Page 27 of Franco
I nod, processing this information. The Moretti family has been a growing problem, their operations expanding from their traditional territory in the northern part of the city. This direct attack on a Veneziano shipment is a significant escalation—a declaration of war, essentially.
"These three?" I gesture to the bodies on the floor.
"Raphael captured them during the firefight. Brought them here for questioning." Dante's mouth twists in a grimace. "Theyweren't particularly forthcoming, but we got enough to know this wasn't a random hit. Moretti's planning something bigger."
I examine the nearest body, noting the methods used to extract information. It appears Raphael wasn't particularly subtle in his questioning techniques. "And now?"
"Now," Dante says, straightening to his full height, "we respond. Make it clear that this kind of move against us has consequences." He turns to me fully, his expression hardening. "I need you to handle this, Franco. Send a message that Moretti and every other family in this city will understand."
I understand what he's asking without needing further elaboration. This isn't about subtle warnings or negotiated peace. This is about blood and fear, the currencies that have kept the Veneziano family at the top of the city's hierarchy for decades.
"When?" I ask simply.
"Tonight. Their weekly card game is at the back room of Stella's. Security will be minimal. They're not expecting retaliation so soon." Dante steps closer, lowering his voice though we're surrounded by trusted men. "I don't want a massacre, Franco. Just Moretti himself and maybe his underboss. Clean, professional, untraceable."
I nod again, already planning the approach, the timing, the escape route. "I'll need Raphael for the drive."
"He's yours," Dante agrees. "Take whoever else you need."
"No one," I decide immediately. "Smaller team, less chance of leaks or mistakes."
Dante studies me for a moment, then clasps my shoulder. "This is why you're the best, Franco. Always thinking clearly, even when surrounded by blood."
I don't respond to the compliment, if that's what it is. Instead, I turn my attention to the practical details of the mission ahead. I'll need different clothes, specific weapons, a route that avoids street cameras.
As I discuss these elements with Dante, a part of my mind remains with Sarah and Tommy. For the first time in fifteen years, I have something to lose, someone waiting for me to return. The realization should make me hesitate, make me question whether I want to continue this life of violence and risk.
Instead, it sharpens my focus to a razor's edge. I will complete this mission with maximum efficiency. I will eliminate the threat Moretti poses to Dante and, by extension, to my newly formed family. And then I will return to Sarah and Tommy, keeping the blood and death as far from their lives as possible.
It's a balancing act that I'm not sure is sustainable in the long term, but for tonight, my path is clear. Protect Dante. Eliminate Moretti. Return to Sarah.
Family, duty, survival. In that order, for the first time in my life.
Epilogue - Sarah
Three Years Later
I pace nervously in our kitchen, glancing at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour. Franco texted that he'd be home by six, and it's nearly that now.
My hands can't seem to stay still. I've already reorganized the spice rack, wiped down every counter twice, and arranged the dinner plates three times.
Tommy pokes his head into the kitchen, now eight years old and growing like a weed.
"Is dad home yet?" he asks, already dressed in his baseball uniform for tonight's little league game. Franco never misses a game, has taught Tommy to throw a perfect curveball, and helps with homework every night he's home before bedtime.
"Not yet, honey. Soon." I try to keep my voice steady, not wanting Tommy to pick up on my nervousness. "Are you ready for your game?"
"Yep! Coach says I might pitch tonight." His chest puffs with pride. "Dad’s been helping me practice my fastball. It's getting really good."
"I know, I've seen the dents in the backyard fence to prove it," I say with a smile.
Tommy grins, unrepentant. "He says a few dents mean I'm getting stronger."
Of course he does. Franco's approach to parenting is a fascinating mix of strict discipline and unexpected indulgence. The man who once broke a teenager's wrist without hesitation now spends hours building elaborate blanket forts in the living room of our new house—a modest but comfortable three-bedroom that Franco insisted on buying after we'd been together for a year.
"Ten more minutes of video games, then homework until Franco gets home," I tell Tommy, who nods and disappears back to the living room.
I return to my anxious pacing, the small white stick I've hidden in my pocket feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds. Positive. Definitely positive. After three tests with the same result, there's no denying it.
