'Come to me, Charlie.' Charlie Chance was rushed with a cocktail of sensations, a plethora made up of all sorts of emotions and urges, as soon as the words exited Frankie Carrozza's sardonic-laced lips-the command uttered so innocently, though he was nothing of the sort. For a split second, his imagination took hold of him, powerful enough to break the barriers of actuality. The realm of daydreams spilled over and dripped into existence as thick and rich as wet paint, causing him to envision Frankie in nothing more than a pair of underwear briefs woven out of snow-white dove feathers, his larger hand reaching out to Charlie in yearning, rather than his original casual flick of his two fingers to him. It was possible that he could see the outline of angelic wings protruding out his back, obscured through a gloriously golden and heavenly glow streaming in from the windows behind, heavy like curtains, and basking Frankie in its celestial ambiance. People say Frankie Carrozza is dangerous. Of course he's dangerous, he's a teenage boy.