Page 2 of Made in Love and Blood

After the other voices in the room also seemed to move to another space, Francesca still sat with her legs crossed. She rocked back and forth slightly to ease the pressure down below. It didn’t help. Now she wished she had come out for her father’s whistle.

“Hey, don’t you know people are looking for you?”

Francesca didn’t know what did it—the sudden voice, the way she jerked backward when light spilled under the table, or the piercing green gaze of the boy scowling at her from where he lifted the tablecloth. Either way, there went her pee.

On the floor, soaking into the crinoline and silk of a brand-new dress, and it even got in her shoes. There was no hiding the way the liquid pooled out beyond her skirt, or the tears that instantly welled in her wide eyes.

“Oh, shit,” the dark-haired boy proclaimed. “Did you pee yourself?”

All she could do was nod. She knew his name, and his face was familiar enough to say she had seen it around more than once, but it wouldn’t make its way to the tip of her tongue. Those tears kept getting in the way. So did her sudden hiccups.

“What are you, like, five?”

“E-eight,” she sobbed.

“What?”

His indignation didn’t help her sudden fit of tears. Without warning, the boy snagged her by the wrist and pulled her out from beneath the table. He muttered something about helping her, but Francesca said nothing back, only kept her head down, tagged along and hoped no one else noticed. And what about the mess they left behind?

Oh, God.

She didn’t really notice where he directed them until he pulled her into a room, and the door shut behind them. Already lit, a small bathroom with wood paneling and a black claw tub and matching pedestal sink caught her eye. He pointed at the closed toilet lid and demanded she sit.

So, she sat.

“Okay, okay, okay,” the boy rushed to say. “I’m sorry about that. Did I scare you?”

She shook her head and sniffled.

“A little, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she croaked. “I was holding it for a long time, though.”

“Why would you do that? Don’t you know that’s bad for you?”

“Well, yeah! But I also wasn’t supposed to be there!”

The look he gave her, all sly and knowing, said more than enough.

“I can try to find you some clothes,” he offered. “We have friends, some are girls, that come play on the weekend. They leave shit everywhere.”

Just like that, she remembered his name.

“You’re Nico, right?”

A grin twisted at his lips, but it didn’t look entirely happy.

“Yeah, Nico Russo. That’s what they call me.”

Francesca attended his last birthday party. A couple of months earlier, in the winter. Right after Christmas. He turned ten.

She didn’t go to his older brother’s party a couple of weeks ago. Not that she cared; that boy was mean.

“Do you want me to get somebody?” Nico asked while stepping backward until his fingers curved the rim of the black pedestal sink. “Your dad, maybe?”

She didn’t get the chance to say answer. The bathroom door banged open and she noticed her stepmother first. Nico’s father, a tall, large Italian man with a booming voice stood right next to Carina. She couldn’t distinguish the rest of the figures in the mix although she thought she heard her father.

Carina’s shrieking had Frankie shriveling on the toilet and sniffling from a fresh round of tears. She truly hated that woman. Every single part of her.