The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(13)

He intended to sleep on the couch.

This made me feel relief.

It also made me feel a niggle of gloom.

I’d been alone a long time. Living alone. Sleeping alone. Keeping myself to myself.

I knew Ben was dangerous and I knew prolonged exposure to him would increase that danger significantly.

That didn’t change the fact that he was not hard to look at, it was not a hardship to watch him move, I got a kick out of squabbling with him, and it far from sucked waking up with my cheek to his chest, his arm wrapped around me, the feel and smell of him everywhere.

Obviously, I not only didn’t share this, I didn’t let these thoughts show.

Instead, I mumbled, “Whatever. Until you release me from captivity, I’ll go through the motions to avoid the hassle.”

“You’ve never gone through the motions to avoid hassle,” he returned. “You’ve gone through the motions to deflect attention so you can carry out whatever scheme you’re hatchin’.”

I focused on him. I did it intently and with some annoyance I didn’t bother to hide because it was annoying that he knew I was plotting.

He grinned at my reaction and kept talking.

“Like I said, bein’ straight up, Frankie. You should know I’m not fallin’ for your shit. So whatever girl you got lined up to help you make your getaway, get that shit out of your head. Old lady Zambino saw what you did on TV. She knows you took one for family and she’s all over keepin’ you safe and settled, recuperatin’ at my house. Probably half a second after my chat with her enlisting her officially in the cause, she was on her phone with that bowlin’ posse of hers and, swear to God, I saw one of those women in her Chrysler, cruisin’ the alley when I got home. You’re stuck. Give in to that and this’ll go a whole lot smoother.”

Old lady Zambino lived across the street from Benny. Old lady Zambino was Italian. Old lady Zambino was nosy. And if she knew anyone referred to her as “old lady Zambino,” she would hire a hit on them.

She was in her eighties, but she looked like she was in her fifties. She had peachy-red hair she wore up in a puffy ’do fastened at the back through curls. She was trim and fit. She wore jeans, nice blouses, and high heels. She had weekly manicures done to her talons and was never without one of her signature nail polishes: gold or wine red in the winter (scarlet red for the Christmas season); silver or fuchsia in the summer (pale pink for Easter). Her face was always made up perfectly, and she was the poster child for a good skincare regime because she had wrinkles, just not many of them.

She power walked daily and she did this in sporty athletic gear that many would say she should leave to the twentysomethings, but she worked that shit like no other.

She also played with a team of old lady bowlers in three different leagues and they took that shit seriously. If there was a senior ladies tour, she’d be the champion. Her famed ball was a marbled black with hot pink, gold, and silver veins, and she carted her ass and that twelve-pounder from alley to alley without effort and with a great deal of determination.

If she and her bowling buddies intended to keep me at Benny’s, they’d succeed.

In other words, it was time for me to act on the fly and hatch a different scheme.

So I did it.

“Does it bother you in the slightest that I don’t want to be here? That I don’t want this talk you wanna have? That I don’t wanna let Theresa have a sit-down with me? That I don’t want your dad to say his words to make amends? I just want to get on with my life after seven not-very-great years, and before that, six years with Vinnie that I realized too late weren’t real great, all of that ending with me running through the forest with a woman I did not know, and a grand finale of blood and bullets and a fair amount of gore. Which, luckily, wasn’t all mine, but watchin’ Cal blow a hole in that man’s head was not fun, even though I hate that man and I’m glad he’s rottin’ in hell.”

“Frankie—”

I shook my head. “No, Ben. I’d really like to get in your truck and for you to take me home, then leave me alone. I think I made the leavin’-me-alone part pretty clear the night I got shot because I told you that, straight up. Then I made it clear a more subtle way, hopin’ you’d get it, fakin’ sleepin’ every time you or one of your family showed at the hospital. Now you’re bein’ straight, I’ll be straight right back. I do not want what you want; I want to be left alone.”

I should have known by the look on his face that I liked way too much that what would come next would be a blow, but I stupidly didn’t brace.

So when he whispered, “But…you’re family, baby,” it was a blow.

Because it was the wrong thing to say.

It hurt. Too much.

Emotional pain was far worse than a gunshot wound and I was in the position to know.

I’d wanted that…once. I got it…once.

Then they took it away.

“Family doesn’t turn their back on family for seven years, especially doin’ that shit when one of their own loses the man in her bed.”

I saw his flinch. He tried to hide it, but I saw it.

He recovered from my hit and his voice was gentle (and, thus, beautiful) when he asked, “So you know what family does, cara?”

“Uh…yeah,” I snapped. “I know what family does.”