Chapter 5 - Franco
"Why the groceries? Why the time off? Why are you here right now instead of... whatever it is you normally do on weekday afternoons?"
She's standing in her small kitchen, still wearing the pink diner uniform with its coffee stains and grease spots, hair falling from her messy bun, dark circles under her confused brown eyes. She looks exhausted, suspicious, and entirely justified in her wariness.
I should have an answer ready. I always have answers.
Clear, concise explanations for my actions, calculations of risk and benefit.
But standing in her cluttered apartment, surrounded by evidence of her struggle—past-due notices on the counter, worn furniture, the single bedroom I glimpsed where she clearly shares a bed with her son to save space, I find myself without my usual tactical clarity.
"I don't know," I say again, the truth slipping out before I can think of something more logical.
Sarah stares at me, clearly expecting more. When nothing follows, she laughs—a short, disbelieving sound. "You don't know. You just decided to track down where I work, arrange paid leave with my boss, buy a hundred dollars' worth of groceries, and deliver them to my apartment... for no reason."
Put that way, my actions sound irrational even to my own ears. I focus on unpacking the remaining items to avoid her gaze. "The ice packs," I say instead of answering. "You should use them. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off."
"Franco." Her voice is softer now, but insistent. "Please. I need to understand what's happening here."
I set down the container of orange juice I'm holding and turn to face her fully. She deserves an explanation, even if I'm not entirely sure I understand my own motivations.
"I'm not good at this," I admit.
"At what?"
"Helping. Without an agenda." I search for words that will make sense. "In my world, everything is transactional. If I do something for someone, it's because they have something I need, or because Dante—my boss—ordered it."
"And this?" she asks, gesturing to the groceries. "What's the transaction here?"
I shake my head. "There isn't one. That's the point. I saw you limping at the diner, working despite being in pain, and I... wanted to help. Without expecting anything in return. I don't know why."
It's more honesty than I've offered anyone in years, possibly decades. It leaves me feeling strangely exposed, vulnerable in a way I'm not accustomed to.
Sarah studies my face, as if searching for deception. Finally, she sighs and leans against the counter, taking weight off her injured ankle.
"Okay," she says. "Thank you. For the groceries. For the time off. It's... it helps a lot."
I nod, relieved that she's accepting my inadequate explanation. "You should sit down. Ice that ankle."
To my surprise, she complies without argument, limping to the couch and sinking onto it with a poorly suppressed wince. I retrieve an ice pack from the box I brought, wrap it in a dish towel I find in a drawer, and bring it to her.
"Elevate it," I instruct, handing her the ice pack.
She arranges a pillow under her ankle and places the ice pack on top, then looks up at me. "Do you still want to pick up Tommy? The school probably won’t release him to you."
"I remember," I say. "I'll take you to get him. You can stay in the car if your ankle's too bad. Or I can take you to your mother's house, and she can pick him up."
Sarah considers this, clearly weighing her options. "My mom will ask a million questions if you show up with me."
"Can you handle his pickup from the car? You'd just need to walk a few steps to sign him out."
She nods. "That would work. Thank you."
I check my watch. It's just past 1:00 PM, still a few hours before Tommy's school lets out. Plenty of time to finish putting away groceries and make sure Sarah's ankle is properly iced before we need to leave.
"I'll finish with these," I say, gesturing to the remaining grocery bags. "You keep that ice on."
I return to the kitchen, emptying the bags and placing items in cupboards and the refrigerator.
Her kitchen is small but organized, the effort of someone trying to create order within limited means.
The refrigerator was nearly empty before my additions: a half-gallon of milk, some eggs, condiments, and not much else.
As I work, I'm aware of Sarah watching me from the couch, her expression thoughtful.
The silence between us should be awkward, but somehow it isn't. There's a strange comfort in the simple task of filling her cupboards, knowing that tonight when Tommy opens the refrigerator, he'll find fresh fruit and proper food instead of whatever Sarah would have scraped together from nearly bare shelves.
When I finish, I wash my hands and join her in the living room, taking the armchair across from the couch. "Do you need anything else?"
She shakes her head. "No, this is... more than enough." She hesitates, then asks, "What did you say to Rosie? My boss? She's never given anyone time off before, especially not with pay."
I consider how much to tell her. The full truth—that Dante owns the diner, that I'm his right hand, that Rosie was terrified when I invoked his name—seems unwise.
"I suggested it would be in her best interest to take care of her staff," I say finally.
Sarah raises an eyebrow. "And she just... agreed? Because you suggested it?"
"I can be persuasive."
She glances at me, connecting dots I'd rather she didn't. "Are you... involved in something illegal, Franco?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. Most people in this city know better than to ask such things outright.
"Why do you ask?"
"The way you fight. The influence you seem to have. The car. The clothes." She gestures vaguely toward me. "Everything about you screams 'dangerous.' And last night, when those kids attacked us, you didn't hesitate. Breaking that boy's wrist was... easy for you."
I don't immediately answer. The truth could frighten her, make her ask me to leave and never return. But lying feels wrong, especially after she's been direct with me.
"My work sometimes operates in gray areas," I say. "I'm head of security for a... business organization. I protect people and interests. Sometimes that requires methods that wouldn't be considered conventional."
"You're with the Venezianos," she says, not a question but a statement.
I keep my expression neutral, but inwardly I'm impressed. She's perceptive. "What makes you say that?"
"I've lived in this city my whole life. I know the major players. And you mentioned someone named Dante—that would be Dante Veneziano." She looks down at her ice pack, adjusting it slightly. "Plus, there are rumors about who really owns Rosie's. The staff speculates sometimes."
The revelation that she knows, or at least strongly suspects, who I work for changes things. She's not naive.
"Does that bother you?" I ask, curious despite myself.
Sarah looks back up at me, her eyes direct.
"It should, shouldn't it? My mother would have a heart attack if she knew I was sitting here with.
.. someone like you." She sighs. "But you saved Tommy and me.
You got me time off when I desperately needed it.
You brought groceries when my fridge was nearly empty.
" She shrugs. "So I guess I'm reserving judgment. "
Her pragmatism is unexpected and oddly refreshing. Most people either fear me immediately or try to ingratiate themselves when they learn of my connection to the Venezianos. Sarah does neither.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it. Dante's name on the screen. Unusual for him to call directly in the middle of the day unless it's urgent.
"I need to take this," I tell Sarah, standing and moving toward the door for privacy.
She nods, understanding. "I'll be here. Not going anywhere on this ankle."
I step into the hallway, closing her door behind me before answering. "Yes, boss."
"Where are you?" Dante's voice carries the mixture of authority and casual confidence that makes him such an effective leader. "I’ve been hearing that you were at a diner this morning throwing your weight around for some waitress, and now Rico tells me you had him running background checks on her."
I should have known Rico would report the search to Dante. Nothing happens in our organization without Dante knowing about it eventually.
"I'm handling a personal matter," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
"A personal matter," Dante repeats, sounding both amused and intrigued. "Would this personal matter happen to be about five-foot-four with brown eyes and a kid?"
I don't answer, which Dante correctly interprets as confirmation.
"Franco," he continues, his tone shifting to something I rarely hear from him—genuine curiosity rather than calculated interest. "In all these years, I've never known you to take a personal day, let alone use organization resources to look into some random woman. What's going on?"
I consider my response. Dante isn't just my boss; he's the closest thing I have to a friend, though our relationship has always been defined by professional boundaries. Still, he's one of the few people whose judgment I respect.
"I helped her and her son last night," I explain. "Some punks were trying to rob them. She has a twisted ankle. I'm making sure she rests it."
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "You're playing nurse to a waitress you met two days ago?"
Put that way, it does sound ridiculous. I don't respond.
Dante laughs softly. "This is... unexpected. But you know what? I'm glad."
His response catches me off guard. "You're glad?"
"Franco, you've been by my side through everything.
You've watched me build this empire, seen me at my worst, helped me clean up more messes than I can count.
And through it all, you've never once taken anything for yourself.
No relationship, no connections outside the organization, nothing but the job. "