37 | Hopeful
The past month has been surprisingly peaceful.
I haven't done anything reckless, and even though I've had a few drinks here and there, it's nowhere near the chaos I used to let myself fall into.
I don't know if it's because of Franco's presence, but I feel different, like I'm starting to breathe again. He's always there when I need him, not just as a bodyguard but as someone I can trust.
His calmness, his steadiness, it's like a tether that's slowly pulling me back from the edge.
Right now, we're in his bedroom. Yes, his bedroom, and it still feels strange to admit to myself that I'm here so often, almost everyday.
But this room... it feels safe. The warmth of the kitchen, even if it's just a small one tucked into the corner of his room, surrounds me like a comforting embrace.
Right now I'm cooking chicken soup, a recipe from our childhood that we used to love.
"Do you think we're doing it right?" I ask, glancing over at Franco.
He's standing beside me, cutting vegetables with his usual precision, his broad hands moving skillfully.
The smell of the soup is starting to fill the room, and for a moment, it almost feels like nothing else matters. Just this, just us.
Franco looks up, that playful glint in his eyes that I've come to love so much.
"We can only pray," he grins, nudging me lightly with his shoulder.
I laugh softly, shaking my head at his joking tone.
Somehow, standing side by side with him, cooking something so ordinary, is the most comforting thing in my life right now.
We finish the preparation, allowing the soup to boil while we step back. Franco leans against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. His gaze is always intense, but there's a softness to it when he looks at me.
"So, you're sure Luciano won't storm in here?" Franco asks, his voice lower, as though the mere thought of my husband coming here makes him uneasy.
I let out a slow breath, glancing at the door before turning back to Franco.
"He won't," I assure him. "He's not here tonight."
Franco raises an eyebrow. "Where is he, then?"
"Chicago," I reply, a flicker of something dark passing through me. "Business meeting. He'll be back tomorrow."
I watch Franco's face closely as he processes the information. I know he's trying to piece things together in his mind, but I don't want him to worry.
Suddenly, his face shifts, and he steps closer to me, his voice lowering even more as if he's afraid someone might hear. "A few days ago when you and I were by the pool... I saw Luciano with Nico and Gabriele," he says, his tone heavy with concern. "Luciano looked angry. Jealous, even."
My stomach churns slightly at the thought, but I force myself to stay calm.
"I won't let him lay a hand on you," I say, my voice firm, more confident than I feel.
It's almost laughable that I'm reassuring him, when in reality, I'm not sure if I can stop Luciano from doing anything he wants.
Franco's eyes darken, and he steps closer, his voice low, almost a whisper. "How would you do that? You know how this works in the underworld. You have to be obedient. To him. That's how it works."
"I have a plan," I tell him,"If Luciano tries anything with you, I'll make sure he doesn't get the chance. I have... leverage."
Franco tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, clearly not fully understanding what I mean.
"Leverage?" he asks, almost amused.
"Don't worry about it," I say, a small smirk playing on my lips. "I know how to handle him. I won't let him hurt you not unless he wants to see me dead."
"You'd threaten to kill yourself if he tried to hurt me? Is that what you're saying?" Franco asks, his voice tinged with shock.
I give him a small nod.
Franco doesn't say anything for a long moment, just watches me with an unreadable expression.
Franco's voice breaks through the quiet as he looks at me with that intense, unwavering gaze of his. "Do you harm yourself?"
The question hits me like a bolt of lightning. For a moment, I freeze, my heart skipping a beat in my chest.
I shake my head, trying to gather myself. "No. I don't harm myself. The time when I... jumped out the window, I was just consumed by the pain, everything with my parents."
Franco's eyes darken as he listens, but his expression doesn't shift. It's like he's processing my words, trying to piece everything together. Then he adds, almost casually, "And with Luciano, right?"
I'm stunned. My breath catches in my throat. "What?"
He doesn't miss a beat, leaning in just a little closer, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing half-smile. "You're in love with him but he almost married Ciara."
The shock hits me like a wave, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
He can see right through me, can see everything I've tried so hard to bury deep down. I'm not sure how to react, how to cover up the fact that what he's saying might be true.
I try to laugh it off, to brush it away like it's nothing. "I don't love him. I... I had a crush on him, okay? I mean, come on. He's hot. He's always been there for me, you know that."
Franco just stares at me, his eyes searching, reading me like a book. "If Ciara and Luciano never got together, would you have taken your chances with him? Or would you have hidden your feelings until the day you died?"
His words hang in the air between us, and I don't know how to respond. The weight of the question is too much, too raw.
I look down at my hands who have now healed.
"I don't know," I finally say, my voice quieter than I intended. "I've always been a coward. I know he never saw me as anything more than Chase's little sister. I think... I think I would have kept my feelings hidden. Because I knew he'd never return them."
Franco's gaze softens, like he's seeing something deeper inside mm until he surprises me with another question. "Isn't this your chance, then?"
I look up at him, confused. "What do you mean by that?"
Franco's expression shifts, his voice dropping to something more serious, more thoughtful. "Ciara's dead and Luciano's married to you now."
"One thing I've always promised myself," I say, my voice shaking just slightly, "is that I would never be with a man who's loved my sister."
Franco's eyes shift, a flicker of hope in them as he watches me. "So you don't want to be with Luciano?"
I feel my heart clench at his question, but I nod, trying to hold my composure. "Yeah. I don't want to be with him. But I have no choice. I've tried asking for a divorce, but he won't give it to me."
Franco leans in slightly, his voice firm, like he's speaking directly to me. "I know you. You're stubborn. You don't stop until you get what you want. So how did Luciano let me become your guard?"
I hesitate, biting my lip as I weigh the truth. I never told him the real reason. I never explained that I'd promised Luciano that if he allowed Franco to become my bodyguard, I'd try to be on good terms with him.
I look up at Franco, the weight of my words heavy in the air. "I... I promised Luciano that I'd try to get along with him. That's how he agreed to let you guard me."
Franco watches me for a long moment, his gaze intense, before he looks away, a slight shift in his demeanor, he looks almost hopeful in a way.
He glances at the soup that's still simmering on the stove, and with a small smile, he changes the subject. "Alright, we should try it and see if it tastes any good."
I take a deep breath, trying to push the tension out of my chest.
Franco's words linger in my mind, but for now, I focus on the soup, on the moment we're sharing.