Page 8 of Second in Command
“I don’t care. It’s clear that one of the reasons you seek this type of independence is to freely spread your wings? Right? Your legs too?”
“If I wanted to spread my legs for the entire city, Enzo, that would be none of your business,” she leans forward, her eyes squinting as she taunts me.
“Who’s to say you haven’t already?”
“If that’s the case you must be furious by now to know you’re one of many.”
“I’m sure you’d be flattered by such a belief, but I don’t fuck whores. You can’t be virtuous and easy, and expect someone like me to want you.”
“Get out,” she smirks, and I scoff.
“If I don’t, what will you do?”
“You think I won’t call security on you?”
She takes a threatening step towards me, her hands now balled at her sides. Francesca walked until she was right underneath me. Despite her height, she didn’t let me intimidate her. I could see it in her eyes, there wasn’t a hint of fear.
Fuck.
The look went straight to my manhood, and I curse myself for feeling so weak. Her rosy lips were slightly pouted, just jutted out, and staring at me.
“Leave,” she says sternly, and I bite my tongue.
With a step back, I turn around. If I didn’t leave now, I’d want to have my way with her, all over this pretty white kitchen. A fire burned within my chest, begging me to turn back, but instead, I pushed through and savored the cold air biting at my skin once outside. I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, and ground me.
Francesca was a force to be reckoned with. I shut my eyes tightly as I walk back to my car, knowing that I had disrespected her. It wasn’t my intention, genuinely, I just wanted to see her again, maybe try her delights, but once I saw that man—witnessing the same smile that should have been meant for me. And then the way her smile dropped when she saw me—I couldn’t help it—jealous Enzo came out.
five
Franceca Donato
When I was thirteen,I didn’t dare think of owning my own business. I didn’t dream of . . . making pastries for customers, or even working. My mother wasn’t a believer in any of those things, and the way society was set up, even as little as eight years ago it was hardly possible to. Women were made to work in the kitchen, and tend to their husbands, and it was even worse for women in the Mafia.
My mother passed away when I was sixteen, and from there, I had a chance to explore something I liked. Her death left a void, it made me . . . angry, and uncomfortable with so many things—so many changes in life. With the organization, there is so little freedom you can have as a woman, as a child, I had to find an outlet for what it was I was feeling.
This is where baking comes in.
Although I’m sure he regrets it, my father taught me how to bake. He used it as quality time for the two of us, as I was his only child. It was a sad time, truly, he had just lost the love of his life, but I believe he saw her in me.
At the age of sixteen, I started experimenting and finding recipes for us to make together, and we always did. Always.
When I proposed the idea of my own bakery, he shot it down at first. It’s not something my mother would’ve wanted, he said, and it’s just not something Mafia women do.
I felt like I was forced to accept it, but my passion for baking just—grew. I couldn’t contain it.
So with even more determination, I brought it up again. This time, I was nineteen. I didn’t want to get married—hell, I hardly wanted to stay within the organization. Nevertheless, he agreed this time, I knew he was trying to make me happy.
He found the building, financed everything, and wished me good luck with a simple kiss on the forehead. I’ve been running it ever since.
Yet even with the bakery, some things never go away. My mother was a strict woman, who believed firmly in the rules of the Mafia, and who was deeply rooted in the laws of before. Still, she was gentle and loving, and she cared for me more than she did for herself. She was my everything, and when she died—something in me died as well. So I drowned my sorrows when I could with alcohol, and I tried my best to keep myself afloat. Pain like that should never be experienced, and although I wouldn’t wish it on my enemies, I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone I loved either.
The Sunday sun shone into the kitchen, and I stood in my t-shirt and loose shorts. I decided to make lasagna, and other delicacies for lunch today.
The door swings open, and I expect my father to come prancing in, smelling the spices. I raise the wooden spoon from the pot, turning around to let him taste it. I’m startled to find Enzo instead.
We both pause, and his eyes drop to the sauce. Slowly, he wraps his lips against the spoon and pulls away. He closes his eyes, gently smacking his tongue.
“It’s good.”
