As her mother continued, Frankie thought of how she’d read about criminals killed by having stones piled on them. Until the weight slowly suffocated them. As her mother complained that Frankie’s absence had affected the entire family and the company, she felt her lungs struggle for air.

She needed to be here for Kit—and in New York for her family.

She couldn’t be both places.

Her stomach tightened until nausea swamped her. She didn’t even know if Kit was still in the compound. What if Obadiah had taken her back to Texas?

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I’m not going to fly right back. I haven’t had a vacation since I left college. Not one. For the last two years, I’ve asked to hire an assistant—someone I could train to fill my shoes when I can’t be there.”

“That’s unreasonable, Francesca. We can’t afford to have an assistant for you. Your job isn’t that essential and if—”

If my position isn’t essential, then why are you so angry that I’m gone? “Mama, listen—”

“No, you will return. You’ve had your vacation and…”

As the words poured over her, Frankie could feel her muscles getting tenser. Turning sideways, she bumped her wounded arm on the back of the booth. Ow. Caz had just taken the stitches out an hour ago.

All too easily, she could feel how the bullet had sliced through her arm. If the shot had been more accurate, she wouldn’t be here at all. And she was done. Just done with all the complaints.

“You know, Mama, if I was dead, you’d manage without me. So, since my job isn’t that essential, just suck it up and manage.”

There was a shocked silence on the phone. Frankie was the good child, not a prima donna model, but the one everyone could count on. She didn’t have moods, didn’t have temper tantrums.

Didn’t have needs.

To hell with that.

“Sorry, Mama, but I need to go. I’ll be back when my vacation is over. If you don’t think Nyla can handle the job, then hire someone else.” Before Mama could respond, Frankie said firmly, “I love you, bye.”

With a long sigh, she banged her head against the back of the booth. “Porca miseria.”

“I know a bit of Italian. ‘Damn me’, right?” The owner of the coffee shop set Frankie’s cappuccino, as well as a cinnamon roll, down.

“That’s right.” Frankie eyed the plate. “I only ordered coffee.”

“On the house. It sounded like you could use something sweet.”

“Could I ever.” With a half-bitter laugh, Frankie nibbled on the roll. “Mmm, this is decadent. I’m Frankie, by the way.”