Page 19 of Franco
"My life suits me," I say, the lie smooth on my tongue from years of repetition.
Sarah stares at me with those tired but perceptive brown eyes, and I feel exposed in a way that's entirely unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Dangerous, even.
In fifteen years, I've never discussed my past with anyone except Dante. Not the foster homes where I learned that strength was the only currency that mattered. Not the military where I honed that strength into deadly precision. Not the failed mission that left me as the sole survivor, carrying the weight of my team's deaths.
Yet here I am, standing in this woman's cramped kitchen, having just revealed more about myself in ten minutes than I have to anyone in a decade. What the hell is happening to me?
"I don't believe you," Sarah says quietly, still watching me from the couch.
"Excuse me?"
"That your life suits you." She shifts, adjusting the ice pack on her ankle. "I think it's what you're used to. What you're good at. But that's not the same as it being what you want."
I push away from the counter, irritated by her presumption. "You don't know what I want."
"No," she agrees, annoyingly reasonable. "But I don't think you do either."
The accuracy of her observation cuts deeper than I care to admit. What do I want? It's a question I stopped asking myself years ago. Want is irrelevant in my world. There's necessity, duty, loyalty. Wants are luxuries for people with choices.
I check my watch, needing a moment to regroup, to rebuild the walls she's somehow dismantled with just a few perceptive comments. "How's your ankle feeling?"
Sarah allows the deflection, removing the ice pack. "Better. The pain relievers you brought are stronger than what I usually take."
"They should be. They're prescription strength."
She raises an eyebrow. "Should I ask how you got prescription medication without a prescription?"
"No."
She laughs softly, the sound easing some of the tension between us. "Fair enough."
I move back to the living room, taking the armchair across from her
"Thank you," she says. "For telling me about your past. I don't imagine you do that often."
"I don't," I confirm. "Ever, actually."
"Why me, then?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine directly.
It's the question I've been asking myself since the words left my mouth. Why her? Why now? What is it about this woman that makes me lower defenses I've maintained for decades?
"I don't know," I repeat.
Sarah nods slowly, seeming to accept this incomplete answer. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you told me. It helps me understand you better."
"And do you? Understand me?"
"Parts of you," she says. "Enough to know there's more to Franco Salvatore than what most people see."
"You should rest your ankle more before Tommy gets back," I say, redirecting the conversation once again.
Sarah sighs. "You're probably right. But I'm tired of sitting. I've been on this couch all day." She pushes herself up, testing her weight on the injured ankle. "I think I need to move around a bit, get the blood flowing."
I watch as she takes a few steps, her limp less pronounced than before. "Better?"
"A little." She moves toward the kitchen, then stops abruptly with a small gasp of pain.
I'm beside her in an instant, my hand at her elbow to steady her. "You pushed it too far."
