1950

You knew it.

For so long, you didn’t want to believe it.

But the rumors were true: your husband, Frank Sinatra, is in the mafia.

For a while, people accused Frank of being in the mafia, but you always assumed it was just some cruel, silly joke considering his Italian background. But later on, you started to uncover some dense evidence.

You first started getting suspicious when Frank started bringing large amounts of money home. And we’re talking way more than what his musical career pays him. And whenever you ask him about it, he would give you a vague or unclear answer.

Not to mention the late nights he’d spend away from home when he was allegedly “going to bingo,” and would come back with these extremely expensive gifts for you, which you saw no reason to question until you realized they were from brands you’ve never seen before. You even caught Frank speaking quietly on the phone with someone one night as if he was hiding something. That should’ve been enough evidence at the time, yet you remained in denial for so long.

But one day, you decided you had enough of the hiding and the secrets and that you were finally going to confront Frank on the matter. One night, while Frank is out late again, you sit on the couch and await his return. Frank eventually returns well after midnight and seems to be one the phone with someone.

You listen closely to the conversation…

“No, Bobby. I told you, I can’t be there tomorrow night!” Frank says, closing the door behind him. “I just couldn’t miss that event. My wife, she’d be furious.” He pauses as if letting the people on the other line speak. “I know, Bobby, but I–” He’s cut off and you can faintly hear someone–a man’s voice–shouting on the other line. “Yes. Alright, Bobby. Yes, next week is fine. Goodbye.”

Frank finally hangs up and switches on the lights, startled to see you sitting there. When he sees the look on your face, he sighs and assumes a look on his own. Not an angry one nor a guilty one, but one like he knew this would happen.

“So,” he says quietly. “I’m assuming you know.” Frank removes his coat and steadily walks over to you. “Darling, I…I can explain, I…”

Frank falters slightly when the expression on your face worsens. He sighs once again and nods, still slowly and steadily approaching you.

“Sweetheart…” he continues solemnly. “I was going to tell you, alright? I just…I didn’t know how and…my love, I did this…for you…”