The Promise

Chapter One Takin’ the Fight Outta You

“You ready?”

“Yep.”

“Called a taxi?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s go.”

With effort, I heaved myself off the hospital bed, twisted and aimed my ass at the wheelchair Cindy was holding still for me. I could feel my mouth get tight at the pain, but other than that, I didn’t let it show (I hoped).

I settled in, but the pain didn’t entirely subside. Luckily, Cindy handed me my bag that I put on my lap, then she gave me a big envelope filled with some papers. I had to concentrate on taking hold of all that so I didn’t get to concentrate on the pain.

The pain, incidentally, was the result of a gunshot wound.

It was surprising that a gunshot wound only bought me a week and a half in the hospital. Apparently, according to Cindy and the other nurses, I was a fast healer.

I didn’t feel like a fast healer.

I felt like shit.

But I wanted to get out of that fucking hospital. The bed wasn’t comfortable. The place was freaking noisy so I wasn’t sleeping well. And it didn’t help that the shot I took was to the middle so I had to sleep on my back.

I never slept on my back. I snored when I slept on my back. Women didn’t snore. I knew this wasn’t a reality; women snored. But for me, as a woman, I was not going to be a woman who snored. So, although I used to sleep on my back all the time, I trained myself to sleep on my stomach or side so I wouldn’t snore.

Yes, I did this, even though I hadn’t had a man in my bed in seven years.

Seven.

Still, I didn’t snore. Even in my own company.

The final, most important reason to get out of that fucking hospital was because I had more company in that hospital than I’d had to my apartment for the last seven years. Sal. Sal’s boys. Sal’s wife, Gina.

And worst of all, the Bianchis. The freaking Bianchis wouldn’t leave me alone. Vinnie Senior, Theresa, even fucking Manny.

Then, of course, there was Benny.

If I was honest, Benny was the real reason I was happy to escape that hospital.

I’d been avoiding the Bianchis for a week and a half by pretending I was asleep and that was even more exhausting than not sleeping. My door would open and it didn’t matter what I was doing. Watching TV. Reading a book. Flipping through a magazine. Talking on the phone. I’d instantly feign sleep, even disconnecting a phone call to do it.

Of course, I’d stop doing this if it was Sal, one of his guys, his wife, or one of my friends.

I wouldn’t if it was a Bianchi.

But yesterday, Benny got fed up with this.

He had, on more than one occasion the last week and a half, said right in my ear, his lips so close to my skin I could nearly feel them, “Babe, open your eyes. I know you’re fakin’.”

Usually, he would do this and wait. But not for long.

I knew Benito Bianchi. I knew all the Bianchis. They were not patient by nature. And Benny was a male Bianchi so his span of patience was akin to the attention of a gnat. Therefore, I could wait him out, no sweat.

And I did. Successfully. For a week and a half.

Yesterday, though, I knew Benny was done. This was because he didn’t whisper in my ear that he knew I was faking.

Oh no.

Instead, he scooched my ass right over and stretched out in bed beside me, shoving an arm under me, wrapping it around and tucking me close. He then grabbed the remote from my hospital table and turned on a fucking baseball game.

I lay next to him biting my tongue (figuratively, seeing as if I let my mouth move, I could no longer fake sleeping), wanting to remind him of the fact that I’d been shot and perhaps he shouldn’t scrunch in my hospital bed with me.

Admittedly, this didn’t feel awful. He’d been gentle about it and it sucked to discover that Ben could be gentle physically. I didn’t need to know that about him, as in I really didn’t need to know that about him seeing as he was my dead boyfriend’s brother, he was Italian American, and last, he was hot in the sense that Death Valley was hot. He so topped the scale on hotness, he reinvented the scale. I was already perving on him, and he was my dead boyfriend’s brother, so this made it wrong to perv on him, as in wrong.

So I didn’t need to know he was gentle.

But he was. Which sucked.

And made him even hotter.

In the end, he was so gentle and so warm and so hard—in that good way men’s bodies could be hard (or, that other good way)—and all that was so comfortable to feel tucked up close, I genuinely fell asleep.

I had a feeling I snored.

That was the bad news.

The good news was, he was gone when I woke up.

The other good news was, I hoped the snoring turned him off. No one liked someone who snored.

You might put up with it if you loved them, but Benny didn’t love me and I was going to make sure that remained the case.

Now I was getting the hell out of there. Not because it was my choice, but I sure as hell wasn’t saying no.

Cindy started wheeling me to the door and she did this speaking.

“There are some scripts in that envelope. You get home, you got someone to go to the pharmacy for you?”

Yes. I did. I could call on anyone in the Bianchi family (primarily Ben) and they’d go to the pharmacy for me. They’d also take me home, tuck me into bed, clean my house, fill my fridge, and then stay a while, cooking for me and keeping me company.

They had a breach to heal. I took a bullet for one of their own. They considered me family once, and when a Bianchi considers you family and a rift forms and they want to patch it, they’ll go all out to do it. Hence the Bianchi visits I’d faked sleeping through.

But I took their shit for years. I did it because I loved them. I did it because I loved Vinnie Junior. I did it because they lost a son and a brother and they had to pile their pain on somebody, and seeing as I loved them, I let that be me.

Then I took a bullet for them.

Enough.

I also had Sal. Sal would do anything for me. His business killed my man; he owed me and he was the kind of man who felt markers like that never went fulfilled.

He was also a Mafia crime boss. So, as much as I loved him, I didn’t want to go there.

I also had friends. I used to have more—prior to my dead boyfriend deciding on a career path that meant he became a made man in the mob—but I still had a few.

I wasn’t going to go there either. I didn’t pretend to sleep when they stopped by, but even before I had the spectacular idea to stick my nose in a situation that got me shot, I was making moves to get on with my life. I’d been treading water in Chicago for too long: seven years after Vinnie died. It was time to be done with it. Start over. I was thirty-four years old. I’d wasted seven years. I shouldn’t waste any more.

Who I could not call was any of my own flesh and blood. I loved them. I really did. But the drama they brought with them wasn’t worth it. I’d been shot. People lived their whole lives not only never getting shot, but also not getting shot at.

My family still could out-drama a gunshot wound. This would be no challenge to them.

So I didn’t need that either.

“Sure,” I answered Cindy as she wheeled me down the hall.

“You got painkiller scripts in there,” she told me, heading toward the elevators. “Now, you know I saw what happened to you on the TV. You went all out, bein’ a hero, helpin’ to save that woman from that psycho guy. You use those pills when you need them, stop when you don’t. Be a shame you went from hero to junkie.”

Cindy spoke truth.

Cindy was also an African American nurse who worked in that suburban hospital just outside Chicago, but she used to work at a hospital deep in the city. Over the last week and a half, I’d learned that Cindy had seen a lot and most of it was not good.

I’d also learned that Cindy didn’t beat around the bush.

“I’ll do my best not to become a junkie,” I assured her as she hit the elevator button.

“Follow the doctor’s orders. Read ’em good,” she ordered. “Get your booty out of bed and get around. But don’t overdo it. You hear?” she finished as the elevator binged.

“I hear,” I muttered.

She wheeled me in the elevator and expertly wheeled me around to face forward.

“This has not been real fun,” I told the doors but did it speaking to Cindy. “But I’m gonna miss you and the girls.”

Weirdly, this was true. It was likely I’d never forget getting shot or the ensuing weeks where I had to battle the pain, struggle to recover, and do this with a Bianchi onslaught in full swing. But the nurses in that hospital were the best. I couldn’t say this with any authority. I’d never had a hospital stay before. But they were so good, I couldn’t imagine better.

“Yeah, we’re gonna miss you too,” she replied. “Mostly we’ll miss tryin’ to figure out what is up with you doin’ the Sleepin’ Beauty act when that boy comes callin’.”

Apparently they were also attentive. And to more than just my health.

I pressed my lips together.

“What is up with that?” Cindy prompted.

“Uh…” I non-responded as the elevator doors binged again and started to open.

“That boy came every day to see me,” she started as she began to push me out of the elevators, “I’d be on the phone with my stylist like a shot. I’d have my hair done. My nails done. My toenails done. And I’d be in a negligee.”

I tamped down visions of me in a negligee reclining in a hospital bed, which were too ridiculous to fathom, even for me (and there was very little too ridiculous to fathom about me), and I thought about Gina.

Gina had brought me some new nightgowns and a robe to wear during my hospital stay. They were pretty in a cute way that was very Gina and so not me.

I was about flash and impact all the time. I could put on the glitz just going down to the lobby to get my mail.

But when it came to bed wear, the less material the better. And if there was material, I liked it to leave as little to the imagination as possible (yes, even if I was sleeping just with me).

As cute as the ones Gina brought were, they were also appropriate for a hospital stay, thus no flash, no impact, and lots of material.

I’d opted to wear hospital gowns.

They were ugly, shapeless, and no one could get ideas about a woman in a hospital gown.

And I had a feeling Benny was getting ideas.

Cindy started wheeling me toward the exit doors and she did this still talking.

“So the girls, we’ve been talkin’ about that since he brought you in covered in your blood. Now, I didn’t see that part, but it’s made the rounds big time. Hot guy. Hot girl. GSW. Blood. Drama. Resulting television crews. That happens.”

I was sure it did.

But it was time to put a stop to this.

“He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother.”

“Ah,” she uttered knowingly, still wheeling. Her voice had gone from no-nonsense nosy to soft with nurse concern when she went on. “Sorry to hear about your loss, hon. When’d he die?”

“Seven years ago.”

She stopped wheeling.

“Uh…what?”

I twisted my neck to look up at her to see her staring down at me.

“Vinnie died seven years ago.”

“And you’re fakin’ sleepin’ when his hottie brother comes a-callin’ because of why?”

“Because Benny, the hottie brother, wants to talk,” I told her.

“About what?” she asked.

I had no clue.

But with the way he traced my lower lip with his thumb when he told me we were going to talk. With the way he picked me up off the forest floor and sprinted to his SUV with me in his arms after I was shot. With the way he caught my pass years ago when I was drunk after Vinnie died and stupidly, crazily, sluttily threw myself at him…

Well, with all that, I was thinking all this attention wasn’t about remembrance of sisterly love, what with the lip-tracing and tongues-tangling parts being included.

“I don’t know,” I shared with Cindy.

Her brows shot up. “And you faked sleepin’ and didn’t find out?”

“Yep.”

Her head tipped to the side and she deduced, “’Cause no boy who looks like that comes to the hospital every day for a girl who looks like you ’cause he’s keepin’ an eye on his seven-years-dead brother’s girlfriend.”

Indication that Cindy not only had seen it all, but she understood it.

“Something like that,” I conceded.

“Everything like that,” she returned.

She was right, but I didn’t confirm that fact.

“You’re not into him?” she asked, and I felt my eyes get wide.

“He’s Benny,” I said in response, figuring that said it all.

“He sure is,” she agreed, knowing it said it all because she’d seen him, repeatedly (though, once would do it).

“But he’s my dead boyfriend’s brother.”

“Girl,” she started, wheeling me toward the doors again, “God doesn’t care who you let in there, just as long as the feelin’s are honest when you let him in.”

I looked to my bag on my knees. “It’s my understanding God does care who you let in there.”

“Sure enough,” she replied. “But that’s not the there I’m talkin’ about. The there I’m talkin’ about is your heart.”

I was not going to get into this with my soon-to-be-ex nurse while she wheeled me to the taxi that would take me home after my hospital stay, so I pressed my lips together again.

I unpressed them when I felt her stutter step behind me and the wheelchair jerked slightly with her movement.

I also looked up when this happened.

And what I saw was Benny Bianchi in a white t-shirt that hugged his muscular torso in a way that made you jealous of that tee. He also had on faded jeans that fit loose in a way that only hinted at the power in those long legs (not to mention the power behind that package), making you want to get acquainted with both…intimately. He was leaning against his Explorer right outside the doors.

He had his arms crossed on his chest and shades over his dark brown eyes, but I knew those eyes were on me.

He was waiting on me.

Not parked illegally outside a hospital to come for a visit.

Waiting on me to be released.

“Uh…Cindy,” I muttered, eyes glued to Ben. “Did someone at the nurse’s station share with Benny when I’d be released?”

“He may have made that inquiry,” she evaded.

“And was it answered?” I asked, though the evidence it was was pushing away from his Explorer. It was then I knew why Cindy was wheeling me to the doors and not a nurse’s assistant or an orderly. She didn’t want to miss this or miss reporting back to the girls.

“Mm,” Cindy mumbled her evasion this time.

I couldn’t get pissed at this. Not because it wasn’t worthy of being pissed at, but because Benny was moving in our direction, we were moving in his, and all my attention was taken in concentrating on watching him move.

He moved well. He looked good. He was tall. He worked on his body and this work was extremely successful. He had a lot of thick, messy black hair. And he had a face that was movie star handsome in a way that, without a doubt, launched a million wedding fantasies, even from women who just caught a glimpse of him walking down the street.

My eyes remained locked on him as the doors swished open, and we trundled through at the exact same time Benny arrived at our location.

I opened my mouth to say something but didn’t get a word out, because Ben grabbed my bag from my lap and thrust it Cindy’s way with a murmured, “Could you hold that, darlin’?”

Cindy took it and I again opened my mouth to say something and, again, didn’t get a word out because Ben bent, shoved a hand under my knees, one around my waist, and lifted me into his arms.

But gently.

There was pain, but it was minimal. Mostly because it came with his strength and warmth and the smell of his aftershave.

Shit!

I said something then. It was loud, but it was lame.

And what it was was, “Ben!”

He didn’t even look at me. He turned to Cindy and said, “I’ll take that now.” She must have given my bag to him because he immediately went on. “Thanks, beautiful. You’ve been great. Got it from here.”

After delivering that, he turned and started walking to his SUV.

I glared around his shoulder at Cindy.

Cindy stood with hands on the handles of the wheelchair and grinned at me.

“I’m canceling that big bouquet of flowers and three-layers-deep box of Fannie May I ordered for the nurse’s station!” I yelled.

She pulled her phone out of her scrubs, lifted it, and I knew she took a picture while Benny opened the back door to his SUV in order to toss my bag in, because she called, “That’s okay. I’ll share this shot with the girls.” She looked from her phone to me. “This’ll be all the thanks we need.”

I had more to say to my now-ex-nurse Cindy, but I lost sight of her and couldn’t retort when Benny deposited me (gently, God!) into the front passenger seat.

I turned my glare to him.

“You aren’t taking me home,” I declared.

“You’re right. I’m not,” he replied, attention on the seatbelt.

He wasn’t?

“I am in your truck, Ben,” I pointed out.

His eyes came to mine, and I was glad he had his shades on because he had beautiful eyes. Amazing. A rich dark brown that could dance with laughter and warm with feeling, both having the capacity to melt your heart.

Unfortunately, his eyes also looked good hidden behind his silver wire-rimmed shades.

“I’m not takin’ you home. I’m takin’ you to my home,” he clarified.

I blinked. I stared. I totally forgot about how cool his sunglasses looked.

Then I lost my mind.

“I’m not goin’ to your house!” I shouted.

“Yeah, you are,” he replied, attention back to the seatbelt he was pulling around me, shoulder strap yanked way out to clear my head.

This was thoughtful. I didn’t need that strap pressing against my body. It would kill.

I ignored his thoughtfulness and declared, “I’m goin’ to my house.”

“Nope. You aren’t.”

“I ordered a taxi,” I told him.

“Found him. Gave him a twenty. Sent him on his way.”

He was leaning in to latch the seatbelt, and since he was that close, I got a good whiff of his aftershave. I also got a good view of the back of his head with his thick, black, wavy hair.

It was hair you’d run your fingers through just because. Any occasion granted you, you’d take it.

If you were standing close and talking.

If you were lying around, tangled up together, watching TV.

If you were kissing.

I closed my eyes.

God really, really hated me.

I opened my eyes. “You can’t send the taxi away. I gave them my credit card. They’re gonna charge me anyway.”

I heard the belt click and he adjusted his position so he was facing me. He was still leaning into the cab of the truck. He was still close. And I could still smell his aftershave.

It was spicy.

Yes, God hated me.

“I’ll reimburse you,” he said.

“Benny, this is not cool,” I snapped. “I’ve just been shot. I don’t need this.”

“You were shot a week and a half ago, babe. And if you felt shit, you wouldn’t be able to mouth off.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

Ben grinned.

My clit pulsed.

Yes. God so totally hated me. He was punishing me. Doing it on earth before He sent me to the fiery depths of hell.

Ben moved out of the cab and slammed my door.

It was at this point that I could make a break for it. Then again, I didn’t think the awkward, painful strolls I’d been taking around the hospital corridors had prepared me to make a desperate dash from lean, fit Benito Bianchi. Hell, if I was in perfect shape, I still couldn’t execute a desperate dash from Benny Bianchi.

So I didn’t make a desperate dash. I glared at him through the windshield as he rounded the hood of his Explorer, and I kept glaring at him as he pulled his long body into the driver’s seat. Committed to this act, I continued to do it as he switched on the ignition and guided the truck away from the curb.

It was then I noticed he didn’t put on his seatbelt.

“It’s law to wear your seatbelt in Illinois, Benny,” I shared snippily.

He didn’t glance at me, kept negotiating the rounding drive out of the hospital, but reached for his seatbelt and clicked it in place.

Well, hell. He took direction. Even snippy direction.

I didn’t need to know that either.

He pulled out onto the street.

“Can you explain why you’re kidnapping me?” I requested to know.

“Kidnapping you?” he asked the road.

“I am in your truck against my volition,” I pointed out.

“Right.” He grinned. I saw it and my mouth went dry. “Then I guess I’m kidnapping you,” he finished good-naturedly.

It was unfortunate that it was highly likely I’d rip my gunshot wound open if I attempted to scratch his eyes out. Furthermore, I didn’t want to survive genuinely getting kidnapped by a madman, running through a forest, ending up shot, only to get in a car accident mere minutes after being released from the hospital.

Therefore, I decided not to do that and instead kept questioning.

“Now that we have that down, can you explain why?”

“’Cause you’re not gonna convalesce under the watchful eye of a mob kingpin.”

“I was heading home, Ben,” I shared.

“And you don’t think Sal wouldn’t have his ass, Gina’s, and every Chicago mob wife and girlfriend up in your shit, catering to your every whim?” he returned. “You’re family and you took a bullet for family. He was your godfather. Now he’s your fairy godfather.”

Pure Benny.

“I wouldn’t let Sal hear you refer to him as my fairy anything,” I advised.

“I don’t give a fuck what Sal hears me say about him.”

It was not surprising that the Bianchis, who owned a family pizzeria and had nothing to do with the Cosa Nostra, weren’t all fired up when Vinnie Junior decided to cast his lot with his uncle Sal. They were less fired up about it when he got whacked during a war Sal found himself in.

There weren’t a lot of people who would disrespect a Mafia boss.

The Bianchis were the exception. And Benny, who loved his brother, loved his mother and father, sister, and other brother, hated to lose Vinnie Junior. He also hated to watch his family suffer that same loss. Therefore, he took that disrespect to extremes.

It scared the crap out of me.

If you knew Salvatore Giglia like I knew him, you would think he was the kindest-hearted man you’d ever met.

But he absolutely was not.

Therefore, my voice was lower when I noted, “You need to be careful about Sal, Ben.”

He glanced at me before looking back to the road while asking, “What? You think he’ll take another son from my father?”

At the reference to Vinnie Junior, I decided I was done talking.

“He would not do that shit,” Benny went on.

No. Sal wouldn’t. He respected Vinnie Senior. He might not eat any shit in his life at all. None.

But he’d eat Benny’s shit because of what happened to Vinnie Junior and because he respected Vinnie Junior’s father.

This was surprising. In Sal’s world, he figured he’d won respect from everyone—save cops, the FBI, and IRS agents—so he demanded it.

But he didn’t mingle at family reunions with cops and FBI agents.

And he ate shit from the Bianchi family.

Particularly Benny.

“Anyway, babe, he’s not here,” Ben finished.

Luckily, this was true.

I decided to keep not talking.

This was because there was nothing to say to his comment. It was also because I had a new strategy.

Silence. Preserve my energy. Get to Benny’s house and ask him to go to the pharmacy for me. Wave him happily away. Call a taxi. Get the fuck out of there.

And not to my home. I’d go to a hotel.

The Drake. I’d always wanted to stay at The Drake and now was my shot.

One last hurrah.

I had a new job in Indianapolis. They’d been pretty cool about the whole me-getting-shot-and-having-to-delay-starting-work-for-them thing. Mostly because I’d been on TV (or my picture had) and they thought I was a hero rather than a crazy bitch on a mission who nearly got herself killed.

So I’d check into The Drake. Live it up for a few days. Get out. Pack up. Go.

Sal would be able to find me.

Ben, probably not.

After a few days, I would feel better and have more fight in me should Benny still not get the hint.

Then I’d be gone.

Benny drove. I watched the city start to engulf us as we left the suburb where I’d been hospitalized and entered the urban area of Chicago.

I tried not to look at it, but it was all around me.

My city.

I’d been born there. I loved it there. I loved The Wrigley Building. I loved Sears Tower. I loved Marshall Field’s (when it was Marshall Field’s). I loved the lakefront. I loved The Berghoff (which, thankfully, was still The Berghoff). I loved Fannie May meltaways and pixies. I loved the ivy on the walls of the outfield at Wrigley Field. I loved the Bears, even when they were losing. I loved the Cubs because they were always losing.

And I loved Vinnie’s Pizzeria. The smell of the place. The feel of the place. The pictures on the walls. The memories.

But I hadn’t stepped foot in Vinnie’s in seven years because I wasn’t welcome.

And it was time for new horizons.

So it was good-bye Chicago and hello new horizons.

“You’re quiet.”

That was Benny.

I wasn’t even looking at him and I got warm just hearing his voice. It was deep and easy. The kind of voice that could talk you out of being in a snit because something went bad at work. The kind of voice that could make your heart get tight as you listened to him talk to a little kid. The kind of voice that would make you feel at peace with the world before you closed your eyes to sleep after he whispered good night in your ear.

I looked out the side window.

“Frankie?” Benny called.

“I’m tired,” I said to the window. That wasn’t entirely true, but luckily my voice sounded like it was.

“Babe,” he replied softly.

Damn. Now his voice was deep and easy and soft.

God so totally hated me.

I felt his finger slide along the outside of my thigh and I closed my eyes tight.

Totally. Hated. Me.

“We’ll get you home, get you to bed, get some decent food in you, turn on the TV, and you can rest.”

Now was my time and I wasn’t going to waste it. “I’m not gonna fight it, Ben, ’cause I can’t. We’ll fight tomorrow. But I need some prescriptions filled, and quick.”

“Ma’s comin’ over. She’ll get you fed and I’ll go out and get your meds.”

My head whipped around at the word “over” and I stared at him in scared-as-shit disbelief. “Theresa’s comin’ over?”

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Yeah, babe. She didn’t fall for your sleep fake either, but she gave you that play. Now she wants to kick in. Make sure you’re all right.”

“I can’t face Theresa.”

Ben’s eyes came to me again and stayed on me a shade longer than they should have, seeing as he was driving. Then he looked back at the road. “Frankie, cara, she wants—”

“I can’t face Theresa.”

His hand came out and folded around mine. “Cara—”

I didn’t fight his hand holding mine. I had another fight I needed to focus on. “I can’t, Ben. Call her. Tell her not to come.”

He squeezed my hand. “Baby, it’s—”

I squeezed his hand. “Ben.” I leaned his way. “Please.”

He did another longer-than-safe glance at me, then he gave me another squeeze before he let me go. He shifted forward in his seat, dug his cell out of his back pocket, and I held my breath.

His thumb moved on the screen and he put it to his ear.

I took a breath, because it was needed for survival, and I held it again.

“Ma, yeah. Listen, Frankie’s with me. She’s good. She’s cool. She’s comin’ home with me, but she needs ’til tomorrow for you. Can you give that to her?”

Tomorrow. I’d bought time. I was golden.

“Thanks, Ma.”

Yes, I was golden.

I did not grin. I heaved a sigh of relief. This was not a victory. I was genuinely freaked about seeing Theresa. I loved her. I missed her. And there was something about the loss of her that cut deeper than any of the Bianchis, save Benny, but I was not going to go there. And, of course, Vinnie, who had no choice but to leave me, except the one he should have made before he hooked his star to Sal.

My ma was the shit. She was hilarious. She was the best wingman a girl could have, be it at a bar or a church. No joke, even at fifty-three, she could rack ’em up and pin ’em down for you, and I knew this because she not only picked Vinnie for me, she scored both my sisters’ husbands for them, not to mention four of her own. She drank like a sailor, cursed like a sailor, and I wasn’t certain, but evidence pointed to the fact that she’d entertained most of the boys who’d been through the Naval Station for the last three decades (plus). I knew this because my father was one of them.

She was any girl’s best friend.

The problem with that was that she’d been my “best friend” since I was two.

A girl needed a mother.

And Theresa Bianchi was that for me.

And then she wasn’t.

I’d waited for twenty-one years to get that for me.

And then it was gone.

“You got a day, darlin’,” Benny said quietly. “A day to prepare. You gotta face her, but more, Francesca, you gotta let her face you.”

“Fine,” I told the window.

“Fine?” Ben repeated on a question.

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “No lip. You are tired.”

“I’ll have my strength back after a nap and we’ll fight about it then,” I lied, because we wouldn’t. I’d be at The Drake while Ben was losing his mind in his empty house.

“You’re on.” He was still muttering, but he had humor in his deep and easy voice now.

Humor from Benny was a killer. He had a great smile. He had a better laugh. And I’d already mentioned how fabulous his eyes were when they were dancing with humor.

He also had a great face. It was more than just drop-dead handsome. It was expressive. Benny Bianchi was not a man who held back emotion. He let it hang out. And there was no time it didn’t look good.

But when he was in a good mood, smiling and laughing, that was the best. I used to go for it—his smiles, his laughter. I used to work for it. Even when Vinnie was alive.

That was how great Benny was when he was laughing.

It was worth the work.

Suddenly, I decided a nap at that precise moment was the way to go. The problem was, when I rested my head on the window, it kept bumping against the glass, which was not conducive to sleep.

So I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes.

Two seconds into this, Benny whispered, “Shoot that fucker again for takin’ the fight outta you.”

At the low rumble of his words, which said he really meant them, I closed my eyes tighter.

He’d shot the man who shot me. His shot was not the kill shot. But he’d shot him.

“Can we not talk about that?” I whispered back.

“Drill him full of holes for takin’ the fight outta you.”

I felt the wet behind my eyes and said nothing.

He took my hand again and I didn’t pull away again. In my effort at holding back the tears, I just didn’t have it in me.

“We’ll get you fightin’ fit again, baby,” he promised me, deep and easy.

We would, but that being the royal “we.”

I didn’t share that.

I took in a deep breath and let it out.

Benny held my hand and he did this a long time. In fact, he did it until he had to let it go to hit the garage door opener on his visor. I opened my eyes when he let me go and I watched him do it. Then I watched him pull into his garage.

Time to instigate Operation Drake.

I did well, even allowing Ben to lift me out of the vehicle and carry me into his house and up the stairs.

My plan fell apart when he carried me into his bedroom.

It went up in smoke when he bent to lay me on his bed.

As he was removing his arms, I caught hold of his wrist.

His eyes came to mine.

He now had his glasses shoved into his hair. No man could shove his glasses up into his hair and look that hot. But Benny could.

God…so…freaking…totally hated me.

“Why am I in your bedroom?” I asked.

“’Cause you need a nap.”

“I can nap in one of the other bedrooms.”

He grinned.

Torture!

“Babe, got shit in my second bedroom,” he shared. “Packed with it. Can barely move, there’s so much shit in there.”

“How do you have so much shit?” I pressed. “You’re a single guy. Single guys don’t accumulate shit.”

“I’m the commissioner of the Little League.”

I stared at him.

Please do not tell me that Benito Bianchi, in a volunteer capacity during the summers, hung on his free time with a bunch of baseball-playing little boys.

But I knew this could be true. First, Vinnie’s Pizzeria sponsored a Little League team every year and had for the last thirty years. Second, Vinnie Junior, Benny, and Manny had all played Little League, then went on to play high school baseball (Vinnie, catcher; Benny, first base; Manny, pitcher). And third, that was something Ben would do because he was a decent guy.

“Season ended, storage space costs when we could use the money for things for the boys, so all their shit is now packed in my second bedroom,” he finished.

“Then put me in your third bedroom.”

“That’s my office.”

This surprised me. “You have an office?”

Another grin. Another indication I was not God’s favorite person. Then, “No. It’s the place where Pop’s old desk is collectin’ dust. Carm’s old computer is collectin’ dust with it. And the rest of the space is packed with the rest of the Little League shit.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Then I can nap on your couch.”

His face got hard. “You ain’t sleepin’ on my couch.”

“Ben—”

“You’re recovering from a gunshot wound.”

“I know that.”

“So you’re not sleepin’ on my couch.”

“For God’s sake, it won’t kill me.”

He ended that particular conversation with, “Nonnegotiable.”

It was at that point I wondered why I was fighting him. Sure, lying in Benny’s bed in Benny’s house, which had the unusual but unbelievably appealing scent of his spicy aftershave mixed with pizza dough clinging to the air, was a thrill I wished I did not have. But he was going to the pharmacy soon and that thrill would be short-lived.

So I shut up.

Ben looked at my mouth.

I swallowed.

Then Benny lifted away and moved around the bed.

He took something from the nightstand opposite and tossed it on the bed beside me. “Ma’s already been here fillin’ the fridge and sortin’ shit. She bought you those.”

I stared at the magazines lying beside me on the bed.

There were a bunch of them and Theresa didn’t mess around. They were all the good ones: juicy, like People and Us, and slick, like Vogue and Marie Claire.

Theresa so knew me.

I swallowed again just as a remote bounced on the magazines.

“TV,” Ben stated and I looked up at him. “Got HBO. Got Showtime. It’s a smart TV. Universal remote. Just hit the screen to get to the smart TV and you can get Netflix. Should keep you occupied ’til you nod off while I’m at the drugstore.”

I looked in the direction of the TV and saw it was at least a sixty-incher.

What human being needed a sixty-inch TV in their bedroom?

This made me wonder what size TV he had in his living room.

As I was wondering this, Benny was rounding the bed again. “Like I said, Ma’s stocked the fridge, but while I’m out, you want me to pick up anything?”

If I knew Theresa, there would not be one thing anyone on the block needed that would be lacking in Benny’s fridge.

However, this was a golden opportunity to buy more time.

Especially if I sent him to more than just the drugstore.

“Tapioca pudding,” I declared.

He stopped at my side of the bed and looked down at me. “Say again?”

“Tapioca pudding. Not the snack-pack size. The big tub.”

He stared at me.

I scrambled to think of more shit he could buy.

“And a trashy romance novel. I don’t care which one, but the less the guy on the cover is wearing, the better. Tattoos are a plus. Leather is another plus. And if there’s an indication that he’s a shifter, buy the whole series.”

“I am not buyin’ books with pictures of guys with no clothes on them,” Benny said, deep and not easy.

It was worth a shot.

I gave up on that and reeled it off. “Fanta Grape. Diet. Chocolate-covered cashews. Cookies from D’Amato’s. And a Lincoln’s sub wouldn’t go amiss.”

His eyes had narrowed at my mention of D’Amato’s, as it would seeing as they were pizza competition to Vinnie’s.

He let that slide, though, and instead noted, “Babe, Lincoln’s is in Hobart.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Francesca, I’m not drivin’ forty minutes to fuckin’ Indiana to buy you a sub.”

“We have to have dinner,” I pointed out.

“Yeah. So later I’m goin’ in to Vinnie’s to make you a pie.”

My heart squeezed.

I’d heard through the grapevine that Benny had succumbed to Vinnie Senior’s pressure and learned the sacred Bianchi art of making a pizza pie. A friend of mine even shared that Vinnie had put up a new sign for the restaurant, changing it from Vinnie’s Pizzeria to Vinnie and Benny’s Pizzeria.

Since learning Benny had taken over the kitchen at Vinnie’s, I’d wanted one of his pies. Ma always said, a guy who cooked was a keeper (advice she did not take herself). What Ma would say if she’d ever met one was that if you found a guy who cooked and looked like Benny, you should consider surgical attachment.

Of course, I hadn’t allowed myself go to Vinnie’s and have one of Benny’s pies. This was because I would have been run out on a rail if I’d tried.

I stopped thinking about Benny making a pizza and said, “Okay, subs tomorrow night then.”

He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.

I needed to move this along so I stated, “I think that’s all.”

He looked at me. “You sure?”

He was being sarcastic.

I didn’t call him on that and just nodded.

His eyes narrowed again.

I attempted to look innocent.

Eventually, he muttered, “Fuck. Be back,” and bent to take the envelope with my prescriptions out of my hand before he started to make a move to the door.

This was a problem, seeing as he carried me in but didn’t carry my bag in. My purse was in my bag and I’d need that to order a taxi.

“Ben, could you bring my bag in before you go?” I called to his departing back.

He turned and leveled his eyes on me. “No. I can’t. ’Cause your shit is in that bag, including your wallet and phone. Got a cell, don’t need a house phone. So you got any bright ideas to take off, you can’t call a taxi, you can’t pay a taxi, and you sure as fuck can’t walk anywhere you could get a taxi. But don’t matter. I’m hittin’ old lady Zambino across the street and tellin’ her to keep an eye out. You know she’ll be glued to the window, I ask. And she’ll call me, she sees you attemptin’ a getaway. I’ll also be hittin’ Tony next door. He’ll keep an eye out back. So you got a bright idea, cara, get rid of it. ’Cause your ass is in that bed until you have a sit-down with Ma, let Pop say his words to make amends, and you and me got a meetin’ of the minds about the future.”

That was when I felt my eyes narrow, even as what he said made my heart beat funny.

“So, what you’re saying is, you actually have kidnapped me.”

“You wanna look at it that way, go ahead. Don’t give a fuck. You took a bullet to the belly, babe. Didn’t hit your gut, but it did damage, so I gave you a week and a half to pull your shit. Now I’m done with that.”

“I think I’ve noticed that since you’ve kidnapped me,” I returned.

“Do you want your pudding and fuckin’ grape soda?” he asked.

“Yes, because that’ll give me something to throw at you,” I answered.

“Okay, both those are off my shoppin’ list,” he shot back. “Do you want your pain meds?”

I snapped my mouth shut because the pain was nagging. I could ignore it while plotting my escape or arguing with Benny. When neither was an option open to me, I had a feeling I couldn’t.

He watched me snap my mouth shut, hesitated only a moment, and then strode back to the bed.

He, however, didn’t hesitate to lean in and wrap a hand around the side of my neck and dip his face so close, I could see those eyes now warm and gentle in a way my heart really wanted to melt. I just wouldn’t let it.

“You’re crazy-brave, babe,” he said quietly. “You proved that a week and a half ago. You’re crazy-beautiful and I ’spect you been that way all your life. You’re crazy-funny. You’re crazy-sweet. But you’re just plain crazy if you think you can do what you did for this family, be the way you were with me that night before they took Cal and Vi, and think I’m lettin’ you move to fuckin’ Indianapolis without us havin’ a conversation. You know what this is. That’s why you’re freakin’ and hidin’. I know what this is. That’s why I’m not lettin’ this shit go.” His fingers squeezed and he got even closer. “We’re talkin’. You don’t like that, I don’t give a fuck. Seven years I been fuckin’ up. Right now, that shit ends.”

And with that, he pulled me to him (but gently, God!), kissed my forehead, let me go, and before I could say a word, he disappeared out the door.

I stared at it, feeling his words gather in my belly, and the way they did, I liked the feeling.

Then I glared at it, wishing I had something to throw, even if he was long gone and I wouldn’t hit him.

The only things I had were magazines and a remote, and if I threw any of them, I’d have to haul myself out of bed and go get them.

So, instead, I took the only option open to me.

I snatched up Ben’s universal remote, pointed it at the TV, and commenced fucking with all of his settings so it would take him at least an hour to sort that shit out.

Done with that, I filled his Netflix favorites queue with programs that would make Homeland Security put him on a watch list.

While I waited for his return, I selected the most non-Benny television show Netflix had to offer (Dr. Who, precisely), let it play in the background, and flipped through my People.

While doing so, I fell dead asleep.

Genuinely.