Page 33 of Bulletproof Baby

"I would have never let her do that," I tell him. "Besides, I think she was all bark when it came to us but wouldn't let anyone else get away with anything."

"Yeah, because I was about to say that woman had a hell of a bite. Remember when she showed up to school after the fight?" he asks with glee in his eyes.

Dear, sweet Nonna Mirante was the heart and soul of my mother's side of the family. It's been about six years since she died. This apartment is the last remnant of her. Some days I can still hear her singing her favorite songs, watching her TV shows, and cooking up a feast for us. The days and nights I spent here while my parents built their construction company were some of the best times of my life.

A smile spreads across my face at the memories that flood in every time I speak to Frankie about the good old days.

I can't help but recall the mayhem. "It wasn't much of a fight. Those kids out of Saint Christopher High had no idea that two cousins from the Lower East Side could handle themselves. They learned to watch how they speak to me and not put their hands on you."

Frankie leans back, resting on his elbow to prop himself up on the flimsy sofa bed. "It's crazy to think about it now. No one would dare put their hands on me at my size today, but back then? I was what? Eighty pounds soaking wet? We got into so many fights just because they thought a gay kid couldn't play sports or throw hands."

"It was crazy, wasn't it? I remember having to run all the way from one side of the school to the other—getting yelled at by the dean and the soccer coach—just to get to those guys fighting you by that park. I wonder if that little park is still there."

"It's a vegan soul food spot now," Frankie says. "Yeah, Cousin Lia to the rescue. None of those boys wanted to mess with me after you slugged, what's his name?"

"Trevor Hanes," I volunteer a name I vowed to scrub from my memory. "Now? I'm getting bullied and shuffled around by mob bosses."

"Isn't this every girl's dream? To have two men fighting over her?" Frankie asks.

"Ha," I scoff. "It would be fine if it weren't two of the most dangerous men in the city. I'm not worried about Valentino. He'll keep me safe. It's Saul that raises the hairs on the back of my neck."

"Let's get out of the house," Frankie volunteers, sympathy in his eyes and an understandably aloof expression. Frankie likes a good distraction. "We can go shopping, grab something to eat, and make a plan to figure out what the fuck is going on with you and how to get you out of whatever shit is going on."

"I have a better idea. Instead of talking about my feelings, I'm going to sleep for the next ten hours. Then we can go out and get shit-faced."

"Yes, let's ignore our problems. Avoidance is the answer," Frankie says, rolling his eyes as he pushes himself off the bed.

"I'm not ignoring them, I'm just giving myself time to process what the fuck just happened. So much has gone down, and it's only been a week since I've met Valentino." My mind reels over everything since I allowed myself to participate in a virgin auction.

Frankie sighs, an expression of concern riding his face. Before he walks out, he nods. "Fine. I'm going to grab some food and I'll be back. We can go to Zollo's tonight."

"That works perfectly for me. Thanks Frankie."

"Anytime, Lia. Now, go to sleep. If you have trouble doing that, there's some melatonin gummies in the medicine cabinet. Love you." He leaves me alone, closing the door behind him.

It doesn't take long for me to doze off. The excitement and terror from the night before weighs down on me like a blanket during a winter storm. I wish I'd taken the melatonin. Perhaps it would have staved off the nightmares. Eventually, my mind shuts off and my body lets me sleep.

The aroma of fresh pizza lures me out of my slumber. I'm barely able to open my eyes, but my stomach growling forces me to get up. After glancing at my phone, it's not the ten hours of sleep I wanted. However, eight will do. It's enough to get me into the kitchen where a stack of pizza boxes sits on the coffee table beside a bottle of vodka. It's barely five o'clock.

I can hear music thumping from Frankie's room. Fresh slice in hand, I take a bite and bop my head to the beat. The walls and floor vibrate along with the rhythm of an up-tempo EDM song. Every step closer makes me smile, getting me excited for the night ahead. Finally, after a fucking traumatic week, I can have some fun.

I'm just about to knock on his bedroom door when Frankie swings it open. There's a drink in his hand and a smile on his face. He passes me his drink, pumping his fist in the air before dragging me into his room.

There's a stark difference between Frankie's room and the rest of the apartment. It's the only space with modern touches, like LED lights, sleek furniture, and a large lacquer bed set. There is a stack of shopping bags in front of the bed, with a few from one of my favorite boutiques.

One of the reasons I hate shopping is my figure can be hard to fit. Still, there's three dresses laid out on his bed. All of them black. One is sleeveless with a corset top and bandage skirt. The second has two thin spaghetti straps with a joke of chicken cutlet nipple covers that are supposed to be strapless, backless, and sticky. I absolutely hate them. The last dress is a one-sleeve number with the thick bandage design wrapping around the entire dress like a mummy.

"Well, don't just gawk, honey. Try them on!" Frankie says from behind me, turning down the music.

I finish my slice, take a sip of the drink, and cringe. It's all vodka with a splash of juice. I put on the first dress and can't help but laugh. I bend over at the waist, talking to Frankie from between my legs. "Absolutely the fuck not!"

"It's not that bad. All you see is thigh. Lots and lots of thigh."

"That's not helping." I laugh, standing back up. "All it takes is one wrong move and I'm being arrested for indecent exposure. Don't even get me started on how controlled my core has to be to simply move in this corset shit. I'm not doing that chicken cutlet pasty shit either. Holy thigh chafe and sweaty nipples. Besides the more I drink, I'm more likely to yank them out and fling them somewhere. No. We're going to Zollo's. I promise no one is going to be interested in me."

I take another sip of the drink, getting hotter the quicker the blackberry vodka takes effect.

"Don't do that. You're gorgeous and we're going to have a great time. People are going to be all over you. You should definitely come out with me more often instead of hanging around with smelly, hot, muscly, construction workers wielding big—" He pauses as the image he paints comes into his mind clearly. "You know what? Get me a job at the site."