Chapter 25 Frankie
FRANKIE
If someone had told me a few months ago that I’d fall into a routine with three mafia guys—who I now thought of, maybe delusionally, as my three mafia guys—I would’ve scoffed and asked them for the title of the romance book they were reading.
But somehow, after Paris and the whirlwind of Jonathan’s father’s heart attack, life had settled into something almost normal.
Normal looked completely different than it had before that auction, though. Even different from before the Paris trip.
Now, every morning, Devin drove me to the library in one of the sleek black cars the guys rotated through like they were picking outfits.
He’d pull up to the curb and give me that soft, knowing smile of his, and I’d pretend not to see the second car idling down the block or the guy in sunglasses reading the same newspaper every day.
Security. Layers of it. Invisible unless you knew where to look.
I wasn’t an idiot, so of course, I did know. And honestly? I appreciated it.
They wanted to give me freedom. They also wanted me alive, and safe, and with them.
And I could tell the three of them—Jonathan in particular—were frustrated that “freedom” currently just meant “work at the library and come straight home.” They’d loved seeing me in Paris, letting me have my adventure.
But after the threat, after everything with Anthony Butera…I understood.
Still, I missed getting to see the most protective of my three mafia daddies like crazy.
Jonathan had barely been home since Paris. Hospital visits whenever he could, all-hours meetings that made Devin’s shoulders tense and Alex’s jaw clench.
Everyone whispered about Anthony Butera like he had already died, even though he was technically still alive. Barely.
I thought about Jonathan constantly. What he was carrying. What he wasn’t saying.
And, stupidly, I thought about the fact that his father might die without ever knowing who I was.
Not that Anthony would like me. Or approve. Or even look at me for more than two seconds without moving on to bigger, better mafia business.
But there was something inside me—something small and hopeful—that wanted Jonathan’s family to see me.
All of them.
The guys spent so much time together, so much shared history woven between them, that it sometimes hit me how little of my family they really knew. I had no relationship with my father, so that introduction was out. But my mom?
I wanted them to meet her. Eventually.
When my break rolled around, I slipped into the tiny library office and gave my mom a call, hoping she’d have service wherever her cruise ship was docked.
The ocean breeze was practically audible through the phone. Lois Taylor sounded radiant. Relaxed. I hadn’t heard her this happy in years.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s wonderful. They have lifts on the pool, and I’ve met the nicest group of younger wheelchair users. They’re all very fun.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And you know what? They’re polyamorous. Isn’t that exciting?”
I almost dropped my phone. “Mom!”
“What?” She laughed. “It’s interesting! They’re all in their thirties. Very progressive. I told them they made me feel like the world is expanding faster than I can keep up.”
I pressed my forehead to my hand, smiling despite myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m old, Frankie, not dead.”
“You’re not even that old,” I protested.
Another chuckle. “Honestly, I’m glad younger people feel comfortable exploring things like that now. Much healthier than pretending monogamy is the only path for every person on earth.”
That brave little spark inside me flared up.
“Actually…” I twisted the hem of my cardigan between my fingers. “I kind of meant to tell you something.”
“Oh?” Her tone shifted instantly—gentle, open, ready to catch me.
“So I told you that I was seeing someone, but that wasn’t exactly the full truth.” The words stumbled out, but I forced myself to keep going. “Or it was all true, except…there are three someones.”
Silence.
Then—
“Well,” she said carefully, “good for you.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Frankie, sweetheart, you are young, beautiful, smart, and compassionate. If three men, or women, want to cherish you, and you want to cherish them back…why should I object?”
A laugh burst out of me—half relief, half disbelieving joy. “Okay, um. Do you want their names?”
“I would love their names.”
So I told her.
Devin first, because he was the easiest to talk about—charming, attentive, emotionally intuitive in a way few men ever were. Mom hummed approvingly when I described how he always made me laugh, the way he never let me feel silly for being scared.
Then Alex—my dark, quiet, unsmiling Alex with his razor-sharp mind and protective instincts that could smother you if you didn’t understand them. Mom listened, fascinated, and only said, “He sounds like someone who never got to be soft but wants to learn.”
And finally…Jonathan.
I felt my face heat just saying his name. “He’s…complicated,” I admitted. “Strong. And so responsible it hurts him, I think.”
I told her how steady he made me feel. How safe. How intense. How his touch lingered on me in ways that weren’t always physical.
Mom hummed again. “You sound like you care very deeply for them.”
“I do,” I whispered. “I really do.”
Something clicked inside me as I said it out loud. A certainty I hadn’t let myself name yet. I wanted them. Not just right now. Not just because they protected me. But long-term. Real. Messy. Lasting.
Before I could say any of that, though, my phone buzzed.
A notification.
A bright pink one from my period app, asking me to log the symptoms of a period that should be nearly over. A period that was days late after I’d been clockwork regular for my entire menstruating life.
My heart basically stopped, and so did time.
“Frankie?” Mom asked. “Are you still there?”
“Uh—yeah,” I said, voice cracking. “Sorry, Mom, I—uh—I have to go. Work stuff. I’ll call later, okay? I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart—”
I hung up before she could finish.
A sharp, dizzy panic spiraled through my chest. My hands were suddenly clammy. My breath too shallow. I counted, recounted, checked my calendar app obsessively.
I was at least four days late.
The birth control pills were still in my purse. Half-used. I’d been so distracted—Paris, the threat, the hospital, sleeping at the guys’ house, the sex—
Oh god.
Darla had warned me. Practically begged me to set alarms. I’d ignored her.
My vision tunneled slightly.
Pregnant. I could be pregnant. Oh shit. And with whose baby? My brain was spinning too fast to process it.
I stood up on shaky legs and locked the office door, taking deep breaths.
First, I needed to finish my shift. Then, I needed a pregnancy test.