Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
I inch up the driveway at five miles an hour, my eyes darting everywhere at once. There’s a beautiful garden and a well-manicured lawn out front. The house isn’t quite as far from the street as I thought it would be. I was having visions of Downton Abbey, but it’s not that big.
It’s just far enough away from the road to be invisible, and large enough to be impressive. But it’s clear that Frankie’s not royalty—at least not the sort that owns a piece of American history. Still, you could fit four of my apartment buildings inside the home that’s on display in front of me. The exterior is in peak condition, as if it’s scrubbed and painted every day by a dedicated staff.
I hope they won’t kick me out for wearing jeans and a pair of tennis shoes. It didn’t occur to me to dress up, seeing as this is just supposed to be a tutoring session. But now I feel out of place. I press my eyes shut, cursing my own stupidity. Of course, Frankie is rolling in it. I should have considered his financial situation when I made my clothing selection this morning. But there’s nothing I can do about that now, besides I’m here to tutor him, not flirt with the guy.
I park the car next to the front entrance, since I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it. Getting out, I feel a cool breeze, as if Mother Nature herself is coddling the well-to-do. There isn’t even a hint of the city smog here, or any indication that we’re so close to the freeway.
I notice a beefy man standing on the porch steps and gather my courage to approach him. He gives me the creeps because he looks like something out of my father’s world. I try to tell myself that Frankie’s father isn’t mob connected. This guy, who looks like hired muscle, must be a gardener or something.
“Hello?” I ask tepidly.
The man says nothing, and that makes me feel even worse. I remember being a little girl and staring up at dozens of guys just like him. They all had the same face, the same eyes, and the same dangerous aura.
But Frankie rescues me before I can go too far down the rabbit hole.
“Hello! Marlena!” he shouts, coming down the porch steps, waving his hand.
“Hi,” I say, relieved to see him. Thank goodness. Frankie reaches out to take me by the arm, guiding me safely past the centurion. “Who’s that guy?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. I don’t want him to think I’m being paranoid, but there’s something distinctly mafia-like about the whole situation.
“He works for my dad,” Frankie explains.
That doesn’t settle my nerves.
“Let me take you on a tour,” he offers.
“That’s really not necessary,” I say, hoping to settle down in some secluded room somewhere close to the door.
I’m not a fool. I don’t know what the guy at the door does for Frankie’s father, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t his taxes. And suddenly I realize that getting out of this house isn’t going to be as simple as walking out the front door. Someone is going to have to open the gate for me, which means I’d better be on my best behavior. I just hope this isn’t what I think it is.
“What kind of business is your father in?” I ask innocently.
“It’s not that interesting,” Frankie assures me without answering the question.
He takes me on a tour through the house anyway, even though I declined the invitation. There’s a massive parlor with overstuffed leather chairs and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. There are flowers in vases deposited at regular intervals on pedestals and fancy wooden tables. I bet the maids, or whoever keeps the floors shining, has to replace them every few days.
“It’s very nice,” I say.
“This is the kitchen.” Frankie shows me a galley-sized kitchen, with beautiful marble countertops and a wine rack that takes up the entire back wall.
I can imagine a series of high-class parties taking place in this mansion. There might be women in tight black evening gowns hanging all over bankers in expensive suits. That has to be what line of work Frankie’s father is in. He handles other people’s money, and that makes him a fortune of his own. I try to tell myself this convenient lie to quell the uneasiness rising in my stomach. The man is a banker, not a mobster. I have to believe that.
“Why don’t you show me where we can get started on your coursework?” I suggest putting an end to the tour.
“Sure,” Frankie answers with a shrug. “We can go up to my study.”
“You have your own study?” I can’t mask my surprise. I know this house is big, but it never occurred to me that Frankie had his own suite.