The drive home from Francesco’s funeral was dark and quiet.  In the backseat of her car, dressed again in black, Frankie stared out the window as Summerlin passed her by.  On the glass she could see a reflection of her expressionless face – empty to her core of tears, rage, and shock.  How she was coming to hate this place!  Everything about it reminded her of loss… of dreams that were nothing but ashes now. 

Whereas she’d already been left gutted by the abandonment by & later death of her husband; having Francesco dead just hours after realizing there might have been some spark there… some ray of light, some little bit of hope and joy from her past still; she didn’t know how to keep moving forward now.  If she was honest, all she really wanted to do was run – to run far away from this place forever.

Rain poured down from the sky in torrents.  Thunder crashing and lightening flashing – as if God himself was unleashing HIS wrath upon her for having stolen Francesco from his service.  She kept thinking that if she had left him alone… not given him a button, he’d still be alive today.  She kept revisiting that moment they’d shared at the bar of Syndicate’s party… and how, for the first time, she really considered that there might have been something between them other than friendship and respect.

She knew what she said at his funeral was true.  She would never forgive herself for his death.  Truly she was the only one that could be blamed.  Even the murderer, who was no cold in the ground himself, held less blame in her mind than she herself did.  As both a Catholic and as his friend – and his Don… she should have kept him safe.  She’d failed him.  How many others would she fail before she finally found herself six feet under?

The crunching sound made her look towards Uffa.  The goat had Francesco’s memorial program half eaten.  She grabbed ahold of it and pulled, ripping it.  Tears came hot and fast from her eyes as she wailed, “STOP THE CAR!”

The car pulled over to the side of the road on the edge of Summerlin and Frankie had her door opened before the car had even come to a complete stop.  Grabbing the goat by the scruff she threw it violently onto the side of the road, “DAMN YOU!  YOU FUCKING STUPID…”  She pulled out her gun, pointed it at the goat and pulled the trigger repeatedly screaming wordless noise that expressed the agony she was in.

As the gun clicked repeated, empty, she threw at the animal’s bloody corpse.  Falling to her knees in a deep river of water running through the gutters she put her hands into her hair and pulled.  Eyes clenched shut, trying not to see what she’d done to the ‘symbol of Tony’s love for her’ and the namesake of her father’s love for her dead mother; Francesca roared at God and was answered only by the falling rain that soaked her to her bones as her bodyguards stood silently watching.

--- 🎇 ---

Frankie was ushered into the office of TonyCastelli, dripping water.  Her black dress hugged her every curve, her hair matted to the sides of her face, her eyes red from crying.

“Frankie?”  Tony said, standing up, clearly worried about her.

“We need to talk.”  She whispered darkly. Tony knew, without another word from her lips, that something wasn’t about to give, it had broken.  Frankie was here to attempt to salvage whatever was left of her & The Ivory Tower’s future.  It didn’t take a psychic to see that, once again, Tony Castelli was in the position to make or break Frankie Messina.