I can tell by the way she makes this look so effortless she’s a natural runner. And I am not. The treadmill I use isn’t the same as running in the elements.
“Glad to see you can keep up,” she saucily teases me as I stare at her long legs and study her footwork.
“How many miles do you run?”
“Don’t think about it,” she replies without sounding out of breath. “We’ll go as long as we can. A person can pump weights and get away with terrible breathing habits. We’ll see how you do at the first hill. Then we can make adjustments.”
“Great,” I try to sound enthused. I admire her unwavering commitment and to keeping her physique in top condition, but it’s not like we’re training for the Olympics.
I get it, she lives in a man’s world and needs to hold her own. For the Contis and the Calabreses to overlook her probably hurt both mentally and emotionally.
Any hope she had at changing the chauvinistic mold inside the mafia was probably a huge disappointment both personally and professionally.
By now, she must realize that men in this line of work are sexist, more so than in any other organization and it’s not just her, the guys have their pecking order as well.
After a half mile, the effect of the rising humidity takes a toll and my breathing and getting enough air in becomes a struggle.
“Relax, slow your breathing,” she instructs, slowing our pace. She taps her sports watch and seems satisfied.
I follow her instructions and to my surprise it helps.
“Let’s stop for a water break,” she suggests before leaning up against a tree and reaches around her back as I hold my breath hoping Matteo frisked her.
I breathe easy when she pulls a water out from the holder she has around her waist.
She takes a few swigs before putting it back and extending a leg up on the tree to stretch her thigh muscles, then stands on her toes and rolls forward to stretch her calves.
While she does the same to her other leg, she pulls another water from her waist belt and hands it to me. I thank her and open it but wait until she drinks her water again before I do the same. Ladies first.
“The first mile is the hardest,” she says between sips.
“Followed by the second?” I jest, as I bend over my knees trying to catch my breath.
“Let’s just say, after you work your way up to two miles, you should be in your zone, and then you reach a point where you feel like you can run forever.”
“Really? I never had the fortitude to do anything other than soccer and that’s more a game of sprints. I don’t know what possessed me.” I stand, running my muscular forearm over my brow to wipe away the sweat that’s running down my face.
“We can turn back and do some suicide drills in the yard, then cool down once we’re home.”
Home? I can’t believe she’s letting me off that easy. Who am I kidding? I’ll be lucky to make it there without dropping.
After we finishour first work-out I approach the subject of the club. It’s been gnawing at me for weeks, and I didn’t anticipate her ending up here in the midst of what might become bigger issues involving another mafia, one that's international and has ties in places I don’t even know the names of, and they are known to operate on three continents or more.
“Sure thing, we need to find out if the Albanians know anything. No sense in making an enemy when we might get the information in a more subtle way,” Francesca suggests.
“They aren’t pleasant people. You know all too well the types of people we deal with in our seedy underworld. I don’t want you in harm’s way or on their radar.”
“Hmm, well I guess we’ll just have to be careful. Matteo let me do some research the other day and I’m starting to plot what I know from the Conti and Calabrese camp and the players I can identify here.”
“Great, but I want you at the club tonight. The sooner we deal with these Albanians, and find Sofia, if that’s even possible, the happier I’ll be. Then we can go our separate ways,” I reaffirm our deal.
I don’t know why I’m being pissy. She’s done nothing wrong. In fact, she seems pretty fucking normal, which confuses me even more than if she was a nasty, cold-hearted bitch like I expected.
But I’m not getting the reaction out of her that I desire, and I’m troubled by this. My cute one-liners and roguishly handsome morning charm usually works on the ladies, and yet she shows no signs of letting her frosty, professional exterior shed a layer.
I’d be happy to get just peek under who the real Francesca is, but she reminds me more of Dante as the days pass.
Speaking of hot women, I decide that in light of the frosty bombshell in front of me, I need to be serviced. I should return Carla’s text and set up a date. I need to get laid. She deserves better than what I’m offering, but as long as we’re both having a good time, what’s wrong with that?