“I don’t know,” I answer. “He bought me coffee. He made a fool of himself, if I’m honest. He’s nothing like what I thought a mafioso’s son would be like.”
Mr. Harlan studies me as if I’ve said something wrong. I hurry to correct my report, making it less about my own feelings for Frankie and more about the information I collected.
“He says that he’s studying for the bar exam,” I go on. “And he also said that he typically travels around to coffee shops and libraries in order to get his work done.”
“That’s good,” Mr. Harlan allows, “but did you get anything about his family’s businesses?”
“No,” I admit. “But I have a date with him.”
Harlan looks like I’ve just given him a winning lottery ticket. He claps me on the shoulder, and I feel a renewed sense of purpose. It’s not only me who cares what Frankie and his father are doing. I’ve finally managed to find someone else who wants to see them brought to justice, or at least write a piece about them. Mr. Harlan agrees that there are the makings of a story. I just have to prove how big the story actually is.
“Keep writing,” he says, standing up to let me get back to work.
I dive back into my notes with renewed enthusiasm.
CHAPTER 5
FRANKIE
It’s difficult to focus on my studies when all I’m thinking about is Sofia. Where has she been all my life? I try to remember ever having felt like this about a girl, but I can’t. Even Marlena, before she married my father, didn’t evoke this kind of response in me. I thought she was pretty, sure, but not like Sofia. Thank goodness my father can only get married once. He can’t steal Sofia from me the same way he stole Marlena.
I have to laugh at that thought. My father isn’t out there trying to steal all the women in my life. I’m over Marlena. I like her as a person, and while I don’t really think of her like my stepmother, she’s more like a sister. She’s someone I care about, but there aren’t any lingering romantic overtones. It’s better that way.
But Sofia…
I imagine running my fingers through her hair. I bet it’s soft as a feather and smells like strawberries too. Lost in recollection, I picture her eyes, her beautiful red lips, and her sweet button nose. I chuckle and shake my head, a shake. I’ve got it bad.
After unrolling the laptop cord, plugging it in and selecting the library’s free wi-fi, all I can do is stare at the screen. The annoying hypothetical question that I’m supposed to be working on seems like it’s written in Latin. I can’t understand it. All I can think about is her.
So, I close my laptop, unplug everything, and pack it away. I’m feeling incredibly unmotivated, so I decide to go to a bar for an early beer. I throw my things into the car and drive away, skipping the nearest place where my father’s employees hang out. All the way downtown, I go to one of the fancier restaurants. There, I assume no one will notice me, but that does not go entirely according to plan.
“Frankie!” someone shouts the moment I enter.
I turn around, and it’s Michael Smith, one of the businessmen on my father’s payroll. I can’t exactly remember what he does for the family. I think he launders money. Either way, I’m not interested in talking to him.
But I know I can’t be rude. My father’s business is built on reputation, and I’m part of the family. That means I always need to be thinking about what I say, what I do, and how I look. I was hoping to escape all that and just enjoy a beer in private, but Smith is on his way over. I’m trapped.
“Hey, Mike,” I respond.
“How’s school going?” he asks, pulling up a barstool next to me.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my answer short in the hope he will go away. “I graduated.”
“Congratulations,” he replies. “Let me buy you a beer.”
“I’m actually on my way out,” I lie.
“Nonsense,” he scoffs. “You just got here. At least have one drink with me.”
“All right,” I agree.
I let him buy me a beer, and we sit and talk about my father, mostly. Smith knows that I’m not really into all the things my father does. It’s also not the place to get into sensitive matters, so we keep it light.
“Remember that party at your father’s place about a year ago?” Smith asks.
“Yeah. That was for a test I took, or a grade I got, or something,” I recall.
“Your father must be through the roof now that you’ve graduated,” Smith insists.
