“What kind of business is your father in?” I ask innocently.
“It’s not that interesting,” Frankie assures me without answering the question.
He takes me on a tour through the house anyway, even though I declined the invitation. There’s a massive parlor with overstuffed leather chairs and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. There are flowers in vases deposited at regular intervals on pedestals and fancy wooden tables. I bet the maids, or whoever keeps the floors shining, has to replace them every few days.
“It’s very nice,” I say.
“This is the kitchen.” Frankie shows me a galley-sized kitchen, with beautiful marble countertops and a wine rack that takes up the entire back wall.
I can imagine a series of high-class parties taking place in this mansion. There might be women in tight black evening gowns hanging all over bankers in expensive suits. That has to be what line of work Frankie’s father is in. He handles other people’s money, and that makes him a fortune of his own. I try to tell myself this convenient lie to quell the uneasiness rising in my stomach. The man is a banker, not a mobster. I have to believe that.
“Why don’t you show me where we can get started on your coursework?” I suggest putting an end to the tour.
“Sure,” Frankie answers with a shrug. “We can go up to my study.”
“You have your own study?” I can’t mask my surprise. I know this house is big, but it never occurred to me that Frankie had his own suite.
“Upstairs,” he says, flashing a charming smile.
In another life, I might have been attracted to him. He definitely checks all the boxes: rich, good-looking, friendly. But I can’t shake the dread that’s nipping at my heels. There’s something wrong with this whole setup, and I know exactly what it is. Frankie’s father isn’t a banker. He’s involved in something illegal, and while I can’t even guess at the specifics, I know enough to be uneasy.
I follow my pupil up a winding staircase that looks like something out ofGone With the Wind. The stairs look clean enough to eat off of, and the banister shines so that it reflects the light from a massive crystal chandelier.
There’s nobody else in the house, or so it seems. Whoever is taking care of the place has got their act down pat. They must work night and day, but stay as invisible as possible. I wish I could corner one of the maids and maybe get some straight answers. But obviously, that isn’t going to happen.
At the top of the staircase, a massive hallway stretches out in two directions. Frankie takes me to the right, and we pass a bunch of solid walnut doors. I don’t know anything about how expensive wood is, but I can tell just by looking at the delicately carved frames I could eat for a year if I sold just one.
Frankie picks a door halfway down the hall and pushes it open. I notice there’s no lock from the outside, which is good. I’m deep in enemy territory, and the fewer locks between me and the exit, the better.
“Stop,” I whisper to myself. I’m freaking out without good reason. I don’t know that Frankie’s father is mobbed up. He could just be a titan of industry, maybe a CEO or a tech innovator. That’s probably it. I’m getting all worked up for nothing. I need to focus on my job and earn my rent money.
“What?” Frankie asks, turning on the lights.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
We’re not in a study. It’s more like a living room. There’s a couch, a television, and a mini fridge that’s probably stocked with beer. Two doors lead off in different directions, and Frankie picks the closest. When he opens that door, I see a more traditional office. A large mahogany desk sits in the center of the space, complete with a laptop and a printer. There is a floor lamp in one corner and another lamp on the desk. Instead of landscapes on the walls, there are movie posters. It feels like the den of a frat-boy/heir to daddy’s fortune, which I suppose is pretty accurate.
I take a seat opposite the desk, pulling up a fancy chair. Frankie walks back into the living room.
“Do you want a soda?” he calls out.
“Sure,” I agree.
He comes back with two sparkling waters instead of soda and sets one down in front of me. I give him a grateful smileand uncap mine. It tastes wonderful, the fizzy raspberry flavor washing away some of my anxiety.
“So, can I look at your books?” I ask.
“Books?” he parrots, looking at me as if he doesn’t understand the word.
“Yeah,” I insist. “Case law, course books. What are you working on?”
“Oh,” he says, sitting down and firing up his laptop. “We don’t have books. We all got a subscription to this online database and a course module.”
“Great,” I say.
“How old are you?” he asks.
I give him an incredulous stare. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman that.”
