Chapter 9 - Franco
"I believe you."
Sarah's words settle over me, the simple trust in them both comforting and terrifying. I believe her belief, and that's what scares me.
In all these years with the Venezianos, I've never had anyone to lose. Now, in less than forty-eight hours, I have a woman looking at me like I'm worth something beyond my capacity for violence, and a five-year-old boy who thinks I'm some kind of superhero.
I retrieve my clothes from where they've landed around the bedroom, my body still humming with the afterglow of what we just shared. As I dress, I watch Sarah do the same, noting the careful way she tests her injured ankle. It's clearly still sore, though the swelling has gone down somewhat.
"How's it feeling?" I ask, nodding toward her ankle as I button my shirt.
"Better," she says, pulling her sweater over her head. "The pain medication helped a lot."
I check my watch, just over forty-five minutes before we need to get Tommy. "I should change your ice pack before we go pick up your son."
Sarah looks at me, a small furrow appearing between her brows. "You still want to come with me? To get Tommy?"
"Of course." The answer comes automatically, without hesitation. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."
She shakes her head quickly. "No, it's not that.
I just... this is all happening very fast. This morning I woke up alone, like I have for the past five years.
Now you're in my bed, planning to pick up my son from school, talking about staying in our lives.
" She runs a hand through her tousled hair. "It's a lot to process."
I understand her concern. This is all moving at a pace that would be inadvisable in any normal situation. But there's nothing normal about how we met, nothing standard about the connection that's formed between us. Still, I need to respect her boundaries, especially where Tommy is concerned.
"We can slow down," I offer. "Take it day by day."
"No, I don't think we can. Not really. Not when Tommy's already met you, not when you've already saved us, not when I've already.
.." She gestures toward the rumpled bed.
"I think we're past the point of conventional timing.
I just need to know you understand what you're getting into—a package deal, complications and all. "
"I understand," I assure her, crossing the room to stand before her. "And I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
She reaches up, her hand coming to rest against my cheek.
"Then let's go get my son," she says.
I help her to the bathroom so she can freshen up, then retrieve a fresh ice pack from the kitchen while she's occupied. When she emerges, her hair is neatly tied back again, her face washed clean.
"Ready?" I ask, offering her my arm.
She takes it, leaning on me as we make our way out of the apartment.
The stairs are still a challenge with her injured ankle, but she manages better than earlier, wincing only slightly with each step down.
In the car, she sits quietly beside me, her hands folded in her lap.
I can almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—concerns, hopes, practical considerations about what happens next.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask as I start the engine. "About me picking up Tommy with you? It's not too late to change your mind."
Sarah turns to look at me, her expression resolute. "I'm sure. Tommy already likes you. And I..." She pauses, choosing her words. "I trust my instincts. They're telling me to trust you."
The drive to Tommy's school is short. I park in the pickup lane, noting the curious glances from other parents as I help Sarah from the car. Most of them clearly recognize her, but not me. A stranger in their midst, supporting the single mother they're used to seeing struggle alone.
We wait near the entrance, Sarah leaning slightly against me, my hand at her back.
When the dismissal bell rings, children pour out of the building in a chaotic stream of backpacks and excited chatter.
Tommy spots us immediately, his face lighting up with surprised delight when he sees me standing beside his mother.
"Franco!" he shouts, racing toward us with a speed that makes me momentarily concerned he'll fall. "You came back!"
He crashes into my legs, arms wrapping around my knees in an enthusiastic hug that catches me completely off guard. I freeze for a moment, unprepared for this unrestrained show of affection, before awkwardly patting his back.
"Hi, Tommy," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
He tilts his head back to look up at me, beaming. "Are you helping Mom again? Is her ankle still hurt?"
"Yes to both questions," Sarah answers, ruffling his hair. "How was school, baby?"
"Good! I got a gold star on my drawing. And Jake said his dad has a Ferrari but I told him your friend Franco has a way cooler car." He looks up at me again. "Can we ride in your car again? Please?"
"That's the plan," I tell him, surprised by how easily I'm falling into conversation with this child. "Your mom's ankle still hurts, so I'm driving you both home."
Tommy punches the air in celebration, then grabs my hand without hesitation, his small fingers wrapping around my much larger ones. "Come on! I want to show Mom my drawing before she puts it on the fridge!"
I glance at Sarah, finding her watching us with a smile. She nods slightly, giving me permission to lead her son to the car. I help Tommy into his seat in the back, then assist Sarah into the passenger side before taking my place behind the wheel.
As I pull away from the school, Tommy launches into a detailed account of his day, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless energy of a five-year-old.
I listen more attentively than I've listened to most intelligence briefings, noting the names of his friends, his teacher, the subjects he enjoys and the ones he finds boring.
"Franco," he says suddenly, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Are you Mom's boyfriend now?"
I nearly swerve the car in surprise, catching Sarah's equally startled expression out of the corner of my eye.
"Tommy!" she exclaims, turning in her seat to look at him. "That's not an appropriate question."
"Why not?" Tommy asks, genuinely confused. "Lily's mom has a boyfriend. He picks her up from school sometimes too. And Franco picked me up, and he was at our apartment, and he's driving us home..." He lists these facts as if building an irrefutable case. "So is he your boyfriend?"
Sarah looks at me, clearly at a loss for how to respond. I keep my eyes on the road, giving her space to decide how she wants to handle this.
"Franco and I are... friends," she says finally. "Good friends. We're still getting to know each other."
Tommy considers this answer for a moment. "But you like him, right? Because you're smiling a lot more today. And your eyes look happy."
I risk a glance at Sarah, finding her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Yes, Tommy, I like Franco," she admits. "He's been very kind to us."
"I like him too," Tommy declares with the absolute certainty only children possess. "He's strong and he has a cool car and he doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."
I've spent decades cultivating a reputation built on fear and respect, yet somehow this child's unguarded opinion matters more than any of that.
"I like you too, Tommy," I say, the words feeling foreign but necessary.
In the rearview mirror, I catch Tommy's wide grin before he launches into another subject, asking if I know how to play baseball because they're learning it in PE, and he's not very good at hitting the ball.
By the time we reach Sarah's building, Tommy has extracted half a dozen facts about my life—that I played baseball in high school (true), that I have a dog (false, but easier than explaining why I don't have pets), and that my favorite food is pasta (true, though I rarely have time to enjoy it properly).
I park and help Sarah out while Tommy unbuckles himself, chattering about showing me his baseball glove that his grandmother bought him for his last birthday.
As we approach the building entrance, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it, focusing instead on supporting Sarah up the first few steps.
It buzzes again, more insistently. Then a third time in rapid succession. Only one person sends triple texts. Dante, and only when it's urgent.
"I need to check this," I tell Sarah, helping her to sit on a step while I pull out my phone.
Three messages from Dante:
*Need you at the Harbor Street warehouse. Now.*
*Emergency situation.*
*Code Red. Moretti's crew made a move.*
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, quickly texting back: *On my way.*
I look up to find Sarah watching me, left eyebrow arched. Tommy has continued up the stairs, oblivious to the sudden tension, his backpack bouncing with each step.
"You have to go," Sarah says. Not a question.
I nod, slipping the phone back into my pocket. "Work. It's urgent."
She accepts this without pressing for details, which I appreciate. "Can you help me up the rest of the stairs first?"
I nod, carrying her the remaining two flights. Tommy is waiting by their apartment door, fishing the key from his backpack.
"I got it, Mom!" he announces proudly, holding up the key. "I can open it all by myself."
"Good job, buddy," Sarah says as I set her down gently. "Go ahead and unlock it."
Tommy successfully opens the door, then turns to me with expectation in his eyes. "Are you coming in? I want to show you my baseball glove!"
I crouch down to his level, meeting his gaze directly. "I can't right now, Tommy. I have to go to work. But I'll come back another time, okay?"
His face falls slightly, but he nods with surprising maturity. "Do you promise? To come back?"
"I promise," I tell him, meaning it more than I've meant most promises in my life.