2. Francesca
Happiness could be found at the end of a rolled dollar bill, and freedom at the bottom of a hard liquor bottle. I welcomed the numbness in my body. I loved this feeling of floating through time and space. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Nothing could stop me. I was invincible.
The neon lights flashed around me; my body swayed to the electronic music. Sweat beaded at my breasts and raced down my back, but even still, I didn’t care. Tonight was about forgetting. Silencing the voices in my head was my biggest priority.
I stopped at the bar to refill my glass; the cute bartender smiled at me as he refilled it with vodka. I took one large sip and sighed as the cold liquid raced down my throat. Mixing alcohol with drugs in this state was probably not a good idea, but I didn’t particularly care, as long as it made me forget. Tomorrow, I’d regret it, but tonight, I wanted to feel alive.
“Where were you?” Antoine grabbed me by the arm. “Shit, what did you do, Frankie?”
“Nothing,” I pulled away, but he didn’t let go. His grip wasn’t hurting but it was solid and strong. “I wanted to have fun.”
“You promised me, Francesca.” He reminded me.
“It was just a line,” I explained trying to make him worry less. I hated that look on him, especially when it was directed at me. “I promise I’m fine.”
A flash of a neon pink light passed through us, and I closed my eyes as my head spun. “I’m taking you home.” Antoine decided and began to pull me away from the dance floor, but I refused to move.
“I’m not a child.” I said petulantly.
“No, chérie, but you are acting like one.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my hair from the back of my neck hoping it would soothe me. I was burning with the heat of a thousand furnaces. My entire body blazed, even my blood was boiling.
From the corner of my eye, I watched a beautiful man staring at us, the neon lights cast a glow over him, making my insides twist. Except his eyes were solely on Antoine and instantly my cheeks burned. Of course, the beautiful man was interested in someone else. I hadn’t come here for flirting or that kind of fun, but it was good to feel wanted at times.
“Your friend is waiting for you.”
Antoine looked toward the beautiful man, then back at me, like he was caught in a dilemma. “I’m taking you home,” he said with finality.
“I can take care of myself,” I snapped, having the impression he had only come tonight so he could babysit me. I understood he was worried about my well-being, but I didn’t care. I wanted the bliss, the numbness. The silence.
He opened his mouth to argue, but I shook my head. “I’m a big girl, I can handle it, go have some fun.” I placed my hands over his shoulders and shook him. “That gorgeous man wants your attention, don’t keep him waiting.”
Antoine’s lips turned upwards, and he tried to hide the glimmer in his eyes. I was keeping him from doing what he truly wanted to do. “Go.” I turned him toward the man and shoved him through the crowd.
“Text me when get home,” he shouted over the music, and I laughed.
When Antoine was gone, I stared at my glass of vodka and drank it halfway. Sometimes, I wished to be as carefree as Antoine or as lively as Marie. It was a terrible thing, but I was jealous of them, of their lives, and their dreams. Pushing those thoughts aside, I went in search of something else to keep me numb.
Two hours later, my tired legs led me out of the club, I could barely walk straight, my eyes were trying to focus on what was before me. Before I realized where I was going, a car honked loudly, skidding to a stop millimeters from me. My heart jumped to my throat and my hands flew to my stomach as if I could keep the contents in there. By some miracle it did.
A man stepped out of the car shouting and gesticulating like a maniac. My ears buzzed; my pulse raced. It was hard to understand what he was saying as my head fought to process that I had almost been run over.
“Are you crazy!” he shouted hysterically.
“What is going on here?”
“This woman came out of nowhere, officer, the light was green, and she simply walked into the street.”
“Is this right, miss?” I turned slowly.
Officer? Officer!
Like a bucket of cold water, I stared at the man in blue standing beside me closer than he should have. He kept on approaching until he stopped inches from my face. I was not in the right frame of mind to have a conversation with a man of the law. Not now and not ever.
Instinct kicked in, and I bolted. To be fair, I blamed it on the heels, and the fact that the last time I ran, I was probably a six-year-old. I didn’t make it that far; in fact, I didn’t even make it to the corner of the street–which was inches away. Arms wrapped around me, pulling me back, and I hit the officer’s chest, hard. Like a cornered animal, I fought him knowing that if he managed to question me, he would realize I’d broken dozens of laws.
Paolo made it a rule, I could do whatever I damned well pleased as long as I kept away from the police. He would look the other way as long as I didn’t call attention to myself—as long as I didn’t get in trouble.
That rule echoed in my head as I kicked the officer and tried to run away again. It was probably the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life. It was obvious he was larger and stronger than me. The fight was over before it even began. He restrained and cuffed me in seconds. When he shoved me inside the police car, I heard his partner laughing.
“We got ourselves a spitfire over there.”
“She fucking kicked me,” the officer who’d grabbed me complained. “My shin is bleeding.”
I tried to position myself better in the car, my hands and arms were starting to ache, a hundred tiny needles prickled my skin. It was uncomfortable as hell. The car smelled of sweat and leather, but something else caused my stomach to spin. It was strong and pungent. My head spun as they drove me away.
The cool air in the precinct hit my blazing skin, and I breathed in greedily. I stumbled on my heels as the officer who’d grabbed me—the one I apparently hurt—led me toward the front desk. His words barely registered in my mind as he spoke. My head was spinning so fast it felt like a carousel.
Spinning and spinning and spinning.
“You know there is no need for handcuffs, right?”
The officer glanced at me but kept on walking as he escorted me toward the cell. His meaty hand still wrapped around my arm.
“I won’t take my chances with you,” he grumbled; apparently, he was still pissed that I hurt him. What a crybaby.
“It was a mistake,” I agreed. “I shouldn’t have run; I know that now.”
He chuckled dryly. “Darling, that is the least of your problems.” He offered with a smile. “You should be more concerned about the charges I’m pressing and the amount of coke you had on you.”
“It was one kick,” I complained.
He shrugged. “Should have thought that through.” Jesus, what an asshole. I was sure I barely nicked him. There was no need for pressing charges, he knew it, I knew it.
When we stopped at the cell, his eyes lingered over my body, more specifically at the swell of my breasts. God hadn’t given me the ability to make sane decisions, but he had given me a pair of breasts and an ass to match. Apparently, he thought that was more important than my self-preservation.
Thanks, God.
Done with his leering, he unlocked the cell door and pushed me inside. He asked for my hands and remove my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists trying to get the blood flow back to them, and as I did so, I inspected the place.
My eyes landed on a woman who shared the cell with me. She looked my age, somewhere around her mid-twenties. Foundation—two shades darker than her skin tone—caked her face and dark mascara ran down her cheeks. She might have been pretty, but the makeup and the jaded look in her eyes robbed her of that. The fishnet pantyhose she wore was ripped at the knees, and one of her black heels was broken.
“Kimberly.” My cellmate greeted me like we were sitting down for coffee instead of being locked in a jail cell.
“Frankie,” I offered back, surprised by how relaxed and bored my voice sounded.
“I like your shoes,” Kimberly said as she sat up straighter against the wall.
“Thanks,” I smiled lightly. “They are Jimmy Choo’s.” I stared at the ground, or better yet at my lovely sparkly pumps.
It had been one of the many gifts I’d received from my late husband. A bribe. A way to apologize for bringing yet another mistress into our home. Paolo couldn’t help himself, and eventually, I grew complacent—which was my fault. I let him shower me with gifts, and sadly, I even grew to enjoy them.
“Why you here, Princess?” The way Kimberly said princesssounded like an accusation.
“You first.” I glanced at the corridor watching the two men that stood guard by the door, who were entertained by their conversation.
“I bet daddy will be here any minute,” Kimberly accused me again. What was it with this girl? “So, what happened, Princess?”
Facing her, I decided whether or not to grace her with an answer, sighing, I offered her the truth. “Trust me, daddy doesn’t give a shit.” The last time I had talked to him we’d had a heated conversation which ended with him calling me a whore and slapping me so hard I saw stars.
Of course, none of that had been a surprise. My father enjoyed using his fists more than he did using his words, and when he did speak…let’s just say it would have been best if you kept your mouth shut.
Kimberly ran her fingers through her messy black hair and slouched against the wall, her legs falling apart and flashing me a view of what lay beneath her dress. “I stabbed my ex with a broken glass bottle.”
“Cool.” I turned to face the guards again. The metal bars were cold against my fingers as I grabbed them to keep myself steady as my head began to spin. “I’m here for assaulting an officer and having coke on me.” And in you.
Kimberly was silent for a while and then she began to laugh, it was throaty like she had been smoking for a lifetime. I turned to face her surprised with her reaction. “You,” she laughed. “Look at you.”
I furrowed my brows wondering what that was supposed to mean. Yeah, I got that a lot. One look at me and people already decided what kind of person I was. A spoiled little princess. A trophy wife. Arm candy. A gold digger. They all judged the book by its cover and never stuck long enough to realize the book was actually fun to read.
“How long have you been in here?” I decided to change the conversation.
“Three hours.”
My eyes widened. “Shouldn’t you have been bailed out or something?”
“I have no one to bail me out,” she explained. “Plus, I was found guilty so… dunno.” She shrugged like it wasn’t important. Her reaction or lack thereof, left me wondering if this was her first time in here.
“Shit, that’s bad,” I thought out loud.
That’s when it hit me, I wasn’t so different from her. Thinking about it now, I had no idea who would bail me out. I couldn’t call Marie, not even if my life depended on it. I had promised her I had stopped using, she was going to be so disappointed if she knew I had broken it.
Antoine was also out of the question; he was busy right now, and I didn’t want my friends cleaning up my mess—again. I wanted more than just that; I wanted them to see me beyond the broken pieces.
My nails found the soft skin of my palms and I squeezed them hard, trying to focus on the pain instead of how erratic my heart was beating or how I couldn’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs.
The officer who brought me in had asked me a few questions and had taken my ID. By now he must have done a background check on who I was. Which meant he knew I had ties to the wrong kind of people. The kind of people who would get a one-way ticket to prison and probably the electric chair.
Last year, a friend of Paolo’s had been arrested for driving under the influence, and in less than a few hours, the FBI had come to take him away. He was charged with so many crimes, it would be a lifetime before he was freed from the maximum-security prison he was sent to. He died a few months later, stabbed in a fight. I had overheard Paolo say it was a necessity. But I knew the Outfit killed him, so he’d keep his mouth shut.
“Oh God,” I closed my eyes, and my head came to rest against the bar as I held it tight.
What if the FBI came for me? What if I was taken into one of those maximum-security prisons? I wasn’t built for that, there was no way I would last a single day inside that place. Not to mention the Feds, they creeped me out. What if I was murdered like Paolo’s friend? I might not know much, but I did know something. The Outfit may protect their own, but they were not above killing to make sure they remained safe. Not to mention I hated those orange jumpsuits they’d look terrible on me.
“Don’t I have the right to a phone call?” I shouted, grabbing the guards’ attention.
I watched as the asshole who had ogled me came to stand before the cell. “What do you want?”
“My phone call, Stronzo.” I was pretty sure it was part of my rights — at least all the movies I watched said so.
Officer asshole sighed in frustration but proceeded to take me out of the cell and escorted me all the way toward the phone booth. He remained by my side, an uncomfortable distance from me. I imagined he was doing it on purpose. Officer asshole really did hold a grudge. What was he thinking that I was going to run of again? I knew how to accept defeat.
“Don’t I get some privacy?” I offered him my sweetest smile. Hoping he got diabetes from it. The guard’s eyes trailed me once more this time landing on my ass. He stepped back giving me some space, albeit not as much as I desired.
“You have five minutes,” he gritted out.
I stared at the phone and in that moment, it became my worst enemy. Truth be told, I had no one to call, wasn’t even sure why I had requested it. If Paolo had been alive, I would have been forced to call him, even if there were consequences later. But since I didn’t have a phone line directly to Hell, I was back to square one.
“Are you going to use that thing or not?” The guard said impatiently.
“I don’t know who to call.” My cheeks turned pink. I hadn’t planned on sharing my reality with him.
A wave of heat warmed my body and anxiety lodged in my chest attaching itself like tar. I dug my nails into my palm and tried to think, but my head was pounding, my heart beating painfully against my chest.
This was it; I was going to be sent to prison, the Feds, who I had no doubt were on their way, would definitely pin some kind of crime on me to punish my family and the Outfit. I might not be involved in their business, but I was part of that world, which unfortunately made me guilty by association. That’s when a very, very, stupid idea formed in my pounding head.
The kind of idea that tasted like a bitter pill and was hard to swallow. The kind of idea that smelled like shit. I was going to regret this, not just now but possibly for the rest of my life. If it weren’t for my mother putting his name in my head, I would never have attempted such a disastrous feat. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and right now I was desperate as it got. So, I dialed the number I had committed to memory and listened while it rang continuously.
“What?” A gruff voice answered.
The phone almost slipped from my hands. Four years. My throat constricted and my mouth went dry. Suddenly I forgot how to speak, my lips refusing to move. His voice was the same, and I was not ready for the wave of memories that flooded my head, giving me no chance to fight back.
“H-hi,” I whispered.
“Who the fuck is this?” Cassio snapped; sounding pissed off. I closed my eyes and relished in the sound of his voice?—
Snap. Out. Of. It.
I willed myself to remember where I was. “It’s Frankie—Francesca.” I corrected.
“Who?” Cassio’s voice was detached like he hadn’t stabbed me in the heart with a single word.
“Francesca Biancini.” I closed my eyes and swallowed. “Francesca Manci.” I corrected myself again. The name left a bitter taste in my mouth. Like the foulest of poisons.
“One minute.” The guard shouted.
“Where are you?” Cassio demanded.
“One sec,” I put a hand over the phone and asked the guard exactly where I was. “Precinct nine.”
There was a long pause, and I could hear the shuffling of sheets, then a female’s voice. My heart pulsed painfully in my chest. I tried to ignore it, tried to swallow down the jealousy that welled up inside of me. God, how I regretted calling him. Cassio was obviously busy right now. With a woman. A woman he could be dating. A woman he had probably been sleeping with.
Ugh. I pinched my temple; I could feel the start of a headache. This was a mistake I should never have called him. Why would Cassio help me? He hated me after all.
“You’re calling me from prison?” His voice broke through my thoughts.
“Jail,” I corrected.
There was another large pause until he said. “Why are you calling me?”
Jesus, how many blows to my self-esteem could I take? “Because, you know, you’re the…the only one I could call.” Good, now I sounded pathetic. Did I have to admit that to him?
“Times up.” The guard walked toward me. Intent on removing the phone from my hand.
“You know what, forget I called, just pretend I don’t exist.” He was obviously pretty good at doing that.
I inhaled deeply and rested my head against the wall. A shiver raced down my spine and I couldn’t help laughing at myself. What did I honestly expect? Calling Cassio was perhaps the worst idea I’d had since getting arrested. I was on a streak tonight, one fuck up after the other.
The guard must have taken pity on me because he remained silent as he escorted me back to the cell. Standing that close to me, I was sure he heard my exchange with Cassio.
Who the fuck is this?
His voice echoed in my head as I sat down on the floor and removed my Jimmy Choo pumps.
Francesca.
Who?
“Any luck?” Kimberly asked, and I opened my eyes to find her sitting forward and resting her elbows on her thighs.
“Guess we’ll be cellmates for a while.” Was all I said as I rested my head against the wall, yearning for some quiet since I wanted to lick my wounds in peace. As well as replay that short conversation over and over again, beating myself for being so stupid.
Why was I such a failure? Maybe my father had been right when he called me a big disappointment.