Chapter 7 - Twenty-Six Months Is Not Forever
Massimo’s first message arrived eleven days after he reported.
Not handwritten.
Typed through the prison communication system because his handwriting looked like a threat even when he wrote grocery lists.
Frankie opened it after closing.
Janelle had gone home.
The kitchen was quiet.
The message began:
The food is worse than my tart.
Frankie laughed.
Then:
I have been assigned to facilities inventory. Apparently the federal government also believes I am good with lists.
No complaint.
No request.
He asked about Gemma.
About Bello’s.
About the new oven.
Then:
You do not owe me updates. I would like them.
Good.
Frankie wrote back two days later.
Gemma cheated at cards during Sunday lunch.
Janelle still hates fondant.
The new oven is temperamental.
Your tart remains too sweet.
Massimo replied:
I measured what you told me.
Frankie:
You measured badly.
Normal.
That was harder than drama.
Prison did not turn Massimo gentle by force.
He still became angry.
He still hated being told where to stand.
He hated count.
He hated asking permission to call.
He hated that men younger than him decided when lights went out.
At month three, he got written up for refusing an order after a guard spoke to an older inmate disrespectfully.
Frankie learned during a call.
“You refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The guard was wrong.”
“That is not the question.”
Massimo went quiet.
She continued.
“Did refusing help the older man?”
“No.”
“Did it help you feel like yourself?”
Silence.
There.
“Yes.”
Frankie leaned against the kitchen wall.
“So you made the moment about your authority.”
Massimo exhaled.
“I hate these calls.”
“Good.”
He laughed despite himself.
Then:
“You’re right.”
He served five days of lost recreation privileges.
No heroism.
Good.
At month five, Tino entered custody at a different facility.
Twelve months and a day.
They could not communicate directly.
Massimo worried.
Did not try to circumvent rules.
Good.
Gemma visited Massimo twice.
The first time, she complained about the chairs.
The second, she complained about the coffee.
“You look thin,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You look thin.”
“Nonna.”
“You should have learned to cook.”
He stared.
She smiled.
“Frankie tried.”
Good.
Frankie visited four times in the first year.
Not every month.
Not as performance.
The first visit was awkward.
Massimo wore prison khaki.
No tailored suit.
No watch.
No men standing behind him.
Frankie stared.
“You look weird.”
“So do you.”
“I dressed normal.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed.
They sat across a table.
Touch limited.
Rules.
Massimo asked about the shop.
Frankie told him she had started Sunday community classes.
Low-cost.
Teenagers.
Single parents.
Older men learning basic cooking after spouses died.
No Riva funding.
A city small-business grant helped buy equipment.
Massimo smiled.
“Good.”
Frankie pointed.
“You too?”
“Everyone.”
They laughed.
Then Massimo asked:
“Any reporters?”
“Less.”
“Threats?”
“No.”
He relaxed.
Frankie noticed.
“Do not make my safety the only thing you care about.”
Massimo looked at her.
“I’m working on it.”
Better.
“Ask me something that has nothing to do with danger.”
He thought.
“What did you cook last night?”
Frankie smiled.
“Risotto.”
“Good?”
“Better than yours.”
“I’ve never made risotto.”
“Exactly.”
Good.
Second visit, Frankie told him she had gone on one date with someone else.
Not to test him.
Because honesty.
Massimo’s face went still.
“With who?”
“No.”
He stopped.
There.
“Right.”
She watched.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He laughed once.
“Why do you enjoy that?”
“Because you’re allowed to feel things. You’re not allowed to turn feelings into rules for me.”
There.
Massimo nodded.
“Did you like him?”
“Not enough.”
Relief crossed his face.
Frankie pointed.
“Ugly.”
“I’m human.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled.
No punishment later.
No cold letters.
Good.
At Bello’s, business grew slowly.
Frankie added a second classroom night.
Not a second location.
She did not want an empire.
She wanted a stable kitchen.
That distinction became important.
A television producer invited her to audition for a competition show after social media rediscovered the story of the mafia boss locked in a pastry class.
Frankie declined.
Not because she feared publicity.
Because the producer wanted her to recreate the kitchen lock-in.
They wanted Massimo’s name.
They wanted the wooden spoon.
They wanted her to say she had “tamed” him.
Frankie hung up.
Janelle asked:
“Do you ever regret not monetizing chaos?”
“Yes.”
“Same.”
Good.
Instead, Frankie published a small e-book of class recipes.
No crime references.
It sold modestly.
Enough.
At month nine, Massimo entered a prison business-ethics program.
He found the title offensive.
Frankie found that delightful.
One assignment asked him to describe an organization where fear prevented accurate information from reaching leadership.
He wrote about the Riva old guard.
Then himself.
When managers told him what he wanted.
When Tino softened bad news.
When employees hid problems because Massimo’s anger changed rooms.
He did not send the essay to Frankie.
Good.
Change was not homework for applause.
At month eleven, an old Riva associate named Carlo Medina tried to collect protection payments using Massimo’s name.
Riva compliance staff reported it.
Police opened a case.
Massimo learned through Victoria.
His first instinct:
Call someone.
Handle it.
Then remembered where he was.
More importantly, remembered what handling meant.
He told Victoria everything he knew about Carlo’s old network.
No private order.
Carlo was arrested two months later.
Old captains called Massimo a rat.
He survived the label.
Good.
At the end of year one, Frankie’s ex-husband Dean completed probation requirements and restitution.
He sent one letter through Amanda Cho.
Frankie chose to read it.
Dean wrote:
I used your trust as collateral long before I used Rose’s house.
That line hurt.
Then:
I kept telling myself I would fix every lie before you learned it. That was how I made the next lie possible.
Frankie sat in the empty kitchen.
She understood the pattern.
Later.
Fix later.
Explain later.
Repay later.
Apologize later.
Massimo had used his own versions.
She wrote no reply.
No need.
At month fourteen, Massimo’s prison call began differently.
“I had a bad day.”
Frankie sat at her desk.
“What happened?”
“A man threatened Tino.”
She froze.
“How do you know?”
“Victoria told me. Different facility. It was handled.”
“By staff?”
“Yes.”
Good.
“What do you want to do?”
Massimo was quiet.
“Something illegal.”
There.
Frankie nodded though he could not see.
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Long pause.
“Because anger is not instruction.”
There.
Dr. Weiss would have been proud.
Frankie did not say that.
“Good.”
He laughed softly.
“Everyone.”
At month sixteen, Tino was released.
He entered supervised release.
No return to criminal operations.
He took a logistics job under an independent company not owned by Massimo.
That surprised everyone.
Tino called Frankie once.
“Does he know I’m working?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you to check?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Tino groaned.
“You’re infected too.”
Frankie laughed.
At month eighteen, Massimo’s mother came from Arizona for a visit.
Frankie had met her only on video.
Lucia Riva was elegant, dry, and far less impressed by her son than most of Chicago.
She came to Bello’s alone.
No security.
“You are the chef.”
Frankie smiled.
“And you are the mother.”
“Unfortunately.”
Good.
Lucia did not ask Frankie to wait.
Did not ask whether she loved Massimo.
She bought six pastries and said:
“He has always confused being needed with being loved.”
Then left.
Frankie stood there holding forty dollars and a new sentence she did not want.
At month eighteen, Massimo received good-time credit and program credit.
Expected release moved to month twenty-two.
Four months earlier than the full term.
He called Frankie.
“I have a date.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“Release.”
“Oh.”
He waited.
Frankie did not give him what he expected.
Not immediately.
Then:
“I’m happy.”
His voice softened.
“Thank you.”
“Do not come to Bello’s as a surprise.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not send flowers.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Yes.”
“Do not buy me anything.”
“Frankie.”
“Practice.”
He laughed.
“Fine.”
At the final visit before release, Massimo asked:
“What do you want when I’m out?”
Frankie thought.
“Dinner.”
His eyes changed.
“One?”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“We decide.”
Good.
“Do you still love me?”
She looked at him.
“Yes.”
Massimo closed his eyes briefly.
Then:
“I love you too.”
No contract.
No wait counted.
No reward.
At month twenty-two, Massimo walked out of federal custody.
Frankie did not pick him up.
Gemma did.
With Victoria.
The first thing Gemma said when he got into the car:
“You look thin.”
Massimo closed his eyes.
Victoria laughed.
The second thing:
“Frankie has a class tonight. Do not go there.”
Massimo stared.
“I know.”
Gemma smiled.
“Good.”
He had learned.
His release apartment felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too much choice.
He opened the refrigerator and discovered almost nothing inside except milk, eggs, mustard, and food Gemma had labeled with instructions as if he were twelve.
He called nobody.
He ate takeout.
At eight-forty-one that night, Frankie was teaching twelve adults how to make pâte à choux.
Her phone remained in her locker.
Massimo sat by an apartment window looking at Chicago.
May you like
Neither life stopped for the other.
That was why dinner the next night felt like a beginning instead of a reunion scene someone had owed them.
