The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(99)

The guy was research and development at a pharmaceutical company, so secretive was part of the job description. But on my first day, I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement that was twelve freaking pages long, and I was management, as was everyone on our floor. I had stock options. I liked getting my salary. I liked the zeroes at the end of that salary. I’d hardly screw that pooch, nor would anyone on that floor. Especially since, if we did, we’d be memorizing the inside of a courtroom and selling a kidney to afford our attorneys because Wyler would sue us until we were living in a box on the street.

Still, a girl had to make an effort and I worked with the guy.

So I stopped by his door and was about to knock, just to give him a wave as a nonverbal good-bye, when I heard him speak.

“I don’t give a f**k. It’s the last time, no more. You come at me again, you will force my hand, and how you force it, you will not like. Are you understanding me?”

He didn’t sound happy, and the words were definitely not happy, so I did not knock. I backed away and headed to the elevators, thinking maybe I should give up on Randy. Nothing Randy did gave any indication he was anything other than what he seemed to be.

A dick.

And it was my experience that dicks weren’t worth the time, even (and maybe especially) when you worked with them.

I gratefully left that behind and was in my car, happy to be heading home. A home that was a kickass apartment that had a courtyard with patio furniture I could finally use. A home in which a hot guy I was coming to love (okay, I was mostly there already) was waiting for me, and after two weeks of phone calls with him, we had three unadulterated days together.

These were my blissful thoughts when my phone rang.

I’d tossed my cell on my purse in the seat beside me, but my Bluetooth was in the vinyl around my stick shift.

I snatched it up, put it in my ear, and hit Go.

“You’ve reached Francesca Concetti,” I greeted.

“Frankie, amata.”

Sal.

“Hey, Sal.”

“You’re well?” he asked.

“Yep. You?”

“Things are good,” he answered.

“Gina?”

“Gina, not so good.”

I felt my neck get tight.

I knew I shouldn’t. Ben was right, Sal was probably a sociopath. But I still liked him.

I could easily blame him for Vinnie’s death, but he didn’t twist Vinnie’s arm to make Vinnie work for him. He didn’t say no to Vinnie joining his crew, but still, that was all on Vinnie.

And when Vinnie was working for Sal, before, and definitely after, Sal and his wife, Gina, were good to me. Take out the Mafia part and they would have been the parents I would have wanted to have.

I’d never say it to Vinnie Senior and Theresa, because they’d lose their minds and probably never speak to me again, but Sal and Gina were a lot like them.

Sal was a little more intense, rougher around sharp edges that were covered in a veneer of refinement that came with money and power. Gina was a little quieter than Theresa, but she found ways to do what she had to do as an Italian woman, mother, and grandmother, which consisted of meddling, getting her way, and controlling her family.

Sal did not like me and look after me just because Vinnie died and he felt that was his duty. He cared about me. Genuinely. The same with Gina.

Seeing as he was a crime boss and she was his spouse, the smart thing to do after Vinnie died would have been to extricate myself from their lives to the point it was just about Christmas cards, eventually losing their address and stopping even that.

But I was me. Frankie.

And apparently, even when I should, I didn’t bail.

This thought would have made me smile, but I didn’t smile because I was worried about Gina.

“Something’s wrong?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, amata, somethin’s wrong. She’s got a lotta love for her Frankie. She hears her girl has moved to Indy but comes home to Chicago frequently and she doesn’t get a call? She doesn’t get an offer to meet for coffee? Her girl doesn’t come over and sit at our table?”

Shit.

I drew in a deep breath and shared quietly, “Sal, honey, you probably know, but I’m seeing Benny Bianchi.”

“I know, cara, and good for you. Good for him. It’s about time that boy pulled his head outta his ass.”

I blinked at the road.

Sal kept going.

“Now he’s shoved it right back in. He finally got you where he’s been wantin’ you and where are you? In Indy. He’s in Chicago. Amata, what is that?”

“I had a job to take in Indy, Sal.”

“And he’s got a pizzeria that makes more money than Tiffany’s, Francesca.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, slowing for a stoplight.

I heard him expel an exasperated breath, then explain like I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, “It isn’t like you gotta work.”

Oh. That was what it meant.

“That’s not the kind of woman I am, Sal.”

“Benny got his head outta his ass…again…he’d have words with you and make you that kind of woman.”

I reminded myself he was a mob boss—a mob boss who loved me, but a mob boss who very likely did a variety of pretty scary things to people who pissed him off.