Chapter 5 - Franco #2
I'm not sure how to respond to this assessment. It's accurate but hearing it laid out so bluntly is discomfiting.
"Look," Dante continues, his voice uncharacteristically earnest, "I found Elena when I least expected it.
The sister of our biggest rival, of all people.
Everyone thought it was insanity, that love would be a weakness.
But they were wrong. Having her in my life has made me stronger, more focused, more. .. human."
"This isn't—" I start to protest, but Dante cuts me off.
"I'm not saying you're in love with this waitress.
I'm saying that if there's someone who's making you act unlike yourself…
Someone who makes you late to meetings and has you buying groceries, then I support it.
Whatever it is. You deserve something outside of all this.
" He pauses. "You deserve what I found with Elena.
And if this woman and her kid are the start of that for you, then I'm behind you one hundred percent. "
I stand in the dingy hallway outside Sarah's apartment, momentarily speechless. In all our years together, Dante and I have never discussed my personal life, mainly because I don't have one. The fact that he's not only noticed but seems to genuinely care catches me completely off guard.
"It's just helping someone who needs it," I finally say, unwilling or unable to examine the implications of his words more closely.
"If you say so," Dante replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Take the rest of the day. Whatever you need. Just keep your phone on in case of emergencies."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate for what he's offering. Not just time off, but understanding, even encouragement.
"Oh, and Franco? If you ever want to bring her around, Elena would love to meet her. No pressure, just... the offer's there."
Before I can respond to this even more unexpected suggestion, he hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, processing the conversation.
Dante doesn't just know about Sarah; he approves.
More than approves, he seems genuinely happy about whatever this strange situation is.
The thought is both comforting and disconcerting.
I return to Sarah's apartment, finding her still on the couch with the ice pack on her ankle. She looks up as I enter, her expression questioning.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
I nod, still slightly off-balance from my conversation with Dante. "Just work checking in. I'm clear for the rest of the day."
"To babysit me and pick up my son?" She sounds skeptical. "Your boss is okay with that?"
"Apparently," I say, still somewhat surprised myself.
Sarah studies me, her perceptiveness once again catching me off guard. "That surprises you."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
She seems to consider asking more, then thinks better of it. Instead, she shifts the ice pack on her ankle and says, "I should probably change out of this uniform before we pick up Tommy."
"Can you manage it with your ankle?" I ask, immediately regretting the question when I see the flush of embarrassment that rises to her cheeks.
"I'll be fine," she says quickly. "I'll just... it might take me a bit longer than usual."
I nod, understanding her need for independence despite her injury. "Take your time. School pickup isn't for a couple of hours."
Sarah pushes herself up from the couch, wincing slightly as she puts weight on her ankle. I resist the urge to help her, sensing that my assistance might not be welcome for this particular task. She limps toward what I assume is her bedroom, then pauses in the doorway.
"Thank you," she says, not looking back at me. "For everything. I know I keep saying it, but... it means a lot."
Before I can respond, she disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I hear the soft sounds of drawers opening and closing, movement as she changes clothes.
I remain in the living room, taking the opportunity to observe more details of her life.
A small bookshelf in the corner holds a mix of children's books and a few worn paperbacks.
On top sits a framed photograph of Sarah, looking younger and less tired, holding a newborn Tommy.
Beside it is a child's drawing, clearly Tommy's work—stick figures labeled "Mommy" and "Me" holding hands next to what appears to be a house.
The coffee table holds a stack of mail, most of it bills based on the return addresses visible. A notebook lies open, filled with calculations—budget planning, every dollar accounted for with meticulous precision.
It's a life of managed scarcity. Of making do with less than enough. Of prioritizing a child's needs above all else.
I think of my own apartment. Spacious, expensive, and utterly impersonal. No photographs, no children's drawings, nothing that marks it as mine beyond the few possessions I've accumulated. It's a place to sleep, to change clothes, nothing more.
Sarah emerges from the bedroom a few minutes later, now dressed in jeans and a simple blue sweater that's slightly too large for her frame. Her hair is brushed and tied back more neatly, though still in the same practical bun.
"Better," she says, limping back to the couch. "Less like I just rolled out of bed."
"You should keep icing that ankle until we need to leave," I tell her, gesturing to the ice pack she'd left behind.
She nods and sits, propping her foot up again and reapplying the ice. "So," she says after a moment, "what do people in your line of work do on weekday afternoons when they're not delivering groceries to strangers?"
"Usually I'd be overseeing security for Dante's businesses," I say, deciding on a version of the truth that doesn't involve the more unsavory aspects of my job. "Checking vulnerabilities, training staff, ensuring everything runs smoothly."
"Security," she repeats, as if testing the word. "That explains why you move the way you do. Always aware of everything around you. Noticing details most people miss."
"It's necessary in my position," I say.
"I bet." She adjusts the ice pack again. "What were you doing in my neighborhood last night? It's not exactly the kind of place I'd expect someone like you to be walking around after midnight."
"I was heading to the docks. Business matter. Your alley was a shortcut."
She nods, absorbing this information. "Lucky for us."
"Yes."