Chapter 6 - Sarah
"Yes."
Lucky for us, indeed. If he hadn't been taking that shortcut, if he hadn't stopped when he heard my scream... I shudder to think what might have happened. Those teenagers might have taken more than just my purse. Tommy could have been hurt.
Instead, we got a guardian angel in the form of a dangerous man with gentle eyes who's now sitting in my living room after filling my refrigerator with more food than I've been able to afford in months.
Franco sits perfectly still in my secondhand armchair, his posture relaxed but alert, like he's perpetually ready to respond to a threat. His dark eyes scan the apartment occasionally, a habit I suspect is so ingrained he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
"You're good at that," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "At what?"
"Sitting still. Most people fidget, look at their phones, need something to occupy themselves. You just... exist. Perfectly comfortable with silence."
"It's necessary in my line of work. Patience. Observation."
"Security," I say, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from my voice. We both know that's not the whole truth, but I appreciate that he's not insulting my intelligence by elaborating on the lie.
Franco meets my gaze directly. "Not just security. Protection. Ensuring the safety of people and... interests."
"For Dante Veneziano."
He nods once, neither confirming nor denying the implication behind my words. We both know what the Veneziano family does in this city. Everyone knows, even if nobody talks about it openly.
"How did you get into that line of work?" I ask, surprising myself with my boldness.
It's not the kind of question you ask a man like Franco, but the ice pack on my ankle and the groceries in my kitchen have created a strange intimacy between us, as if the normal rules of caution don't quite apply.
Franco is silent for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful.
"I was in the military. Special operations. When I got out, I didn't have many transferable skills." His mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "At least, not for conventional employment."
"And Dante Veneziano offered you a job?"
"His father did, initially. Dante was seventeen when he took over the family business. I've been with him ever since."
"That's a long time," I observe.
Franco nods. "It is."
"Do you ever regret it? The path you chose?"
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger but in consideration. "No," he says finally. "I'm good at what I do. It suits me."
"Breaking wrists and intimidating diner managers suits you?" The words come out more judgmental than I intended.
To my surprise, Franco doesn't take offense. "I protect people who need protection. The methods vary based on the situation."
"Like protecting Tommy and me last night."
"Yes."
"And what about today? The groceries, the time off, picking up Tommy from school... what situation are those methods responding to?"
Franco looks away, his gaze landing on Tommy's drawing hanging on my refrigerator. "I told you, I don't know."
"I think you do know," I say softly. "You just don't want to admit it to yourself."
His eyes return to mine. "And what is it you think I know?"
I shrug. "That helping feels good. That maybe you needed to do something that wasn't about violence or intimidation. That maybe you're more than just Dante Veneziano's employer."
Franco's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture—a barely perceptible tensing of his shoulders, as if my words have found a target.
"You don't know me," he says, his voice low.
"I know you're dangerous enough that my boss nearly had a heart attack when you spoke to her, but you bring ice packs and proper pain relievers to a woman you barely know." I meet his gaze steadily. "Maybe I don't know all of you, Franco, but I see more than you think."
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he stands abruptly, moving to the window to look out at the street below.
His back to me, hands clasped behind him, he presents the perfect picture of control.
But something in the set of his shoulders tells me he's anything but calm.
"What about you?" he asks without turning around. "How does a woman like you end up working two jobs, raising a child alone, in an apartment building with broken security and stairs that violate at least three building codes?"
The question stings a little, though I know he's just deflecting attention from himself. Still, I owe him some honesty after pushing for his.
"The same way most single mothers do," I say, adjusting the ice pack on my ankle. "One small disaster at a time."
He turns to face me, waiting for me to continue.
I sigh. "I got pregnant at twenty-two. I was in my final year of nursing school.
Tommy's father decided fatherhood wasn't for him before I was even showing.
I thought I could manage—finish school, have the baby, get a job with decent hours.
" I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Then Tommy came two months early."
Franco's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The NICU."
I blink in surprise. "How did you—"
"I can do basic math," he says. "A premature birth, medical bills, interrupted education. It's a common story."
"Common, maybe. Still felt like the end of the world at the time.
" I look down at my hands, remembering those terrifying weeks of watching my tiny son fight for his life, the mounting bills, the desperate calls to the financial aid office at my school.
"Tommy spent six weeks in the NICU. I tried to keep up with classes, but between hospital visits and trying to make rent. .. something had to give."
"So you left nursing school."
I nod. "With student loans and no degree to show for it.
By the time Tommy was strong enough to come home, I was so far behind in my coursework that catching up seemed impossible.
I took a job at the diner because the hours let me be with him during the day, and my mom could watch him at night while I worked a second job. "
"And you've been doing that ever since."
"Five years, two months, and sixteen days," I say with a wry smile. "But who's counting?"
Franco moves away from the window, returning to sit across from me. "You never thought about going back? Finishing your degree?"
"Every day," I admit. "But the timing never works out.
When Tommy was smaller, he needed more of my attention.
Now that he's in school, I need both jobs just to keep us afloat.
The medical debt from his birth, my student loans, rent that keeps increasing.
.." I gesture vaguely around the apartment. "This is the best I can do right now."
"What about Tommy's father? Child support?"
I shake my head. "He left the state before Tommy was born. Last I heard, he was in California. He's never met his son, never paid a cent."
Franco's expression darkens. "He could be found."
Something in his tone sends a chill down my spine. "That sounds ominous."
"Just factual."
I glance at him, realizing he's serious. "Are you offering to track down Tommy's father and... what? Force him to pay child support? Break his wrists?"
"If necessary."
The casual way he says it, like finding and potentially harming my ex is as simple as picking up milk from the store, should frighten me. Instead, I find myself fighting back a bizarre urge to laugh.
"Thank you, but no. Tommy and I have managed five years without him. We don't need him now."
Franco nods, accepting my decision without argument. "What about your family? Besides your mother?"
"It's just her. My dad left when I was four. No siblings." I shift the ice pack, which is starting to melt. "What about you? Any family?"
His face becomes completely impassive. "No."
"None at all?"
"None that matters."
The finality in his tone tells me to drop the subject, but something about his expression, a flicker of old pain quickly suppressed, makes me push further.
"Everyone has a past, Franco. Even mysterious guys who appear out of nowhere to save women and children in alleys."
He's silent for so long I think I've overstepped. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.
"I grew up in the system. Foster homes, mostly.
Some better than others." His gaze is fixed somewhere past my shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes.
"When I was sixteen, I enlisted. Lied about my age.
The recruiter knew, but he needed to meet his quota.
The military became my family. Until it wasn't."
The economy of his words tells me there's much more to the story. Years of experiences compressed into a few sparse sentences.
"What happened?" I ask gently. "With the military?"
Franco's eyes refocus on me, his expression shuttering. "A mission went wrong. People died. I didn't."
The weight of guilt in those simple words is palpable. Whatever happened, he clearly carries the burden of survival when others didn't make it.
"I'm sorry," I say, knowing the words are inadequate.
He shrugs. "It was a long time ago."
"Not to you."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I see past the pain underneath, old wounds that never properly healed, just scarred over enough to function.
"No," he concedes. "Not to me."
The admission seems to cost him something. He stands again, moving restlessly to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator as if to check that the groceries he brought are still there.
"And after the military?" I ask, watching as he rearranges items on the shelf. "How did you end up working for the Venezianos?"
Franco closes the refrigerator and turns to face me.
"I was drinking too much, fighting too often.
Lucas Veneziano—Dante's father—found me after I'd put three of his men in the hospital.
They'd started it. I finished it." His mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile.
"He said anyone who could take down three of his best deserved a job, not a bullet. So, he hired me."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Franco leans against the counter, arms crossed.
"It was supposed to be temporary. A way to pay rent while I figured out what to do with my life.
Then Lucas was shot, and suddenly seventeen-year-old Dante was in charge, with every rival family circling like sharks.
He needed someone he could trust. Someone with my particular skills. "
"So, you stayed."
"I stayed." Franco's gaze is steady. "Fifteen years now."
"That's loyalty."
"That's necessity. For both of us."
I consider this, trying to imagine the young, traumatized soldier Franco must have been, finding purpose in protecting a teenage boy thrust into a dangerous world. How that relationship must have shaped both of them over fifteen years.
"And you've never wanted something else? Something more?" I ask. "A life outside of... all that?"
Franco's expression doesn't change.
"My life suits me," he says.
But this time, I don't quite believe him.