The Promise(53)

I jumped out of my chair, arms up, mind ignoring the not-insignificant ping of pain that hit my wound, and shouted, “Go Zambino!”

As she and all her posse did when someone got a strike or spare, which was frequently, she turned and instantly started shaking her ass, hands lifted in front of her in jazz hands position, forearms swaying, mouth chanting, “Wowee, wowee, wowee.”

Her posse were all doing the same dance and chant as she moved through them, giving double high fives.

She came to me and her look of joy turned severe.

“Francesca, sit down,” she snapped.

“You rock,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied. “Now sit down. I do not need the entire Bianchi family blaming me for you having a setback due to my stellar performance at the bowling alley.”

I sat but kept my head tipped back and did it grinning at her.

She dropped gracefully into the seat next to me as I declared, “I’m taking up bowling as soon as I’m fully recovered so I can be you when I grow up.”

Her eyes did a scan of my head before she decreed, “You’ll need to learn to tame your hair and use blush as an accent rather than a war stripe if you wish that to become so.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still riding the high of your split,” I told her. “Even you being mean and cranky is not going to pollute that high.”

Her mouth twisted in an effort not to allow me to see her smile.

“I saw that!” I declared, lifting a hand and pointing a finger at her mouth.

She shooed my hand away and stood up, moving toward the seating area at the back of the alley, calling, “Give me my Pepsi-Cola, Loretta.”

As any bowling minion would do, Loretta handed over the queen’s drink.

I turned my eyes to the alley, still grinning, as my phone in my hand rang.

I had managed to get a call in to my old boss and assure him I’d be taking care of business. I’d also managed to get a call in to my new boss to let him know I was still alive and planning on being down in Indianapolis to take the job as soon as I was able. Finally, I had managed to text a number of friends to let them know I was good.

Then I got sucked in by the bowling.

I lifted my phone, looked down at it, and saw a number I didn’t recognize. Since it could be something important about a work thing (old or new), I took the call and put it to my ear.

“This is Frankie Concetti.”

“Babe.”

It was Benny.

My stomach dipped again, a major whoosh, and he hadn’t even kissed me.

“Having a good time?” he asked.

“Mrs. Zambino just nailed the split,” I shared.

“Impressive,” he murmured, humor in his deep and easy voice.

God, he was killing me.

“Supplier didn’t jack us around,” he told me. “Got what I needed to get done done, so I can come and get you.”

“No,” I told him. “I wanna stay ’til the bitter end. Zambino’s posse is kicking ass and taking names, but they do this dance and chant every time they get a strike or spare. I wanna see how they rub it in when they beat the shit outta their opponents.”

His voice was full of laughter this time when he said, “So the answer to my earlier question is, yeah. You’re havin’ a good time.”

I didn’t confirm that because I didn’t want to admit to it for a variety of reasons.

He knew one of those reasons because he muttered, “Crazy-stubborn.”

Whatever.

“Get your calls made?” he asked.

“If I say yes, when I get home, are you gonna confiscate my phone again?”

“No.”

“Then yeah.”

That just got me his laughter.

I sighed and listened to it, enjoying every second.

He quit doing it, and the minute he did, he tore me out of the uncertain world I was letting myself live in and catapulted me into the pit of hell I’d been courting since that day, weeks after Vinnie died, when Ben and I got drunk and I made a crazy, stupid, inebriated, slut move on him.

“Made a reservation at Giuseppe’s. Seven.”

Hearing his words, I sucked in a painful breath.

Giuseppe’s was like Vinnie’s Pizzeria. You had to know it was there to know it was there. It was a neighborhood hangout and they liked it that way. That didn’t mean they didn’t accept whatever business came their way and the growth that came with that. They just were about doing what they did and doing it well, focusing solely on that and rewarding those who understood the meaning of word of mouth.

It was garden level off an alley. They had no parking. They had no listing in the phonebook. You could show up and hope you got a table, or you could be lucky enough to have Giuseppe’s granddaughter, Elena, who now ran the restaurant, give you her phone number so you could make a reservation.