Chapter 10
SOFIA
Under ordinary circumstances, if I saw a guy waiting for me with a picnic basket at his feet, I would be charmed.
Okay, I am charmed, but I’m trying not to be.
I have to remind myself of all the shady characters I saw going in and out of the restaurant.
They are the same people who work for Frankie’s father.
He’s not an innocent friend, but a member of a powerful organization that uses violence to keep people in line. I have to remember that for my sake.
But as much as I need to keep myself detached, I can’t look like I’m trying to keep my distance. So, for the good of the investigation, I allow myself to be moved.
“This is so sweet!” I cry, stepping through the trees to the babbling brook.
Frankie holds his hand out and helps me walk across the water. We kiss briefly, and it’s nice. In fact, I feel a spark, but I keep that observation to myself. I sit down next to him, and he stretches his legs out straight.
“Where did you find this place?” I ask.
“I just found it now,” he informs me.
“It’s perfect,” I say, playing the part of a lovestruck young woman.
“I’m glad you could come,” he replies. “I didn’t know if you could get away. Because of your job.”
“It’s just part-time,” I say, not giving him any details.
I should have come up with a backstory instead of leaving it to chance.
I hate fumbling around and having to keep track of all the lies I’m telling him.
Of course I don’t have any other choice, but it feels dirty.
I would have been much better off if I sat down and wrote out everything that happened in my fake life with my fake parents and my fake job.
At least then, I wouldn’t have to scour my imagination for ideas on the fly.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“It’s nothing,” I respond. “How has your day been so far?”
“So far?” he wonders, leaning back to gaze up at the clouds. “It’s been okay. I did some studying. I had a very strange encounter with my stepmother.”
“What happened?” I encourage him to talk, taking mental notes.
“She’s pregnant,” Frankie says.
“Really?” I ask, showing a little more enthusiasm than I should be. “How far along?”
“I don’t know,” Frankie responds. “She’s barely showing. But she had a crazy reaction to my asking for a picnic basket.”
“Is she okay?” I interject, suddenly worried about this woman I’ve never met.
None of my research points to Marlena Corello as the instigator of anything. There are some fuzzy details about her past and her family, but I’m sure they’re meaningless. The point is, if she’s aware of what her husband does for a living. I don’t think she’s involved.
Unlike Frankie. I’m sure he’s both aware and involved. He would have to be. This kind of thing is like a monarchy; the power gets passed down from father to son. If Frankie isn’t calling the shots yet, he will be. It’s only a matter of time.
I wonder if Frankie knows about Danny. I decide to test the waters.
It’s as good a time as any, and I have to admit, the picnic thing is getting to me.
I almost feel safe here with a man I don’t even know.
He’s saying all the right things and hitting all the right notes.
If things were different, I might let myself get close to him.
But I’m on a mission. And I’m ready to take things to the next level.
“She’s fine, I think,” Frankie responds to my last question.
“Frankie,” I begin, “do you have any other siblings?”
“No,” he says, reaching for the basket. “This will be my first. It’s kind of strange to be my age and waiting for a new baby brother or sister.”
“I had a brother once,” I say. The words feel like broken glass in my mouth. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Frankie immediately picks up on the tone in my voice. He puts a hand on my shoulder and gazes deep into my eyes. “What happened?” he asks with genuine concern.
“He passed away,” I say, forcing myself not to break down. I don’t talk about Danny very much. It’s just too painful. I haven’t made any progress in dealing with his death. Beyond trying to unmask his killer, I haven’t dealt with the grief at all.
To my surprise, Frankie says nothing. He picks up my hand and holds it. I feel a rush of compassion for him. He must have had a similar experience because only someone who’s been to the bottom of that ditch can sit silently without trying to fix things.
“I was the one who discovered him,” I hear myself saying.
Frankie still doesn’t speak. He’s giving me space to explore my own feelings on the matter.
I haven’t been to a therapist, so I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing.
I haven’t even really spoken to my parents about it.
My life has been on hold since it happened, and this is the first time I can really feel my pain.
“I walked into the room, excited to talk to him. And he was sitting on the couch…” I trail off.
I don’t want to add any more details than I already have.
If Frankie is as normal as I suspect he is, I know he won’t immediately think of murder.
He’ll probably assume that Danny killed himself.
That’s what the police said, but I know it isn’t true.
“My mother passed away when I was young,” Frankie replies. His face is a mask of stone that hides a well of grief.
“How did she die?” I ask.
“Cancer,” he says. “It happened really fast. One minute she was fine, and then a few months later, she was gone.”
“Did they do chemo or something?” I ask softly. I don’t know anyone who has passed away from cancer, but I’m sure there are medical solutions out there.
“They did,” Frankie confirms. “It didn’t work for her.”
“Your father must have been devastated,” I surmise.
I don’t even mean to bring up Francisco.
He’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.
But the additional information gives me some insight into my target’s mental state.
I view Francisco Corello as a human being instead of just a cold-blooded killer.
I don’t like that new vantage point. I’d much prefer to continue hating him.
Frankie smiles sadly. “He was. What about your parents? How did they cope with your brother’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We don’t talk about it.”
“You should,” Frankie advises. “Not that I’m one to talk. We’re not your average family, if you know what I mean.”
“Your billions of dollars?” I guess.
“It’s not that,” he replies cryptically, but I know exactly what he means.
I clear my throat. This conversation is hitting far too close to home. I need to regroup, commit to my purpose, and pump Frankie for more information. “What’s in the box?” I ask.
“Right,” he declares, understanding that the subject of death in the family is now closed. “I brought a few salads and some roast chicken.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
Frankie unpacks a few containers and hands me a fork. I investigate one bin, peeling off the bright red top to get a whiff of what’s inside. It’s some kind of pasta with olives and olive oil. It smells delicious.
“This looks amazing,” I say, taking a tentative forkful. “Where did you get this?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says.
“Why would I laugh?” I wonder.
“My private chef made it,” Frankie admits.
“Oh, your private chef?” I tease him.
“Yeah, I’m that guy,” he responds with just the right amount of humor.
“What else did your private chef make?” I wonder.
“Here,” he says, handing me another dish. “Try the coleslaw.”
I settle down, much more comfortable with the topic of food choices than mortality. We pass a lovely hour as we work our way through one home-cooked delicacy after another. The chicken is moist and tender, and all the side dishes are extraordinary.
“If you have food of this caliber in your home, you’ll have to invite me over,” I say.
I’m tossing the suggestion out as if it has no consequences, but secretly I’m hoping he’ll say yes.
More than going into the restaurant for some takeout or hanging around the library looking up names in old phone books, I want to be where the action is.
If I can secure an invitation to the Corello family compound, I might really understand the whole situation.
It will give me tons of material for my article, and I might even find something to confirm my suspicions.
I don’t know what that something might be, but if there’s anything at all that will help me bring the Corellos to justice, I’m positive it’s in their house.
Frankie doesn’t answer me and I’m not sure if I’ve pushed too far. He doesn’t strike me as a dangerous person, and I’m no longer sure he knows all the details about his father’s business. But he must know something because he’s strangely quiet about the prospect of inviting me over for dinner.
I don’t want to push my luck and repeat my request, so I give up. This whole dance we’re doing is very delicate. I want him to trust me, so I have to move slowly. I can tell he doesn’t suspect that I have an ulterior motive. To him, we’re just two young people sharing a picnic lunch in the park.
I wish that were the case. If everything were equal, I might even enjoy spending time with Frankie. But he’s caught up in one of the largest and most powerful criminal conspiracies in the city. And I’m the one who’s going to take him down. He just doesn’t know it yet.
If he doesn’t invite me over to his house today, he will. I’ll keep working on it, chipping away at his resolve until he absolutely has to introduce me to his father. If that means I have to make him fall in love with me, so be it. I’m not above breaking his heart to get what I want.
I feel like I’m channeling rage through my veins.
It allows me to do things I would otherwise find abhorrent, like using Frankie to get to his father.
I tell myself that I have a right to discover who killed my brother.
I cling to my duty as a sister to get to the bottom of the crime.
But even though I don’t feel like I have any choice in the matter, I’m still sick to my stomach.
I wasn’t expecting to care about Frankie. Now that I do, I still must betray him.