Chapter 6
SOFIA
“So how are you going to handle this?” Mr. Harlan asks.
“I asked him to pick me up at an apartment complex near my place,” I say, going over the plan in my head. I don’t want Frankie to know where I live, and I also don’t want him to know what kind of car I drive. In fact, the less Frankie knows about me, the better.
So, I’m prepared to walk a few blocks away and wait on the street corner for him to pick me up. I don’t think anyone will bother me. I look in the mirror as I’m holding the phone, talking to my boss on the other end of the line.
I’m wearing a short summer dress with a pair of killer cowgirl boots.
I think I look pretty cute. For my hair, I’m going with a ponytail, with a few strands untucked to frame my face.
I’m wearing minimal makeup, just some foundation and a shade of natural-looking lipstick.
The whole package is designed to get under Frankie’s skin.
Of course I’m not going to sleep with him.
I’m not that committed to a great story.
Besides, doing something like that would compromise my journalistic integrity.
The story is only secondary to getting justice for my brother, but that doesn’t mean it’s not important.
It could cement my career as a journalist and catapult me to the big leagues.
I know there are plenty of journalists out there working in other major metropolitan cities, winning Pulitzer Prizes for their work.
Maybe I’m being overly optimistic, but I can see my byline up there someday.
Anyway, I’m not going to risk my professional reputation by hopping into bed with a gangster.
I’m dressed to impress, but I tell myself that I’ll slip away before the evening gets out of hand.
I’ll play the, ‘I’m not ready’ card, or the ‘Let’s take it slow’ routine.
He’ll fall for that, I’m sure. I don’t know him very well, but I can already tell he’s not the kind of guy to hit it and quit it.
He’s looking for romance, and that’s exactly what I’m going to give him.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Keep in touch,” Mr. Harlan replies.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.
“I’m sure you will,” he agrees. “But keep in touch anyway. If you can’t get away by nine o’clock, text me.”
I appreciate his precautions, but I don’t think they’re necessary. “We’re going to a restaurant,” I say, “not an abandoned warehouse.”
Mr. Harlan hangs up. He’s not my dad, but he’s doing a pretty good imitation of one.
I guess he just doesn’t want to lose a reporter.
It’s nice knowing that there’s someone looking out for me, someone who knows what I’m up against. For all my talk of meeting in a public place and not allowing things to go too far, I’m still nervous.
If Frankie’s father finds out about this, or if anyone makes the connection between me and Danny, I could be in big trouble.
I check myself in the mirror once more. I’m ready. I’ve got this. “Piece of cake,” I tell my reflection out loud.
I hurry outside, lock my door, and walk the few blocks down to the place I told Frankie about.
It’s a high-rise apartment building with a doorman and everything.
But I’m not going into the lobby, so I don’t have to show them any ID.
I’m just going to wait on the curb and pretend like I’m one of the hundreds of people who come and go from that building every day.
That’s one perk of being a young woman; people rarely ask who I am or what I’m up to. They just assume that because I’m cute, I’m allowed to be there. Pretty privilege is a real thing, and I’m not above using it to my advantage.
I don’t have to wait long before a black town car pulls up. I hold my breath, half expecting to see Francisco Corello himself leaning out of the window. But it’s not Francisco, it’s his son Frankie. And he looks overjoyed to see me.
“Sofia,” he says, stepping out of the back.
I act surprised, as if I’m not expecting him to come in a chauffeured car. “What’s this?”
“My family has a little bit of money,” he explains sheepishly. “It’s just easier with a chauffeur. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” I say, easing past him as he holds the door open.
Inside the car, it is immaculate. It isn’t exactly a stretch limo, and there is no champagne to drink on the way. But it’s spacious, and it smells like money, two things that probably arouse normal girls.
“You probably show all the women around town in this thing,” I tease.
“Not as many as you would think,” he counters with his annoyingly adorable, self-deprecating smile.
“So, this isn’t a ploy to get busy in the backseat?” I ask, half serious.
“No, of course not,” he assures me. “I’m just not that great at navigating city streets, and with Tommy driving, we won’t have to worry about parking.”
“Tommy?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” Frankie says. “Do you want to meet him?”
“Hi, Tommy,” I say, waving into the rearview mirror.
“Miss,” Tommy says.
“So how rich are you?” I ask, turning to my date.
“On a scale of one to ten?” he answers my question with a question.
“On a scale of one to ten billion,” I clarify.
“Maybe one billion,” he responds.
I nearly choke on my tongue. One billion dollars is incredible.
That’s so much more than I thought the family was worth.
It almost catapults my investigation into a whole new realm.
Not only am I dealing with mobsters, but they probably have international connections as well.
I know they have family back in Italy, but where else do their roots stretch?
I have to calm my excitement or risk him figuring out that I’m something more than I seem.
I decide to play it coy and pretend like I’m not interested in his money. “My father was a grocery store clerk,” I lie. “I’ve never even met anyone that rich before.”
“I’m not rich,” he says, just like every other privileged young person out there. “My father is.”
I let that comment slide. I’m not ready to talk about his father just yet.
I need to get a few drinks into him first, which shouldn’t be too hard since he’s not expecting to drive home.
After we discuss our lives, I can gently turn the conversation around to Francisco Corello.
But not yet. I don’t want to say anything too insightful and risk cluing him into the bigger picture.
“So does that mean you’ve traveled?” I ask, trying to find a safe topic.
“Some,” he agrees. “What about you?”
“I’ve never been outside the United States,” I say. It’s true, I haven’t traveled extensively, but not for lack of money.
“Where have you traveled inside the United States?” he asks.
I can tell he’s genuinely interested. It’s almost sweet, and so I let myself relax a little bit. I’m still on the clock, but there’s no harm in actually having a conversation. It will make my job easier in the long run if Frankie and I are on good terms.
“I’ve been to Boston and New York,” I say. “One time we visited the Grand Canyon when I was a kid.”
“I’ve been there,” he answers.
“Really? What did you think?” I ask.
“I thought it was big,” he responds, giving me a generous smile. “And a little bit scary.”
“I don’t think people really fall in,” I say.
“I stood pretty far back,” he recalls. “My dad kept pushing me to come to the edge, but I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t go out on the skywalk?” I ask.
He laughs and shakes his head. “You couldn’t drag me out there.”
“That’s the best part,” I say, pretending to be shocked at his admission of cowardice.
“I like to keep my feet on the ground,” he responds.
The car pulls up to the curb outside the restaurant. There are dozens of people parked on the streets, so there’s nowhere for the driver to pull over. Instead, he pulls on the parking brake and stops traffic to let us out.
I notice a bunch of angry drivers honking at us as we step outside.
Frankie sees it too, but he ignores them.
As soon as we’re clear of the vehicle, the car drives off.
Frankie puts one hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the door.
I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through me at the innocent touch.
It sears my fingertips and my toes, warning me I’m in this too deep.
I’m actually enjoying spending time with Frankie, and that’s a big red flag. I need to be more careful.
I give him a sweet smile, pretending that I’m into it.
I open the door myself and we walk through.
We’re immediately shown to a spot near the kitchen.
The ambiance is expensive, the lighting low, and the tables spaced pretty far from each other.
This gives us a lot of privacy, which we are supposed to use to get to know each other better. But I have other things on my mind.
“So, you were saying, about your father,” I remind Frankie.
“I don’t think I was,” he counters.
“How does he make his money?” I ask, folding a cloth napkin into my lap.
“This and that,” Frankie replies without specifying.
A waiter arrives and pours us each a glass of ice water.
“Can we have a bottle of pinot noir?” Frankie asks. He appears to think about the order some more and then turns to me for approval. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I agree. I do want to get him drunk. It will be that much easier to get him to open up about his family. After he’s had a few glasses of wine, all the walls will come tumbling down and he’ll tell me everything I want to know.
The waiter returns with our bottle and two wineglasses. Frankie pours us each a glass and sips on his own. I hold mine like I’m going to drink it, but don’t. I want him to get drunk, not me.
“When you traveled, did you travel with your family?” I ask. If he won’t open up about his father’s finances, maybe I can approach things from a different angle. Maybe I can learn more about their operations overseas and work my way back here.
“Yes,” he confirms, but doesn’t elaborate. “So you say you’re not a poet, have you written anything I might have read?”
“Oh,” I moan, wondering how much detail I can safely go into about my writing career. “I was on the school paper, and I have a few stories out there on blogs.”
“Really?” He sounds interested, and my heart twists painfully. Frankie really likes me. He thinks we’re out on an actual date. I wish I didn’t have to break his heart, and I wonder how much he really knows about his father. Maybe he is innocent. Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree.
“Yeah,” I reply, running my fingertip around the rim of the wineglass. “I was thinking about writing a novel, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“The great American novel,” Frankie waxes philosophical.
“If you could write a novel,” I begin, trying for a third time to turn the subject onto his father, “what would you write about? Would it be a family drama?”
“Maybe a romance,” he says seriously.
I can feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, and I must look away.
This is more than I can take. I don’t like him that way.
Anyway, I have more important things going on.
Danny’s ghost won’t wait for me to settle down and playhouse.
His murder demands retribution, and that’s the only thing that matters to me.