Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“My mother passed away when I was young,” Frankie replies. His face is a mask of stone that hides a well of grief.
“How did she die?” I ask.
“Cancer,” he says. “It happened really fast. One minute she was fine, and then a few months later, she was gone.”
“Did they do chemo or something?” I ask softly. I don’t know anyone who has passed away from cancer, but I’m sure there are medical solutions out there.
“They did,” Frankie confirms. “It didn’t work for her.”
“Your father must have been devastated,” I surmise. I don’t even mean to bring up Francisco. He’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. But the additional information gives me some insight into my target’s mental state. I view Francisco Corello as a human being instead of just a cold-blooded killer. I don’t like that new vantage point. I’d much prefer to continue hating him.
Frankie smiles sadly. “He was. What about your parents? How did they cope with your brother’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We don’t talk about it.”
“You should,” Frankie advises. “Not that I’m one to talk. We’re not your average family, if you know what I mean.”
“Your billions of dollars?” I guess.
“It’s not that,” he replies cryptically, but I know exactly what he means.
I clear my throat. This conversation is hitting far too close to home. I need to regroup, commit to my purpose, and pump Frankie for more information. “What’s in the box?” I ask.
“Right,” he declares, understanding that the subject of death in the family is now closed. “I brought a few salads and some roast chicken.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
Frankie unpacks a few containers and hands me a fork. I investigate one bin, peeling off the bright red top to get a whiff of what’s inside. It’s some kind of pasta with olives and olive oil. It smells delicious.
“This looks amazing,” I say, taking a tentative forkful. “Where did you get this?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says.
“Why would I laugh?” I wonder.
“My private chef made it,” Frankie admits.
“Oh, your private chef?” I tease him.
“Yeah, I’m that guy,” he responds with just the right amount of humor.
“What else did your private chef make?” I wonder.
“Here,” he says, handing me another dish. “Try the coleslaw.”
I settle down, much more comfortable with the topic of food choices than mortality. We pass a lovely hour as we work our way through one home-cooked delicacy after another. The chicken is moist and tender, and all the side dishes are extraordinary.
“If you have food of this caliber in your home, you’ll have to invite me over,” I say. I’m tossing the suggestion out as if it has no consequences, but secretly I’m hoping he’ll say yes. More than going into the restaurant for some takeout or hanging around the library looking up names in old phone books, I want to be where the action is.
If I can secure an invitation to the Corello family compound, I might really understand the whole situation. It will give me tons of material for my article, and I might even find something to confirm my suspicions. I don’t know what that something might be, but if there’s anything at all that will help me bring the Corellos to justice, I’m positive it’s in their house.
Frankie doesn’t answer me and I’m not sure if I’ve pushed too far. He doesn’t strike me as a dangerous person, and I’m no longer sure he knows all the details about his father’s business. But he must know something because he’s strangely quiet about the prospect of inviting me over for dinner.
I don’t want to push my luck and repeat my request, so I give up. This whole dance we’re doing is very delicate. I want him to trust me, so I have to move slowly. I can tell he doesn’t suspect that I have an ulterior motive. To him, we’re just two young people sharing a picnic lunch in the park.
I wish that were the case. If everything were equal, I might even enjoy spending time with Frankie. But he’s caught up in one of the largest and most powerful criminal conspiracies in the city. And I’m the one who’s going to take him down. He just doesn’t know it yet.
If he doesn’t invite me over to his house today, he will. I’ll keep working on it, chipping away at his resolve until he absolutely has to introduce me to his father. If that means I have to make him fall in love with me, so be it. I’m not above breaking his heart to get what I want.
I feel like I’m channeling rage through my veins. It allows me to do things I would otherwise find abhorrent, like using Frankie to get to his father. I tell myself that I have a right to discover who killed my brother. I cling to my duty as a sister to get to the bottom of the crime. But even though I don’t feel like I have any choice in the matter, I’m still sick to my stomach. I wasn’t expecting to care about Frankie. Now that I do, I still must betray him.