DeLuca (Mafia Romance)

Enzo

Present

Plenty.

The word kept rolling around in my brain as we made our way back into the city. She’d said there was plenty she didn’t know about me; I wondered if that meant there was plenty I didn’t know about her.

Frankie headed straight for her room to change when we got back to her apartment. I’d never understand that. Those legging things she wore all day were basically pajamas, so why she felt the need to change as soon as she got home was beyond me. Although, on second thought, if it meant she broke out those shorts again I was all for it. I was still having dreams about those things.

She came rushing out of her room a few minutes later murmuring “No, no, no,” under her breath as she tore through the living room and kitchen searching for something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My sweatshirt-the hoodie I was wearing earlier-have you seen it?” she asked as she frantically lifted up the couch cushions and tossed throw pillows out of her way.

“What? No, I haven’t seen it; you probably just forgot where you put it,” I said sitting on the couch she’d just ransacked.

“No, I didn’t. I always put it on the chair in my bedroom when I take it off. I never put it anywhere else. Why are you still sitting there? Get up and help me find it!” she screeched.

My hackles went up immediately; she wanted me to get up and search for some guy’s sweatshirt? Like hell.

“Why do you care so much about the thing. It’s just a hoodie.”

“Because it’s mine!”

“It looked like it was a men’s sweatshirt,” I said offhandedly.

She stopped her searching and whirled around on me. “Did you take it? I swear to God, Enzo…”

“No, I didn’t fucking take it, but I’d like to know who’s it was.”

“I told you, it’s mine,” she said, returning to her search.

“I meant before it was yours. Did it belong to an old boyfriend? Is there someone you’re not telling me about? Because even if you don’t think this guy is capable of it, he could still be the stalker.”

“He’s not,” she protested.

“How do you know?” I challenged.

“Because he’s you!” she snapped, turning to face me once again.

“What?”

“It’s the sweatshirt you gave me before you left for boot camp,” she admitted.

“You kept it this whole time?”

“Yes, okay! I like to…” she trailed off mid-sentence. “No,” she breathed and took off down the hallway towards her bedroom and I followed close behind.

Coming to a stop at the doorway to her bedroom I watched her pick up a picture frame that had been set facedown, with an unsteady hand. “The first time I came home and this was facedown I thought it’d just fallen over,” she explained, flipping the frame over. She screamed and dropped it as soon as she caught sight of the picture inside.

Confused, I picked the picture up off the floor to examine it. Through the cracked glass I could see what had caused her reaction. I remembered the picture well. It was Eddie, Frankie, and me when we were kids, except my face had been scratched out and the words ‘he’s a dead man’ were carved cruelly over my body.

“He was here again,” she breathed. “How did he get in? You changed the locks; we were only gone for a few hours.”

“Calm down. At least now we know this isn’t just about you, it’s about both of us. It might help us find this guy. Is there anything else that looks out of place or missing?” I asked.

Fear crossed her face and tears started to fill her eyes. She started to shake her head violently then turned and dove to the floor at the foot of her bed. Reaching underneath, she pulled out an old hat box and scrambled to remove the lid, letting out an agonizing moan when she was finally able to get a look at the contents of the box.

“Why?!” she wailed between sobs.

I walked around the bed and sunk to my knees in front of her. She was screaming ‘why’ over and over again so loud that I was sure someone would call the cops. I reached for the box and pulled it toward me to inspect the contents.

Inside the box were hundreds of bits of paper crudely cut up into pieces. I noticed one of the larger pieces looked like the corner of an envelope and had the words ‘Free Afghanistan’ written on it in lieu of a stamp. They were my letters.

There were a lot of pieces that were black with white splotches too, but I couldn’t tell what they’d been. I moved the box out of the way and scooted closer to Frankie who’d curled into herself, her entire body heaving with her sobs.

“Franny, baby,” I said softly, stroking her hair from her face so I could get a look at her. I wasn’t sure if it was the stress of the stalker thing coming down on her all at once or the loss of her keepsakes that was causing her to break down, but I just wanted to fix it. I’d write her a thousand more letters if it meant she’d stop crying.

“Franny,” I tried again, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my lap. She burrowed into me and I held her tight while she cried. It took nearly an hour to calm her down enough to get her to talk but even then, she didn’t say much.

“Were those my letters?” I asked when she’d finally regulated her breathing again.

She pulled away from me slightly, swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah, your letters and some pic- pictures.” Her voice broke on the last word and I squeezed her tight again.

She had a paper clutched in her hand. It was a corner piece-not from one of the letters-that looked like it was a picture, but the paper wasn’t quite right. The part of the picture that was visible was just black surrounded by a thick white boarder, but she was holding it so tightly that I knew it had to mean something to her. I wanted to know what it was exactly that had pushed her over the edge, but it wasn’t the time for those questions.

“I need you to pack a bag. We’re leaving,” I said firmly, praying that she wouldn’t argue.

She nodded, “Where are we going?”

“My place.”Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.