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“Francesca.”
“You don’t like Frankie?”
“I like it, just never been called that before.”
I tease her a little more. “I can call you Duchess?” She scrunches her nose at that. “Lady D?”
“That’s even worse.” She pouts.
I want to reach out and haul her into my arms and kiss those sweet plump lips, but instead, I say, “Frankie it is, then. Now, point me in the direction of what you want done.”
“We can start with the boxes behind you. They should all be kitchen stuff,” she replies. She moves to grab a box, and I stop her.
“No way. I tote and carry, you unpack.” I can tell she’s about to protest, so I add, “Trust me, you’re going to have plenty to do putting stuff away.” I carry the first box into the kitchen and rip open the lid. The stuff looks brand-new, and most of the items are in their original packaging.
Francesca begins to pull out small appliances, taking her time wiping them down and finding just the right spot for them. Everything she owns is high-end brand-named stuff. I notice her taking the owner’s manuals and putting them aside in a drawer with other manuals she’s accumulated.
The next box is full of cookbooks. Francesca lovingly holds them close to her chest before arranging them on a special shelf at one end of the room.
“You like to cook?” I ask.
“I don’t know how, but I want to learn. The last time I spent any time in the kitchen was with my Grandma Nora. She loved to be in the kitchen. Grandma Nora used to make dinner every night for Grandad Ian. No matter how busy they were, they always found time for one another. When I moved in with them, I really wanted to learn from her, but I never made the time. One of my greatest regrets.” She sighs. “Most of these are hers. She has all her special recipes earmarked. I want to try them all. I’m sure I’ll never be as good as Grandma Nora, but I’m going to give it a go.” There’s a wistful expression on her face. She clearly misses them.
“Maybe they can come visit once you’re settled,” I suggest.
“I’m afraid they’ve passed on,” she says sadly.
“I’m sorry.” It’s a lame thing to say, but it’s all I can think of.
“Do you have family?” she asks as she continues to set the books on the shelf.
“My parents have retired in Florida. I try to visit as often as I can. I love my mom and dad, but I need some distance. Mom has a tendency to treat me like I’m still five.” I chuckle.
“There could be worse things.” A simple phrase, but very telling.
“Your parents aren’t around?” Her expression says I’m right. “What happened?”
“My father died when I was a baby. Plane crash. Mom died a while back. She had muscular dystrophy, and eventually, it took her life.”
“All alone in the world,” I murmur.
“I wish,” she mumbles. She straightens her shoulders and plasters a practiced smile onto her lips. “You don’t want to hear all this.” She promptly changes the subject. “Can you get me that other box?” She indicates a box at the top of another pile.
I drop the subject. Pushing too hard will only push her away from me. I do as she asks and start to unload dishes, setting them on the counter until she can decide where she wants them. We spend the next couple of hours mainly talking about me. I tell her about my sister, Izzy, and how she’s married to Saint and, in turn, to the club. I expect Francesca to freak out when she hears about the motorcycle club, but she doesn’t. Instead, she seems intrigued.
“It must be wonderful to live with the mindset of freedom and riding out whenever you like.” Francesca’s eyes are bright and excited.
“It is. But we also work for our future. We work hard and we play hard. Guard is selective about the men who are allowed to join Satan’s Pride. We’re a tight brotherhood. Loyalty, honor, and respect, those are the words we live by.”
“So, you’re not one of those clubs that are always in trouble?” she teases.
“Our businesses are legitimate. That’s the way we want it. Sofia is the club lawyer, and she’s married to a club brother. I’m not going to say that trouble doesn’t come our way, because that would be a lie, but we never start a war. But we’ll sure as fuck end it.”
“Trouble comes in many forms. I can understand problems creeping up on you. I’ve been sucked into a vortex of problems myself lately. I’m hoping the worst is over.” She doesn’t give any details, but now I want to know who the hell is causing her problems. I know better than to pursue the subject, though.
When Francesca’s stomach starts to rumble, I notice it’s getting late, way past the dinner hour. “Do you like pizza?” I ask.
“Do they deliver?”
