Chapter 38

The next few hours move quickly mostly because…well, because I don’t let myself think about much. Instead, I get busy.

“Iris,” Frankie moans as I push past him into his room, starting to scoop clothing off of the floor and throwing it into a hamper. “Please, Iris – you can’t just channel all of your emotions into chores –“

“Yes I can, Frank!” I call over my shoulder, opening his closet and gasping when I see the pile of dirty gym clothes there.

“Iris!” he groans, dashing over to me and trying to pull me away, “those are my underwear.”

“Frankie, this is gross, you need to clean this stuff –“

“Which is what we hire people to do!”

“Oh please,” I mutter, shoving the clothes haphazardly into the basket and throwing him a dirty look over my shoulder. “You’re a grown man, Frankie, you should be able to do this for yourself –“

“People still call me Frankie, Iris,” he says, dry, even as he sighs and stops trying to tug me away from my work. “What part of that says ‘grown man’ to you?”

“Oh, just the part where you snap peoples fingers, rather breezily at that,” I say, straightening up and staring at him blankly. Frankie raises his eyebrows at me in surprise.

“Well look at you, little miss I have an opinion,” he says, giving me a proud smirk. “I was wondering where you were in all of this sad, frantic energy.”

I huff a little laugh and push past him. “If you have more dirty boxers, Frank, bring them to me! I’m doing a load of darks first!”

Frankie just grumbles, but he doesn’t get in my way anymore. And, honestly, the work does cheer me, however incrementally. Or, at least, it keeps my mind off of all the horrible things I saw this morning. The desire to move away from those mental images –

Of Don Romano’s hand slamming into Steven’s battered face –

Of Romano’s men kicking him in the ribs –

Of the way Steven moaned, the way he called my name when he figured out that I wasn’t going to help him –

I press my eyes shut against my memories and spur myself to do more, to clean more, to…to just keep moving.

Unfortunately, there’s only so much cleaning to do in an already-clean house.

Fortunately, there’s no end to how much I can bake.

“Bambina, my love,” Frankie moans when I pull out another tray of muffins – blueberry this time. “Please – I can’t eat anymore.”

“No one’s force feeding you, Frankie,” I murmur, giving him a little side-eye as I put the tray on the counter to cool.

“But how can I not eat them,” he moans, draping himself over the counter and sniffing at the muffins. Which, honestly, I can’t blame him for – my muffin recipe is top notch.

“You just have to show some self-restraint,” I sigh, reaching for the mixing bowl I was working on before the oven timer rang. “Besides, brownies are next, and –“

His groan stops me in my tracks, making me laugh, because he sounds thrilled and devastated all at once.

“You’re like the wicked witch,” he murmurs, laying his face flat on the counter, defeated. “I’m Hansel, and you’re fattening me up.”

“I didn’t build this candy cottage, or choose to live here, Frank,” I sigh, starting to pour the brownie batter out into a greased glass baking dish. “That was all your boy Christian.”

Frankie sighs and lifts his head, quiet for a moment as I spread the chocolate out in the bottom of the pan. “Go easy on him, Iris, he’s…he’s trying.”

“Trying to what,” I murmur, glancing up at my friend, “traumatize me? Really just twist the knife, with his refusal to even talk to me about what he made me go through this morning?”

“Well, I’ve tried to talk to you,” Frankie says, leaning his face against his hand and considering me, “and you’ve turned down that offer.”

“Frankie,” I sigh, pausing in my too-busy movements, “I…I appreciate you for that, I really do. But Christian cannot outsource his friendship responsibilities to his bodyguard. I mean, you’re not paid for that.”

Frankie bursts into a grin. “He pays me for a lot of stuff, Iris. Maintaining his friendships probably falls under some category in my paycheck. But seriously,” his face falls into more contrite lines now, “I want to talk to you. I like you, Bambs, all jokes aside. I don’t want you to be sad. This morning was messy, but it…I mean it turned out okay, yeah?”

I sigh again, moving away from the brownies and over to Frankie’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re being a great friend to me, Frankie,” I say, looking up into his pretty brown eyes. Frankie – he really is a good-looking guy, isn’t he? “But Christian – he owes me more than what he’s giving me right now. We have…a very long history, and he’s not being fair. So please don’t ask me to let him off the hook. I…kind of get the impression that Christian needs people to hold their boundaries with him a little bit more. Like he gets away with a little bit too much.”

Frankie, to my surprise, narrows his eyes at me a little bit, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk.

“What?” I ask, frowning at him, confused.

“It’s just…” he hesitates, and then runs a hand through his hair. “Can I say something that’s going to make you a little mad, Iris?”

I step back and cross my arms, narrowing my own eyes at him. “No,” I reply, stern.

He just laughs and shrugs, turning towards the muffins and then reaching for one.

“Oh fine,” I say, slumping my shoulders. “Just…don’t be too mean, all right? I’m feeling delicate today.”

Frankie shrugs a little, plucking a still-warm muffin from the pan and turning it over in his hands. “It’s just…you’re talking about boundaries with Christian, but…you kind of let Steven walk all over you, didn’t you?”

My mouth falls open a little at this and – even though he’s right, I…well, it doesn’t feel very nice to have it thrown in my face, does it!?

“I mean, you paid his bills and the rent and funded his criminal enterprise while he sat on the couch and fucked up his life and drank beer. And you won’t cut Christian any slack when he’s trying to protect you?”

I scowl a little and cross my arms, unable to help smiling a bit at the irony. “Well, then let’s just…consider me turning over a new leaf, then,” I say, working very hard to keep my voice casual.

Frankie grins at me, because he knows he’s trapped me a bit. “You’re not wrong,” he says with a shrug as he bites into the muffin and groans a little at how delicious it is. “And I don’t think you should let anyone treat you the way Steven treated you ever again. Just…Christian’s in a tough spot too, okay? He’s walking a lot of fine lines here. Give him some credit.”

“I’ll give him credit when I have my freedom back,” I say with a sigh, turning back to my baking. “Until then, he just gets brownies.”

“Poor, poor man,” Frankie murmurs, and then he heads away to the living room to play some video games.

I keep working, my mind whirling as I wile away the hours baking and baking until I very nearly run out of flour and sugar and eggs. It’s almost as if my hands move beyond me, making everything in my mental arsenal of recipes – which is, indeed, pretty extensive – while I try to figure out what the hell happened this morning.

I mean, even beyond the violence, what had Don Romano been playing at? Because it seemed as much of a trial of Christian as it was me –

Has Christian done something to push those boundaries lately? Has he fallen out with his father, and have I somehow stepped in the middle of that?

But even as I try to concentrate on that riddle, I can’t help turning back to the violence, my mind continually bringing it forward like an eager cat laying a dead mouse in my lap, pretending it’s a gift.

Because the Don couldn’t have known it – no one could have – but the ways in which he beat Steven –

There was just so much in common to what I used to see, too frequently, as a child. My father hitting my mother so hard she hit the floor. And then the way he would pull his leg back, winding up for a swift kick to her side –

I press my eyes shut, clinging to the pie tin in my hand, willing the memory of the way she cried out to leave my mind, to return to where I’ve tucked it away for years and years –

That precise moment, as I work to steady my breath, as I clutch the burning hot tin in my mittened hands…

The door opens.

And Christian looks right at me, standing in a kitchen covered in baked goods, with wide eyes.

And I burst into tears.