I nod silently, trying to assimilate this new information. It feels strange finally knowing why my father was killed. All the heartache that came from running away, from changing my name and being forced to live as someone else, becomes secondary. The real trauma is the fact that my father was a professional killer. How could I have been so blind?
I think back to all the times I came home late at night. He never scolded me, never tried to ground me. He didn’t even seem to know I was missing most of the time, and now I know why. He’d probably been out on a mission while I was with my friends at the movies. While I laughed along with the audience and ate popcorn like every other teenage girl, he was out there killing people.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I say, rushing for the bathroom.
Francisco doesn’t follow me, not at first. I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and open the lid. My stomach revolts, the pain of my father’s crimes making me heave. I pull my hair back so I won’t get sick on it, and a moment later, I feel Francisco’s hand replacing mine. I don’t have time to express my gratitude before I throw up what little breakfast I had this morning.
After expelling the bagel and coffee, I feel worse, not better.
Francisco helps me to my feet and pours me a glass of water from the tap. I swish my mouth out and spit, feeling ridiculous. Only then does it occur to me that once again, I’m not dressed correctly. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, and I’m in a pair of jeans. I’ll have to stop underestimating the formality of his house if I’m going to stay there.
He pulls me back into the living room, and we sit down again.
His voice is patient when he speaks. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he says. “But if Andretti finds out who you are, I’m afraid he won’t just let you be.”
“Is that your way of saying I’ll wind up like my father?” I accuse.
“In not so many words,” he agrees. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s why I think it would be best for you to move in with me.”
I sigh, looking down at the floor. I wish there were another way out. I like Francisco, but I’m not sure I want to make this kind of commitment. Besides, I only just learned what my father did for a living, but Francisco hasn’t said anything about his own line of work. He’s not a hitman, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have guys who will do that kind of thing for him. I’m not a fool. You don’t get to be in Francisco’s position without breaking a few heads along the way.
“There’s something else,” Francisco says.
“What?” I sniff.
“You have family back in Italy,” he shares. “It looks like your grandfather was shunned from the family over some gambling debts.”
I laugh. It’s all too fantastical to be real. I don’t know anything about my father’s side of the family. My mother was a farmer from Missouri, and her parents were kind to me before they passed. Then after my mother died, all I had left was my dad. Brandon didn’t count because he was so young.
“I have a family?” I ask, unable to stop my voice from breaking.
“Yes, you do,” Francisco replies, touching my hair ever so gently. “They live in Italy, and I doubt they’ll hold your grandfather’s sins against you.”
I feel like I’ve been handed a consolation prize. All this heartache and the threat of a violent death fades away for the moment, and all I can think about are all the aunts and uncles and cousins I’ve never met.
“Our families are very close back in the old country,” Francisco continues. “My family, the Corellos, and your family, the Roccas, have a long history of cooperation.”
“Thank God for that,” I exclaim. At least I don’t have to worry about Francisco turning against me based on some ancient feud.
“When Frankie was little, I arranged a marriage that was supposed to bring our two families together,” Francisco says.
I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I don’t like the way the conversation is going. Why would he bring up arranged marriages?
“Unfortunately, the little girl died in a car accident when she was twelve. So the marriage couldn’t happen,” Francisco continues.
“I’m not going to marry Frankie,” I tell him. I feel like this is out of the blue, and I’m not sure if I’m reading the subtext correctly. I just want to make it clear that I have no intentions toward his son.
“Not Frankie,” Francisco replies, touching my hair again. “Me.”
My heart stops. I’m so confused. I feel like I’m looking at a jigsaw puzzle that’s only half assembled. On the outskirts of the picture are all the missing pieces, bits of information that are vital to the whole. But I think I’ve just witnessed a proposal.
“Are you asking me to marry you?” I whisper, shocked and flattered more than anything else.
“Yes,” he confirms. “For business purposes.”
“For business purposes?” I repeat, watching the romance between us deflate.
“Yes,” he continues uncomfortably. “If we were married, it would provide extra protection for you, and it would serve to unite two powerful families back in Italy.”
