FRANKIE
Iwalk back to my car in a daze. All kinds of emotions are roiling within me, and I don’t have the energy to sort them out. My mind immediately reaches for traditional comforts. I want a great big bowl of pasta, a six-pack of beer, and my bed. I’m feeling so depressed, I can barely drive home.
Halfway there, I consider pulling off and going to a bar. But my foot remains on the pedal, and my sights are set for home. It may be my father’s fortress, but it’s the only place I don’t have to pretend. Out in the real world, I’m supposed to represent my father’s interests. Back at the mansion, all I have to do is be myself.
I drive through the gate without waving at the guard. He doesn’t take it personally. We’re not a bunch of housewives here who get catty about every social faux pas. I’m sure he assumes I’ve had a bad day, which is true.
I crawl up the driveway. Now that I’m home, there doesn’t seem to be any urgency. I park in the garage and sit in the driver’s seat, staring at my phone.
Should I call her? Maybe I can claim that I’m just worried about how she’s doing. But that seems like it would be intrusive. She was clear about wanting to be left on her own. And our relationship isn’t exactly on solid ground.
Hauling myself out of the vehicle, I trudge inside. I go straight for the refrigerator where I grab one of Uncle Gio’s craft beers. I’m too depressed for the regular American swill. I didn’t see Gio’s car in the garage or in the driveway, which means he’s out there working. I don’t know when he’s going to come home, and I’m not going to wait for him. It isn’t happy hour yet, but I don’t care. I pry the cap off and drain half the bottle. The wash of liquid tastes good, and it momentarily distracts me from my problems.
Now I face my next challenge. Do I go upstairs and have a pity party for myself alone? Or do I stay downstairs where my sorrows could be interrupted by any one of my father’s guards? I opt to stay downstairs, thinking that Marlena will wander by and I can take advantage of her compassion.
I flop down on the couch in the living room and put on a game. I don’t even care which one. I simply switch the TV on and watch whatever channel is already preprogrammed. It’s golf. I don’t even like playing golf, much less watching it, but it seems like too much work to change the channel.
It’s not Marlena who finds me there, but my father. He comes wandering out of his office to take a break. Once he catches a glimpse of me on the couch he knows something is up. I never just sit idle during the day. Either I’m out with one of the people I’m supposed to be shadowing, or holed up in my room studying.
“Hey, Champ,” he says as he sits down next to me.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t call me Champ.”
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I answer with a sigh.
“Don’t give me that line.” Dad scowls. “If you’re going to be moping in the living room, at least clue me in on what you’re moping about.”
“I’m not moping!” I shout, feeling like a teenager again.
Dad puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe I can approach this in a unique way. How was your day?”
“It was fine,” I grumble.
“Is there anything you would like to talk about?” he wonders.
“Yes, actually,” I decide. My father deserves to know about Andretti. He’s a threat to my entire family, not just to Sofia. The letter he sent proves that he’s in the area, and now I know that he’s running the newspaper from behind the scenes. “We discovered some information that I think you should know.”
“What is it?” he asks, suddenly serious.
I’m about to fill him in on all the details when my phone rings. I look down and see that it’s Sofia. My heart leaps, thinking that she’s reconsidered her position. Maybe she wants me to come back over so we can talk about where things are between us. I hold up a finger to pause my conversation and swipe the phone to answer the call.
“Sofia?” I ask.
Dad frowns. He’s not up to speed and so he thinks that she is still the enemy. He’s clearly wondering why I’m not giving herthe third degree. But when Sofia speaks, the terror in her voice drowns out everything else around me.
“Frankie!” she screams.
“Sofia?” I shout, rising to my feet.
“Help me!” she pleads.
There is the sound of a scuffle. Something glass or ceramic shatters in the background. Suddenly a new voice takes over, and it’s male. I don’t at once recognize it, but I’m pumped full of adrenaline now. All I can tell is that the speaker is Italian and is serious.
“Is this Frankie Corello?” the man says.
“Yes,” I confirm.
