Page 9 of Franco
"I need to speak with the manager," I say.
Rosie looks up, her expression shifting from irritation to wariness as she takes me in. "That's me. What can I do for you?" Her tone suggests she'd rather not do anything for me at all.
I lower my voice. "I'm Franco Salvatore. Dante's right hand."
The color drains from Rosie's face.
"Mr. Salvatore," she stammers. "I didn't realize—what can I—"
"Sarah Mitchell," I interrupt. "The waitress with the limp. She's going home now. She needs three days off, with pay, to rest her injury."
Rosie's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "But I'm short-staffed already—"
"Three days," I repeat, my voice hardening just enough to make her flinch. "Paid. And when she returns, she gets better shifts. The ones with better tips."
Rosie nods frantically. "Of course, Mr. Salvatore. Right away."
"One more thing," I add. "She doesn't need to know where the directive came from."
I walk away before Rosie can respond, heading for the door. Sarah emerges from the kitchen, balancing plates again, and sees me leaving. Her expression is puzzled, maybe a little disappointed.
I step outside, but instead of crossing to my car, I wait. Five minutes later, Sarah hurries out the side door, confusion written across her features. She stops short when she sees me leaning against the building.
"Franco? What's going on? Rosie just told me to go home, that I'm getting three days off with pay to rest my ankle." Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "Did you have something to do with this?"
I maintain a neutral expression. "Maybe your boss realized you're injured."
"My boss doesn't notice if I'm breathing or not, let alone limping." She crosses her arms. "What did you do? And how did you even know where I work?"
Chapter 4 - Sarah
"My boss doesn't notice if I'm breathing or not, let alone limping." I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the flutter of nerves as Franco's dark eyes study my face. "What did you do? And how did you even know where I work?"
The early morning chill seeps through my thin uniform, but I stand my ground. Franco looks different in daylight. No less dangerous, but somehow more human in jeans and a leather jacket than he had in his night's expensive suit. The stubble on his jaw is heavier, and there's a tiredness around his eyes that wasn't there before.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he glances at my ankle, which is still throbbing despite the generic pain relievers I took before my shift.
"You should be icing that," he says, neatly sidestepping my questions.
"You didn't answer me." I'm surprised by my own boldness. This man broke someone's wrist without hesitation yet here I am, demanding answers like I have any right to them.
His jaw tightens. "I asked around."
"Asked who? About what? Why would you even care where I—"
"You need to elevate that ankle," he interrupts. "Do you have ice at home?"
I blink at the abrupt change of subject. "Yes, but—"
"I'll drive you."
It's not a request. He's already moving toward a gray car parked across the street. Not the sleek Audi from last night, but still nicer than anything that usually stops at Rosie's.
"I can take the bus," I protest weakly, even as I limp after him.
My ankle really is killing me, and the thought of standing at the bus stop for twenty minutes makes me want to cry.
Franco stops and looks back at me, his expression unreadable. "The bus will take forty-five minutes. My car will take twelve. Your choice."
