The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(103)

Ben shook his head, his eyes pinning Dad to the spot across the room, and he kept going.

“No. Frankie will put up with that shit because she’s a good woman, a good daughter. She’s Frankie. But I’m her man and I’m tellin’ you right now, I won’t.”

Dad squared his shoulders and declared, “Maybe we should leave.”

“Good idea,” Ben shot back, shifting immediately, taking me with him so we were no longer barring the door.

It was then that Dad did what Dad did when anything threatened to drag him down.

He escaped the situation immediately.

And in this instance, that meant him not looking at a single soul—not even the woman carrying his child, standing right there, not the daughter he’d come to see—and walking right out the door.

“This was a very bad idea and I’m so sorry,” Chrissy said quietly, moving to follow him.

“Again, not your place to apologize,” Ben said.

She nodded to him and would have only given me an embarrassed glance and a chin dip to say good-bye, but I didn’t let her.

As she passed me, I grabbed her hand.

She stopped and looked at me.

“Am I havin’ a brother or sister?”

Hope flared in her eyes and I got further ticked at my father, because seeing it, I knew she wanted this to go a whole lot better than it did. I also knew giving her child family was important. So I knew if I ever got to know her, I’d probably like her.

“Sister,” she answered.

I smiled. It was small but I gave her that and whispered, “You probably need to go, but call Enzo Junior. Get my number. Keep in touch.”

Bright filled her eyes and she whispered back, “I thought this would be a happy surprise. I never would have come with Enzo if I’d known—”

I cut her off with my hand tightening around hers. “I’m sorry for you it wasn’t. But I do wish you the best bringin’ my little sister into the world.”

She nodded and squeezed my hand back, saying softly, “Thanks, Francesca. And I’ll call your brother. Get your number.”

“Good,” I replied. “Now make him be safe driving you two home,” I ordered, dipping my head to her belly.

She grinned at me, no bright in her eyes this time, nodded again, and hurried out the door.

The instant it closed, Ben stated, “Pure f**kin’ Frankie.”

I looked his way. “What?”

“Your best bet is to steer clear of that situation, which is right now not good with the forecast of gettin’ real f**kin’ messy, and you tell her to keep in touch.”

“She’s carrying my baby sister,” I returned.

“Yeah. Pure f**kin’ Frankie.”

It was then I processed the look on his face.

So I smiled.

Ben didn’t smile.

He ordered, “Come here, Francesca.”

Our happy reunion delayed by a crazy one, unusually, I immediately did what I was told.

* * * * *

“Frankie, tesorina, stop.”

I closed my eyes, slid Benny out of my mouth, and took my time looking up at him.

It was after the scene with Dad, time for the good reunion after the bad, and things hadn’t started great.

And that was all on me.

It might have been being wound up by Dad’s visit and his news. It could also be what he’d said about me scoring the good Bianchi.

But it was mostly about me thinking that it was high time I saw to something I hadn’t seen to since Benny and I got physical.

He frequently went down on me to spectacular results every single time.

Either due to unconsciously avoiding it or the fact that Ben guided things in bed (completely), I’d never returned the favor.

Now, I was.

And I was tense, in my head, knowing he knew from Vinnie that I wasn’t good at it, worried he was thinking the same thing, and trying too hard.

I opened my eyes and looked his way and there it was. I wasn’t good at it. Ben’s face did not look at all like the dark hunger I was used to seeing when we were naked.

“Come here, baby.”

I didn’t want to go there.

I wanted to grab my phone and run to the bathroom, lock myself in, and exist on pizza and Chinese deliveries through the window until I knew Benny was gone and he’d made the decision never to see me again.

“Frankie, come here,” Ben repeated.

I still didn’t move, because I was frozen with humiliation.

I’d been embarrassed a lot in my life.

Like when I was seven and my mother wore that black, slinky, wraparound dress to church that had so much cle**age, it almost showed nipple, and Father Patrick’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he came out to give mass. Not to mention, when he gave it, his face was tight and I knew he was displeased with my mother and the fact that all the men were paying more attention to her br**sts than his sermon.

Also the many times my father would run into someone he didn’t get along with too well, and it wouldn’t matter where we were—at a Cubs’ game, at a Burger King—he couldn’t ignore it. He’d say something smartass and the guy would return it and it was never pretty. He’d even once goaded a man who was with his wife and kids and didn’t want to be drawn in. But Dad didn’t stand down until the man had no choice but to call him out.