And so did the questions. The odd normality of my situation stretched on until night came over the city and Frankie stood up to turn on the lights, illuminating the office space. He cleared away the Chinese and resumed his seat across from me.
If we hadn’t been there in the afternoon for a gunfight, it might look as if we were a couple working from home together. Two people who were so in love they wanted to be near one another. It was even looking that way to me and I was completely aware that the only reason I had a seat in Frankie’s office was because he’d kidnapped me. I should be at home in Chicago finishing my paper on my computer while also analyzing college football stats.
I had so many questions and no one to answer them. Why wasn’t my cousin breaking down the door to get me? Why had no police come to take Frankie away in handcuffs for shooting a loaded weapon? Was the bazooka hidden underneath the couch again?
And who the hell was Frankie Zanetti? How did he go from gunfights to watching funny cat videos in a few hours? Was he a feared crime boss or a mild-mannered businessman?
The unknowns gave me a headache. My hands rested on top of my keyboard, and I yawned.
Frankie flipped his watch to check the time. “It’s been a long day. Let’s hit the sack.”
I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs of my brain and listen to his words. They were so normal yet so weird.
Rather than respond with a snotty comment or argue with him, I let Frankie lead me upstairs. He stopped in front of the door I used as a bedroom, and we stared at the one another, not speaking. I expected Frankie to turn and walk away, but he lingered in my space. The hallway grew warm either from the last few days of heat or my body’s reaction to his nearness.
We were way too close. His cologne had a sweet scent, and I leaned in to get a better smell. Even more questions flooded my system.
What he going to kiss me? Would I let him?
One of Frankie’s hands rested against the doorjamb, and one finger skated out. I froze, waiting to see what he would do as he dragged the digit over the curve of my jaw.
“Good night, Cara Mia,” he said and then left me alone in the hallway as he sauntered to his bedroom.
I waited, giving him time to change his mind, but eventually gave in and closed the door to my room. How did I plan to sleep knowing he was a few feet away?
Apparently well. I expected to lie in bed with the questions floating through my brain demanding answers that I still didn’t have. The hours would pass with me growing more frustrated, but that wasn’t what happened at all. I barely hit the pillow before I passed out, sleeping, until noises from the first floor of the house woke me.
Warm water from the most glorious shower I’d ever experienced woke me up more. Frankie’s guest room shower was made of marble and tile with little stones embedded into the bottom. If the extra bathroom was this glorious, I couldn’t imagine what his master bath looked like.
A knock against the wall sounded as if it came from the far door of my bedroom as Maria’s voice shouted, “Breakfast.”
“Be right there,” I yelled back to the wall, turning off the shower’s flow and stepping out into the cool room. I toweled off quickly and dressed in an outfit from the full closet. Frankie didn’t stop by my house to let me pack a bag after he kidnapped me, and he never asked my clothing size, yet somehow every day more items of clothing appeared in the closet attached my room. Honestly, on my list of questions, it ranked fairly low, so I chose not to worry about it.
Things were inching crazier every day, and I had to focus on the really important stuff.
I spent my time working in Chicago with Westley wearing jeans and a shirt, and in my classroom time I wore business casual. But most of the items in Frankie’s closet were dresses or slick pairs of black pants. He apparently had a preference.
Not wanting to waste time for fear the man himself might come looking for me, I quickly put on a light red dress with tiny shoulder straps and covered my arms with a white, loosely crocheted cardigan hung in the closet next to it. I came out looking like a not-so-innocent version of Little Red Riding Hood—a too sweet looking dress for a woman who walked in the home of a mobster.
I hastily made my way downstairs, trying to use as light of footsteps as possible to not make any noise, but Frankie turned in my direction when I wandered into the dining room.
I stopped at the threshold, letting my brain take in the scene before me. I shook my head to make sure I was awake and then stared a little longer.
Maria may have called me for breakfast, but she apparently was not the one cooking it. Frankie waited for me in the dining room but not at a seat at the table. Instead, he was bent over the large, dark wood buffet that took up one side of the room. I couldn’t see what was in front of him, but the sizzling in that direction and the side glimpse I caught of Frankie pouring pancake mix onto a flat griddle gave me clues. With his free hand, he used the spatula to flip the cake, and when he finished, he placed them on a platter that was already three inches tall with the breakfast goodness.
“Are you sure you run the local edition of the mob?” I asked Frankie, taking a seat at the table at the far end away from him.
That morning, I decided it was best to keep my distance from a man I couldn’t understand. Eventually, I’d make it back to Chicago, and I’d have to rationalize what I did with Frankie in his home.
Frankie turned to look at me for a second before returning to his task. “I never said I run the mob. Whatever gave you that impression?”
I chuckled once and watched as he worked. Frankie flicked pancakes like he’d been doing it his entire life. The way he handled the breakfast food shocked me. I checked his person with my gaze, scanning the best I could and watching as he moved to see if his black pinstriped ensemble gave away any hint of a weapon, but I found none. Not only was Frankie making pancakes in his dining room, but he was doing it unarmed.
Westley never looked innocent, and he always carried regardless of where he was. He always had a gleam in his eye as though he knew how to take all your money or kill you. The people of Chicago feared the Grandmaster and his presence confirmed he knew it.
Frankie was the complete opposite. From the talk in the bakery and the way he handled the police, he was a silent force to be reckoned with, but he walked around without such an arrogance in his step.
No, Frankie was possibly more dangerous because he did it with a smile. The man I considered a ruthless killer, even if I had no evidence of his guilt, set a plate of pancakes three high in front of me before sitting in the seat across the table rather than at the head like I expected. He placed a bottle of syrup between us and I wasted no time dousing my fluffy pancakes in it and cutting into them rather than making conversation.
