Chapter 13
Frances
When Stella Romano said that her sister needed a girl’s day out, I had no idea what I was signing up for.
We started our Saturday morning with a trip to a spa, where I was massaged, plucked, and waxed in places that had no business being revealed to anyone—especially Lucky’s sisters. Stella never struck me as the spa-day type of girl, but I guess looking like a supermodel takes upkeep.
Like me, Annamaria didn’t seem particularly into it either, however something told me that saying ‘no’ to her big sister wasn’t in her vocabulary.
After a visit to the salon to get our nails and hair done, Stella advised that the next thing on our to do list was to grab a light lunch for which I was thankful for, since my stomach was in too many knots to eat for enjoyment.
Then, to top the day off, Stella made a few calls and managed to close down one of the fanciest boutiques in the city for what she called retail therapy.
No matter how many times I reminded her that I couldn’t afford anything in that store, she brushed me off and insisted it was on her as a thank-you for coming to Annamaria’s rescue the day before.
Apparently, saying no to Stella wasn’t in my vocabulary either.
So now here I am, hiding behind a rack of clothes that wouldn’t fit my frame in a million years, with a basic scarf in my hands, hoping the purchase is enough to appease the eldest Romano.
“Are you having fun?” Annamaria asks softly, stepping up beside me.
I glance at Stella across the boutique, then shake my head.
“Yeah, me either,” Anna says, exhaling dramatically. “I know Stella means well, but this,” she says, gesturing at the racks of designer clothes, “isn’t me.”
“I figured,” I smile. “Didn’t seem like your sister’s thing either, to be honest.”
“It’s not,” she admits with a small frown. “But doing what Stella really enjoys to blow off steam isn’t exactly my thing, either.”
“What does she like to do?”
Anna hesitates, clearly unsure how honest she should be with me. But she must find me trustworthy because ends up telling me that Stella likes her daggers.
“Daggers?” I raise an eyebrow. “Like… actual knives?”
“Pretty much,” she shrugs. “She’d rather be throwing them at moving targets than stuck here buying clothes. But she knows I hate violence, so she thought this might cheer me up.”
“Even though you don’t like shopping either.”
“Nope. But at least she’s trying,” Anna says with a soft smile. “Stella always tries to make me happy.”
“But you’re not happy, are you?” She meets my gaze, her eyes sincere, and slowly shakes her head. “Is it because of what happened yesterday?”
“Partly,” she says, chewing her lip. “But mostly… it’s because I don’t really fit in. Not here. Not anywhere.”
I stare at her, contemplating her angel face and a heart made of gold. If she doesn’t feel like she belongs, then where does that leave someone like me?
“Hey! What do you think of this one?” Stella suddenly appears, holding up a delicate baby-blue summer dress.
“It’s… nice,” Anna replies.
“‘Nice’?” Stella repeats with distaste, eyes narrowing at the dress. She tosses it back onto the rack. “Nice won’t cut it. I’ll find something better.”
“Stella, I told you, I don’t need any more clothes.”
“This isn’t about need, it’s about want. ”
“Then I don’t want any more clothes.” Stella sighs.
“Then what do you want?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Fine, fine, fine. God, I’m so sick of that word. You’ve been saying it nonstop for the last twenty-four hours.”
“And yet, you don’t believe me.”
“Nope,” Stella pops the ‘p.’ “Because I know you, Anna. You’re blaming yourself for what happened, and I just want you to forget about those assholes and move on.”
“I’m not thinking about them,” Anna insists, and for what it’s worth, I believe her. Lying doesn’t seem to be in her nature.
Stella studies her for a long beat, then finally relaxes her shoulders.
“Good. Because assholes like that don’t deserve another second of your time.”
Anna presses her lips into a thin line and busies herself, looking at clothes she clearly has no intention of buying.
Not one to let a silence linger, Stella places a hand on her sister’s shoulder and gently turns her toward her.
“It wasn’t your fault if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Anna frowns. “You don’t know that.”
“I do. Nothing you could’ve said or done justifies their behavior. This is on them. Not you.”
“Then how come I feel like I should’ve known better then to let myself be cornered like that?”
Stella’s expression darkens at her sister’s words.
“Because that’s what society drills into us from the start. That women are either one of two things—victims or villains. We don’t get to be anything else. We don’t get to be heroes.”
“How do you mean?” I ask, curious where this is going.
“I mean that life is rigged for us from the jump. Take a man, for example. He can be the hero of his own story. But us?” She gestures between Anna, me, and herself. “We’re only allowed those two roles. And people treat us based on what they think we are. Those assholes saw Anna as a victim. That’s why they went after her.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” I say, trying to defend the youngest Romano. “Even if Anna had been a villain to them, as you put it, those boys would have still done what they did because it was in their nature.”
“Maybe,” Stella agrees. “But if they had, society would’ve said she deserved it. See? That’s the difference. When you’re a villain in their eyes, they think whatever happens to you is justified. So either way, you lose.”
“Then what about Frankie? She rescued me. Shouldn’t that make her the hero?” Anna asks, still not sold on her sister’s way of thinking.
“Ask her,” Stella says, turning to face me, her gaze serious. “Frankie, do you see yourself as a hero? When you think about your life… is that the word that comes to mind?” My heart sinks. I shake my head. “Let me guess,” Stella says gently. “You see yourself as the victim in your own story?”
“Stella, stop.” Anna tries to intervene. “Don’t be cruel.”
“I’m not, Anna,” Stella says, voice low but firm. “I’m just saying it like it is. In this godforsaken world, women are only allowed to play those two roles. You’re either a victim or a villain,” she repeats the words like their gospel to her. “And if that’s the case, then the choice should be an easy one for us to make. Be the villain, Anna. Always be the fucking villain.” Her eyes blaze as she continues. “Don’t let anyone make you feel like those boys made you feel yesterday—vulnerable, weak, scared. Fuck that. Own your life. Be the main character but do it with your head held high and your fists clenched. Screw their labels. Screw the roles and fucking boxes they try to force us into. Be the fucking villain, Anna. Always.”
We both just stare at her, silently absorbing her words. Because, as harsh as they sound, there’s some undeniable truth in them.
All my life, I’ve felt like the victim in my own story. Abandoned by my parents before I could form a memory of them. No real family to speak of. Bullied at school and too scared to fight back. Even when I did stand up for myself—like with Lucky—I was recast from victim to villain. Nobody praised me for defending myself. I was just the troublemaker now. The problem.
Stella exhales hard as if trying to shake off the heavy tension she created and salvage what’s left of the afternoon.
“Okay. So, retail therapy was a bust,” she admits, eyeing the racks. “I know my sister’s not in the mood to shop, but what about you? Why aren’t you picking anything out?”
I shrug. “None of these clothes fit me, so why bother?”
Stella raises an eyebrow. “They don’t, huh?”
She then steps back and gives me a once-over, assessing me like she’s scanning my measurements in her head. Then she starts pulling items off the rack and raising them high for me to look at.
“What about this one?” She holds up a red blouse.
“It’s cute, but—”
“And this?” She shows me a leather jacket before I can finish.
“Sure, but—”
“Ooh, Frankie would look so good in these,” Anna chimes in, handing Stella a pair of flared black jeans.
Before I know it, the two of them are grabbing pieces left and right—tops, skirts, shoes, accessories—like they’re building me a whole new wardrobe. I just stand there, feeling awkward and increasingly confused.
Did they not hear me when I said the clothes here wouldn’t fit me? Do they think I’ll magically shrink into a size zero overnight somehow?
I trail behind them as they gather more items until Stella finally flags down a sales clerk.
“How can I help you today, Miss Romano?” the woman asks, her eyes practically glowing with dollar signs.
“I’d like to purchase all of these,” Stella says.
“Wonderful,” the clerk beams. “Let me ring them up—”
“In sizes fourteen, sixteen, and eighteen,” Stella finishes.
The clerk practically freezes in place, her smile faltering. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Romano. Our store only carries sizes up to eight.” The clerk then glances over at me like I’ve just shattered her commission dreams.
“That sounds like a you problem,” Stella replies coolly. “If you want my business—or my family’s—you’ll figure it out.”
The clerk looks from Stella to me, then to Anna. Three pairs of eyes. One silent threat.
“I’ll… go speak with my manager,” she mumbles before scurrying off to make a call.
“Stella—” I start to say, but she holds up a hand to silence me, her gaze still locked on the counter like a predator tracking prey.
“I’m proving a point.”
That the fashion industry only cater to the thin and rich? Yeah, I already know that. I don’t need it to be carved into stone for emphasis.
I glance at Annamaria, hoping she’ll talk some sense into her sister, but she’s watching Stella with a kind of quiet admiration. There’s even a small, proud smile playing at the corner of her lips.
When the clerk finally returns to us, her face is red, her tone flustered. “Terribly sorry for the wait, Miss Romano. I’ve spoken to the owner, and we’d be happy to custom-order the items in your requested sizes. Would you like them delivered to your home?”
Stella doesn’t even blink. “Send everything to Miss Frances O’Malley at St. Mary’s Orphanage. You can Google the address.”
“We’ll have them delivered by the end of next week.” The clerk nods.
Stella hands her a sleek black card, but the clerk holds up her hand, shaking her head.
“No need, Miss Romano. Consider it a gift for our oversight in not offering inclusive sizing. An error we plan to correct moving forward.”
“Glad to hear it,” Stella replies, finally offering the clerk the privileged of her smile.
“If that’s the case,” Anna steps in, her voice sweet but firm. The orphanage would be grateful for any donations. Perhaps any items that are no longer for sale? Out-of-season stock? My family would greatly appreciate it if your store could pass those along to the orphanage, too.”
The clerk blanches for a second, but then nods. “Of course. I’ll check with the owner, but I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“In every size?” Anna presses, still smiling.
“Of course,” the woman answers, looking absolutely defeated, the dollar signs that used to be in her eyes long gone now.
As she retreats to the counter, Stella leans toward Anna and whispers something just loud enough for me to hear, “See? Always be the villain. That’s how you get shit done.”
The rest of the weekend passes uneventfully.
At least, it feels that way after being immersed in the chaotic whirlwind that is the Romano clan.
Between Lucky’s unexpected offer of friendship and Stella’s blunt-as-hell, jaded words of wisdom about life, and the role we women are expected to play in it, my mind is a tangled mess.
But one thing has been gnawing at me all weekend and that’s Annamaria.
When she said she didn’t feel like she fit in, it struck a deep chord inside me. Not only that, but I saw how her altruistic view of the world warped slightly after what happened to her. Add that traumatic experience, and her sister urging her to sharpen her edges and embrace being the villain in other people’s stories, and it’s no wonder she’s struggling to recognize herself.
I want to prove to her—and maybe to myself, too—that we don’t have to accept the roles society tries to force on us. That we can be the heroes of our own stories.
That’s why I show up early to Monday morning mass at the school chapel. I want to see every boy in the freshman pew, until I find the culprits that tried to assault someone as kindhearted as Annamaria. And then when Mass is over, I want to walk them straight to Mother Superior and tell her exactly what they tried to do to her.
I know that Annamaria didn’t want to report the incident since, for some unexplained reason, she didn’t want to get her parents involved, but those boys need to learn that harassing women has consequences. I have no doubt that Mother Superior will expel the boys on the spot once I tell her what happened. The school might think that Sister Margaretta is harsh, but I know she stands for justice. She’ll expel them without batting an eye. I’m sure of it. Knowing her, she might even get the authorities involved.
Annamaria won’t like that one bit, since it will end up drawing attention to her, but hopefully, she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me.
After Sister Margaretta is done with them, they’ll think twice before attempting to do something of that nature again. Or at least I hope they will. If not, then at least I’ll sleep better at night knowing that they can’t hurt Anna again, nor will she be reminded of the traumatic event every time she sees their faces in the halls and class at Sacred Heart.
Hopefully the ordeal will teach her that we need to be the heroes in our own lives.
And if we can’t be that for ourselves, then we have to be that for our sisters.
But as the pews in the chapel fill up, I don’t see the two boys anywhere.
Cowards.
They probably skipped school today, hoping Anna and I would just let the whole thing go.
Fat chance of that happening.
They’ll have to come to school sooner or later, and when they do, they won’t walk away from what they’ve done scot-free.
As Father Torres steps up to the pulpit, everyone in the chapel falls into silence, waiting for him to begin mass.
“Good morning, students. I’m afraid I must begin today’s mass on a somber note. Two of our freshmen, Alec Parkinson and Tim Gavin, passed away in a freak car accident Saturday night. Their funeral will be held at St. Mary’s Cathedral the day after tomorrow. It is with a heavy heart that I share the news of your classmates’ passing. If any of you are in need of spiritual counsel, please don’t hesitate to see me after the service. It is a tragic day when lives so young are lost, but I urge you all to lean on one another as we navigate this grief together.”
My blood runs cold at Father Torres’s words, while around me, the chapel erupts into shocked whispers, the weight of the news sinking in.
But as I scan the room, I spot three faces that show no surprise at all by the upsetting news.
Annamaria.
Enzo.
Lucky.
Not even a flinch.
Those assholes will never bother my sister—or any girl—again.
Those were Lucky’s exact words to me last Friday night.
No…Could it be?
Could the boys who died in that crash be the same ones who cornered Annamaria?
And if so, is it just a tragic coincidence? Or something else?
Karma… or the Romanos?
I don’t know what unsettles me more. The thought that Lucky’s family might be behind the boys’ untimely deaths or the fact that I don’t feel the slightest bit sorry for them.
And if the answer is the latter, then what does that say about me?