Page 8 of Franco
"Thanks," I say, disconnecting before Rico can ask why I want to know.
I sit motionless for a long moment, processing this information. The diner is one of Dante's properties, likely a legitimate business used to launder less legitimate income. And Sarah works there, probably has for years, completely unaware she's been earning her meager paycheck from one of the city's most powerful crime families.
The irony doesn't escape me. She was frightened of me, a stranger with obvious dangerous capabilities, while unknowingly working for the very organization that employs me to exercise those capabilities.
I should leave it alone. The connection is coincidental, nothing more. But now that I know where she works, where she'll be tomorrow morning...
"Damn it," I mutter, standing abruptly.
I sleep poorly that night, dreams filled with fragmented images—a child's wide eyes, a woman's grateful smile, blood on concrete, a knife flashing in dim light. I wake before dawn, irritable and tense.
My morning routine never varies: workout, shower, coffee black, check messages. Today I rush through it, telling myself I'm merely curious, that I'll drive past the diner, confirm Sarah's employment there, and leave. Nothing more.
I dress more casually than usual. Dark jeans, black sweater, leather jacket. Less conspicuous than my usual suits. The Audi seems too recognizable, so I take my other car, a gray Lexus I keep for situations that require more discretion.
Rosie's Diner sits on the corner of Campbell and 4th, a classic chrome-and-neon establishment that's seen better days. The morning crowd is already forming—construction workers, office staff grabbing coffee before work, and a few elderly regulars who probably arrive at the same time every day.
I park across the street and watch. At 6:58, Sarah hurries around the corner, her dark hair pulled back in the same messy bun, dark circles visible under her eyes even from this distance. She's limping slightly, her injured ankle clearly still bothering her. She disappears into the diner's side entrance, and through the windows, I can see her emerge moments later in a pink uniform, tying an apron around her waist.
This is enough. I've confirmed her employment. There's no reason to stay.
I start the car but don't pull away. Instead, I watch as she moves between tables, filling coffee cups, taking orders, offering tired smiles to customers who barely acknowledge her. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion in her movements, the way she subtly shifts her weight off her injured ankle when she thinks no one is looking.
Before I've fully decided what I'm doing, I'm out of the car and crossing the street. A bell jingles as I push open the diner's door, the smell of coffee and grease hitting me immediately. I take a seat at the counter, keeping my back to the wall, habit making me catalogue everyone in the room, identify exits, assess potential threats.
The only threat here is to my own better judgment.
Sarah emerges from the kitchen, plates balanced on her arm and freezes when she sees me. The plates wobble, and I half-rise, ready to catch them if they fall. But she recovers quickly, delivers the food to a nearby table, then approaches the counter cautiously, coffee pot in hand.
"Franco?" Her voice is quiet, disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"
I don't have a good answer, so I fall back on the obvious. "Coffee."
She blinks, then nods slowly, reaching for a mug. Her hands are trembling slightly as she fills it. "Black?"
I nod, studying her face. Up close, she looks even more exhausted, the shadows under her eyes darker, her skin pale except for two spots of color high on her cheeks.
"Your ankle," I say, noting her limp. "You haven’t recovered."
"Didn't have time," she replies, setting the coffee in front of me.
I take a sip of the coffee. It's surprisingly good—rich and strong. "You should be resting it."
She laughs, a short, tired sound with no real humor. "That's not really an option when you have bills to pay."
Before I can respond, a voice calls from the kitchen: "Sarah! Order up!"
"I have to go," she says, already backing away. "Um, thanks for stopping by?"
It comes out like a question, uncertainty written across her features. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything that makes sense. She turns and hurries toward the kitchen, still favoring her good ankle.
I watch her work for the next twenty minutes, moving between tables despite her injury, fielding complaints about cold toast with apologetic smiles, enduring the wandering hand of a middle-aged businessman with nothing but a tight-lipped step backward.
I leave a twenty-dollar bill for a three-dollar coffee and stand to go. Sarah is at a corner booth, refilling an elderly woman's cup. Our eyes meet across the diner, and something passes between us—a recognition, a question, an acknowledgment of the strangeness of this encounter.
I should walk away now. Get in my car, drive to Dante's office, and forget about Sarah Mitchell and her struggles. But as I watch her limp back toward the kitchen, wincing with each step, I know I won't.
I walk to the register instead, where a heavyset woman in her fifties is tallying receipts. Her nametag reads "Rosie" in faded script.
