Chapter 22
FRANKIE
Dante comes down the stairs and finds me sulking in the living room, sipping tea and binge-watching The Queen’s Gambit again. I know what he wants, but he’s not going to get it.
“Dinner’s ready,” he says dispassionately. “We’re already late.”
“I’m going to skip tonight,” I tell him, keeping my eyes glued to the screen.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Tell that to my stomach,” I snap. “I don’t feel like throwing up roast beef and baby reds, thanks.”
I take the opportunity to slurp my tea loudly, but he doesn’t budge from the doorway.
“I thought you’d been feeling better,” he says.
Side-eyeing him, I say, “It’s hit or miss. Some days are better than others.”
That’s not completely an untruth. His posture seems to relax a little.
“I can have some broth and crackers brought to the table for you,” he suggests. “You should at least eat something.”
“No. I’m going to lie down.”
With that, I click off the TV and walk past him to the stairs. On my way up, I see him turn into the dining room without another word. Just as well.
In our room, I pack a small bag and then write a note to leave on the desk for Dante. It says I’m going out for a little while and that I’ll be FINE. I also promise to be back before midnight. He’ll be pissed, I’m certain, but hopefully he won’t worry too much.
I kill some time on social media, scrolling mindlessly until I’m confident that dinner has been fully served—and that my husband and his brothers are occupied with their meals—before quietly sneaking out of the house.
I navigate easily to the never-used tennis court, guided by the soft lighting scattered around the property.
Charlie is waiting with one of the vineyard’s UTVs on the other side of the chain-link fence.
She gives a hushed squeal when she spies me coming.
“Hop in. Let’s go.”
I slip into the seat beside my sister, buckling up. “Where exactly are we going?”
“On a grand trip…to our old house. Which, before you protest, very squarely lies within the bounds of the newly expanded winery borders now, and therefore meets your demands.”
She raises a brow at me.
“Or we can just hang out at the guesthouse—your call,” she adds. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or get you in trouble with the himbo.”
Taking a second, I mull it over. The house is technically Bellanti property, but the lines are a bit sketchy.
I don’t know if the guards patrol that far, or if there’s any protective oversight.
And I should probably let someone know where I’m going—Donovan, at least—but I feel the spirit of rebellion welling up inside me.
Fuck it. I’m going to be impulsive.
Besides, if this is rebellion, it’s got to be the mildest, lamest rebellion ever.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
Charlie lets out a whoop of delight and we take off into the night, at a safe speed but one that has my stomach fluttering with excitement nonetheless.
My sister drives us down a hill and then rounds the property toward our childhood home. A few minutes later, she parks the UTV in our old driveway and we hop out. The house is dark and silent. Suddenly, I’m struck with apprehension.
“You don’t think Dad’s here, right?” I ask.
“I know for a fact he’s not.” She digs around in her pocket and then jangles a key in my face. “Front door key. Thank goodness it still worked.”
“Wait, you’ve already been inside?”
She loops her arm through mine. “Oh, yeah. You’ll see.”
We step inside, and I see battery-powered candles lighting our way through the house. Sneaky of my sister to use the soft flickers for illumination instead of turning on the lights, which might attract attention from my husband or the security team.
Inside the master bedroom and bathroom, Charlie has set up a full-on spa experience for us.
Fancy scented Diptyque candles, soft music, face and hair masks, and two baskets full of body products, nail polish, and skin creams. A mini buffet of chocolates, sugared fruit, artisanal cheese and crackers, and other assorted goodies is spread across the top of the dresser.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, awed by the effort she went through. “I love it. I can’t believe you put this together so fast.”
“I’m an event planner. Duh.”
She laughs and gives me a squeeze and then ducks into the bathroom, returning a second later wearing a fluffy pink robe with leopard trim—it’s fussy and fabulous and it could give my lavender and marabou number a run for its money.
“Where’s yours?” she asks.
“In my bag,” I tell her. “I’ll go put it on.”
“We look fa-reaking amazing,” she says once we’re both decked out. “Let’s spa it up!”
Our hair masks go on first, and then we fill small paper plates with treats to eat during the half hour it will take for the masks to set.
The bedroom is so big that there’s plenty of space for the upholstered vanity chair and faux fur ottoman Charlie dragged in from Livvie’s room, so we sit on them and drink apple cider out of champagne flutes while we talk.
This is nice, just me and her and a load of snacks. I needed this more than I thought.
There’s just been so much going on…and the constant stress of the danger that Dante swears I’m in keeps me in work mode from morning till night, just so I don’t have to think about it. It’s still hard to process the fact that I married into the mafia.
After we rinse the masks out of each other’s hair and get started on another round of pampering, I take the opportunity to ask Charlie about something that’s been nagging at me.
“What kind of bad things do you think Clayton has done?” I ask quietly as she’s painting my nails. “And how do you…you know, deal with it?”
Charlie pauses mid-polish and lowers the bottle. She’s quiet as she studies my face, and then finally says, “Why? Do you think Dante did something bad?”
I don’t answer, but my silence is probably enough of an answer in itself.
Returning to my nails, she says, “Here’s the thing, Frankie.
It’s not like the movies. These people don’t just run around committing criminal acts for the fun of it…
well, maybe some of them do. But I doubt those people last long, because nobody wants someone like that working for them.
Anyway, the point is, sometimes bad things have to happen—to prevent worse things.
I came to terms with that a long time ago. It’s the only way I can live with it.”
“All for the greater good?”
“Yeah.” She glances at her phone. “Crap, I almost forgot! It’s two hours later there.” Dialing Livvie on FaceTime, she warns, “Don’t touch anything. You’ll smudge the polish.”
“Family spa night!” Livvie shouts from the phone screen. Her hair is pulled back with a headband, her youthful skin gleaming, gold crescent-shaped gel pads stuck under her eyes even though I know for a fact that she doesn’t have undereye bags. She squints at the screen. “You guys look like mimes!”
Charlie and I laugh.
“It’s Australian pink clay!” Charlie says defensively. “It detoxifies and tightens without drying. We’re going to look ten years younger.”
“Oh, please. You’re both perfect just as you are. And will you look at you two in your frilly robes,” Mom exclaims, leaning into the frame. “You look like old-timey movie stars!”
We strike dramatic poses for her, and she raises a flute of champagne and then takes a sip. The conversation turns chaotic and lively. It warms my heart.
“How’s the little baby bean?” Livvie peers closer to the camera as I try to show off my small bump.
“Letting me eat, finally,” I say with a grateful sigh. “And making me pee. A lot.”
Mom claps. “The tea is working then?”
“Like a miracle. Thank you,” I say.
“Wonderful! I was worried baby Azetta was going to malnourish you,” Mom says.
I give Charlie a quizzical side-eye.
“Azetta? Did you just come up with that, Miriam?” Charlie wrinkles her nose.
“Of course,” Mom says. “It’s a delightful name. Don’t forget, I named the three of you and I did an excellent job of it.”
Livvie cocks her head. “I was thinking more of like a Panina or Regatta. Something strong and no-nonsense.”
“Panina as in…panini? Like the sandwich?” I ask. “And isn’t a regatta a boat race?”
“How about Tiramisu?” Charlie suggests. “Tira for short. So cute!”
“Yeah, real cute. Why not Olive Oil?” I say dryly.
“I think Olive is great!” Livvie shouts.
“Well,” Mom cuts in, “I suppose if you insist on sticking with Italian, Flavia or Druscilla might be better? Or, wait. Delfina Bellanti. Say it with gusto, all of you.”
“Del-fina Bell-anti!” Livvie says with a theatrical Italian accent, kissing her fingers.
Charlie follows suit in a low-toned, male voice.
I don’t participate, though I’m happy to see Charlie chiming in with real glee.
“You’re all losing your minds. I’ll name my own kid, thanks. And it’s not going to be Delfina Bellanti. What if it’s a boy?” I pause. “Oh God, please don’t tell me your boy names. I don’t even want to know.”
We all burst into laughter. Finally the banter calms down, and Livvie asks about how the horses are doing.
“They’re just fine. Nothing to worry about. I took Ytse for a ride the other day,” I say.
She pouts. “I’m jealous. I miss them so much. Though I have to admit…I do kind of love getting to sleep in and have a little fun without worrying about getting to the stables twice a day. I’m still working out though, so I’ll be in top form when show season comes around again.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Don’t let her fool you. She talked about trying to put a saddle on Miggy more than once.”
“Who, me?” Livvie takes mock offense. “I mean, maybe. It was a passing thought.”
We joke and make fun and act like overtired teenagers on a sugar high, and before we know it we’re all saying our goodbyes and promising to talk again soon.
It’s bittersweet, my heart aching when my baby sister disappears from the screen, but we still have face masks to rinse off and chocolate-covered strawberries to eat.
Charlie’s just put her phone away when she freezes for a second, tilting her head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I thought I heard something, but I think it was just the wind. Anyway, let’s get our masks rinsed off. Mine’s getting a little itchy.”
“You can go first,” I say, gesturing at the plate of cheese in my lap.
“Sweet.” Charlie turns up the soothing music for me and then goes into the bathroom.
A few minutes later she pops back out, her skin looking dewy and fresh.
“Your turn,” she says. “I left a towel out for you on the sink. It’s a little messy. Try to use cold water, otherwise it kinda melts on.”
“Thanks.”
Just as I’m finishing rinsing my face, I hear Charlie’s voice from the other room, but it’s muffled by the door and the running water.
“What’d you say?” I ask, still patting my face with the towel as I exit the bathroom.
I stop dead in my tracks.
The towel drops from my hands.
Charlie is being held by two men, one of them with his huge hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. My ears start ringing as every muscle in my body tightens, my flight instincts kicking in.
But before I can even think about running, another hulking figure lunges from the doorway, and the floor rushes up to meet my cheek with a hard crack.
I’m dazed at the impact, the wind knocked out of me.
My scream dies in my throat as the man’s shadow falls over me.