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“Frankie,” she yells back, then turns around again and continues to walk away. My eyes follow her beautiful form until she is a speck in the landscape on the other side of the park. Looking down at Prince, who is now at my side sitting near my feet like a well-behaved stately hound, I pat his head. “Frankie,” I say out loud to him, and he looks at me and barks, clearly just as smitten as I am.
2
Frankie
As I walk away, I need to fight the urge to look back. To look back at the man who completely took my breath away. His dog was pretty cute too. Prince, such a fitting name considering the man attached to him is a king in this town. Marco Marshall. I knew exactly who he was the minute my eyes caught his, but not before my body started to betray me as we stood so closely to each other. Thank God Prince jumped on us, waking me up from my body’s involuntary reaction to his. I have never felt such a spark with a man just from their energy. My stomach is still doing somersaults, my face is still blushed, my legs are still wobbly. All because of him.
His family are extremely well-known business tycoons who are not only known for their business success and wealth, but also for the criminal drama that has plagued them for the past few years. They are always in the media, and I am surprised that he can walk around the gardens on a Sunday without any paparazzi following him.
Now, after having seen him up close, I can see why people are so interested in him. The man is extremely good-looking, with dark hair and an immensely seductive smile. He’s tall and obviously works out because he has large shoulders and taut muscles that his shirt molded to flawlessly. But his eyes, they are piercing blue, different to what you normally see on dark-haired men and they are striking. One look from him and my breath left my body; I was transfixed. I couldn’t move away from him, I could only stare and breathe him in. My hands were itching to touch him.
I shake my head to dislodge the thoughts. I can’t be daydreaming. Daydreaming about attractive men is for other women, not me. I need to remain hidden, away from prying eyes, at least for a little while longer. Luckily, I stepped away when I did. I need to stay the hell away from him if I want any chance of a normal life. Thank God the chances of running into him again are slim because I never come to the park. I don’t go out, I don’t socialize. I can’t be seen. Even being at the park today was a big step, but it was too beautiful a day to stay indoors. I ensure I live very simply and try my best to not attract attention to myself. I can’t. It is too dangerous.
Walking quickly to the other side of the park, I try to get as much distance between us as I can before I let out the breath that I was holding in. I lean against a tree, shielding myself from his view and close my eyes to calm my beating heart. The heart that I thought no longer had any life to it is now all of a sudden roaring to attention, which started the minute Marco’s hand grabbed mine to help me up. His hands were big, and he had no trouble pulling me to my feet. Sure, I was short next to him, but what I lack in height, I have in passion. I am Italian after all.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, apparently too loudly because the older lady walking past with her Chihuahua shakes her head at me as if to tsk tsk and walks away quickly. I roll my eyes. If only she knew that I learned swear words before I did English or Italian in my house growing up. Dirty language was a common daily occurrence in my home. Not that papa or mama would tolerate it, but it happened all the same. Growing up with an older brother in the type of family that I come from, I learned a lot and very quickly.
Papa’s men were always around our house, using language that wasn’t fit for a young girl like me. I was bound to pick it up and use it. It isn’t the only thing that I was taught, though. Not that I have had to use my other skills recently, and I don’t want to, ever again. I do not want that life for myself. Not any of it. I just want to be normal. Just a normal girl in a normal world.
I want to forget a lot of what I know, a lot of who I know, and a lot of what I’ve seen. It isn't easy being the youngest daughter of an Italian family, especially of a family like mine. I miss them, I do, but it is better this way. It is better for me not to be near them. I don’t want that life. Not that they gave me a choice. No, I don’t get choices in my family, I just get expectations and requirements. I can’t ask questions. I need to do what I am told and when they tell me to do it.
It worked out just fine for me while I was young, but as soon as I got through puberty, the level of expectation changed, and I didn’t want to conform to that anymore. When papa told me what he expected me to do next in order to secure the family and our business, I had to make a choice. So, I did, with help from my older brother, Sebastian.
Sebastian has looked after me since the day I was born and continues to do so today. Sure, his position in the family is a significant one, but we are close, and I know he has my back and I have his. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. He is the only one who helped me, the only one who could get me out, the only one I trust.
I look at my watch. I have an hour before my shift starts at the neighborhood bar where I work, so I continue walking and make my way home to have a quick shower and get ready for the night. I still don’t look back as I march across the park and through the backstreets to my small but cozy apartment on Willow Street, tucked away safely where no one will look for me.
I open the front door of the building and push my way inside, ensuring it locks behind me. I take the stairs to my top floor apartment and lock those doors behind me as well. Throwing my keys on the bench, I make my way into the kitchen to grab a glass from the cupboard before standing near the sink and filling it.
My apartment is all mine and I love it. It is warm and inviting, even without any photos or other family keepsakes that many other people have in their homes. I have everything I need, and it is secure, which is my biggest priority. I am safe here. It is my haven. With only one bedroom, a small sitting room and kitchen, and a tiny bathroom, it is home, and has been for the past eight months since I moved here from New York. Leaning against the kitchen bench, I silently sip my water and get lost in my thoughts again of Prince and his King.
Just as I start to put my glass down on the kitchen bench, my phone rings. Startled, my hand jerks and I bang the glass onto the side of the bench, breaking it on impact in my grip, glass and water going everywhere.
Pain shoots across my hand and blood starts to pour down my fingers. “Fuck!” I say again for the second time in under an hour as I take my hand and place it under the running water in my kitchen sink. My phone continues to shrill beside me. Grabbing it, I see on the screen it is Sebastian, which is odd, because we only talk on certain days at certain times and today is not one of them.
“Hi,” I say as I answer it quickly trying to contain the pain that is burning through my palm.
“Lay low for a few days,” he replies before the phone clicks and the line goes dead.
All it takes is that small statement and my world begins to move on a totally different trajectory. It is a warning, and I already know that I need to stay at home. I can’t be seen, and home is the safest place for me to be. I send a quick text to Alf at the bar to let him know I won’t be in, and then I drop my phone on the kitchen counter.
Blood continues to pour down my hand and the running water does little to alleviate it. Pulling it away for closer inspection, I can see that the cut across my palm is deep and will need stitches. I squeeze my eyes shut in despair. It is painful, sure, but it is nothing compared to what I have experienced before. I put it back under the water, hoping that there are no glass fragments stuck in the cut and think about what I need to do now.
The warning from my brother is not unusual. It is normal for me to lay low every few weeks, and I prepare in advance for it in terms of having food and supplies so I don’t need to leave home—even for a moment.
Usually, I just stay home for a few days and any threat usually subsides. But this is different. Because now I need medical attention. Turning off the kitchen faucet, I grab a towel from the drawer and wrap my hand as tightly as I can in the hope it stops the flow of blood. I walk into my bathroom and look through my supplies under the sink. I have bandages and saline, so I grab both along with my medical kit and walk back to the kitchen bench and take a seat on the stool. I place everything down on the bench and get to work.
I have never had to stitch myself up before, and the thought makes me a little nervous and slightly queasy, especially since I am right-handed and it is my right hand that I need to fix. I fumble around trying to get everything organized, doing the best I can with my left hand. I wash my wound with saline, spilling most of it and then grab some alcohol wipes, hoping to God that I don’t get an infection.
Using my very uncoordinated left hand, I try to start the stitches, but the blood is still flowing freely, making it very difficult to see what I am doing and get the stitches right. The throbbing increases and now that I have started sewing the skin together the pinching pain adds to the pressure. But I breathe through it all. Feel no fear, feel no pain. The chant runs on repeat in my mind, giving me strength.
My left hand continues to fumble, and I huff out in frustration as I look at my hand. It is still bleeding, my bench now decorated with red blotches. I am making such a mess. I know I shouldn’t leave, but if I don’t get stitched up then my hand could be in serious trouble. I don’t want to get an infection because a hospital visit cannot happen right now. I also don’t want to have a large scar because that will just identify me more. So, I sit at home applying pressure to the wound and I wait a few hours until the sun goes down. Once dark, I grab my bag and walk the backstreets to the only place I know to go. Hoping and praying that no one sees me on my way.
3
Marco
My head is pounding, and I rub my eyes in frustration. I have tackled five meetings for this deal this week, and still, the team can’t get it over the line. I am tired and frustrated, and I can’t concentrate any longer. Since Prince ran off on me at the park on Sunday, he has been like a kid in a candy shop, running here, there, and everywhere. He is full of energy and no amount of morning running will help. It’s only Thursday, and I have already run more than I usually would in a whole week. Each morning I have taken him out before work and then again when I get home because he is too jumpy at night to settle down.
