the fuck he was doing there, working his ass off, killer hours, all of them so busy half the time he was on autopilot to get it done.

Then he’d get a whiff of the sauce his pop taught him how to make, sauce his grandmother taught his father how to make (and so on), and it was fucking crazy, totally insane, but he’d know why he was there. Not only that, he’d know there was no other place for him.

That was where he was meant to be.

These thoughts came to him as he walked down the hall and stopped in the doorway of his office, seeing Frankie sitting in his pop’s huge, old desk chair with its cracked leather. She was staring at the computer on the desk that she’d turned on.

He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and noted, “Not connected to the Internet, babe, so can’t send your SOS that way.”

She jumped at his voice and he tensed when she did, thinking random, jerky movements like that in her state were not good.

But he didn’t see the pain tighten her mouth or her eyes wince. Her head just shot to him. She looked him up and down and ended with his eyes.

“Ben, black screen and green cursor?” she asked.

“Told you it was Carm’s old computer,” he reminded her.

“From when?” she returned. “The second grade?”

He grinned and crossed his arms on his chest, but he didn’t reply. He just stood there, liking watching Francesca Concetti and all her hair, wearing a robe, sitting in his father’s old chair, giving him lip.

When he didn’t speak, she did.

“Is there any reason to keep this?” she asked on a flip of her hand to the computer.

“Nope.”

“Do you use it?” she pushed.

“Nope.”

“Not to play Asteroids or Space Invader?” she kept at him.

He grinned at her sass but repeated, “Nope.”

“So why’re you keepin’ it?”

He had no clue, outside of the fact that he never went into that room so it didn’t matter if it was there or not.

“That’s another ‘why,’ Frankie.”

She ignored that and kept pushing, “Do you have another computer?”

“Nope,” he said again and watched her light brown eyes, with their fans of thick, curling lashes, get wide.

“You don’t?”

“Nope,” he said yet again.

“How do you get email?” she asked.

“Don’t have email.”

Her eyes got wider.

He’d thought a lot of things about Francesca in the past, too many of them wrong—back in the day, most of them wrong for different reasons—but none of them were that she was cute.

But she was sitting right there, all kinds of cute.

“You don’t have email?” she pressed, sounding slightly breathy with disbelief in a way that made him wonder what other ways he could make her sound like that.

“Don’t need it.”

“Even for work?”

“I make pizza, Frankie. Why would I need email to make pizza?”

She swiveled the chair to face him, which was not good. It wasn’t bad because he could see her fantastic, long-ass legs. It was just that he liked what he saw, but he couldn’t do shit about it, which he didn’t like.

“I don’t know,” she started, attitude leaking into her words, the good kind, the kind that was about hot and spicy and Frankie. “To take pizza orders?”

“Folks can come in and give their order.”

“They could also email it in or, say, phone it in.”

“Restaurant never had a number that was listed and we’ve done all right.”

She said nothing to that because she knew it to be true. There was a line every night, no exception, and usually the wait was at least an hour long.

As much as he enjoyed standing there, seeing her in his father’s chair, having a good view of her legs and that hair, it was time to shut it down.

And he spoke the words why.

“You good with sittin’ up, cara?” he asked quietly.

“I have to get used to it,” was her not great answer.

“You don’t have to do it today.”

“I’m okay,” she told him.

“Come to bed,” he replied and watched it move over her face. He couldn’t get a lock on what it was, but since he brought her home the day before, he’d seen a number of expressions move over her face he couldn’t get a lock on.

Some of them he sensed were good, like the one she just gave him.

The others he sensed were not good. So not good they were bad.

“Come on, baby,” he urged when she didn’t move.

She seemed to force herself out of whatever thoughts she was having and swiveled to the computer, saying, “I gotta turn this off.”

At that, Benny walked into the room, bent to the outlet, and yanked the computer plug out.

He straightened, looked at her, and said, “Now it’s off. Let’s go.”

Her mouth moved like she was fighting a smile before she pressed her hands into the arms of the chair and carefully folded out.

Ben didn’t like seeing her move like that. She was always a bundle of energy. Electric. Francesca Concetti saw no reason to walk up stairs when she could jog up them or, more frequently, skip. Frankie Concetti went to the gym. She did spin classes, Pilates, Zumba. Frankie Concetti didn’t cook; she cooked, swaying around the kitchen while she did it. Even sitting down or lazing around, she seemed charged. Mostly because you knew when she got up, it wouldn’t just be getting up. It would be bursting.

Not like she just got out of his father’s chair.

Seeing that energy shut down made him want to relive that day in the woods and do it over. In other words, not aim at Daniel Hart’s middle, where he shot Frankie and where Benny shot him. But instead, aim higher, like Cal did, and take the motherfucker’s head clean off.

He stopped thinking this when Frankie started moving. He moved after her, following her to his room. She went to his bed and climbed up on the covers.

He headed to the other side and angled in beside her.

She immediately started, “Ben—”

“Quiet,” he ordered, twisting and leaning across her, to which she pressed herself into the pillows to keep well away, a move that made him grin to himself.

He nabbed the remote, laid back, flicked on the TV, then multitasked, maneuvering through the guide as he shoved an arm under her and maneuvered her closer.

“Ben!” she snapped.

“You rest on your back and fall asleep, you’ll snore and I won’t be able to hear the TV. Tucked up to me, you don’t snore,” he told the TV as explanation to the protest he didn’t let her voice.

“Then I’ll rest on my side not tucked up to you and I won’t snore. But if I did, you wouldn’t hear me anyway because you’ll be downstairs watching TV.”

He ignored that, found there was nothing on they both might like, and hit the buttons to get to Netflix.

“Benny,” she prompted, putting minor pressure on his stomach to push away.

He looked down at her. “Quiet and settle.”

She gave him squinty eyes. “I’ll be quiet and settle when you aren’t in bed with me.”

“We gonna have this conversation every time I’m in bed with you? That is, until you come to terms with the fact I’m gonna be in bed with you a lot?”

Her eyes got squintier and she didn’t hesitate with her response. “No, since that day is never gonna happen and this day and the ones close to it, you’re gonna stop climbin’ into bed with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You do know I’m in this for the long haul.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he kept going. “And, just sayin’, I get a kick out of it. It makes my dick twitch in a way I like, squabblin’ with you, that attitude of yours. So, baby, you gotta know, I’m happy with you keepin’ on with that for as long as you like.”

That did it. She clamped her mouth shut.

He looked back at the TV and smiled.

Then he asked, “You seen The Expendables 2?”

She said nothing.

Back to the silent treatment.

He could work with that too, seeing as he hadn’t seen that movie, had been meaning to, and Francesca shutting her trap meant he could see to that. So he hit the button to fire up the movie.

He felt her attitude clog the air in the room as the movie started to roll and he kept feeling it until she fell asleep.

When she did, he curled her closer.

He did this because he liked her closer.

He also did it because, when he did, he could hear those sexy-as-fuck noises she made when she was sleeping a fuckuva lot better.

They didn’t come often.

But when they did, Benny liked every one.