Page 25 of Franco
I nearly swerve the car in surprise, catching Sarah's equally startled expression out of the corner of my eye.
"Tommy!" she exclaims, turning in her seat to look at him. "That's not an appropriate question."
"Why not?" Tommy asks, genuinely confused. "Lily's mom has a boyfriend. He picks her up from school sometimes too. And Franco picked me up, and he was at our apartment, and he's driving us home..." He lists these facts as if building an irrefutable case. "So is he your boyfriend?"
Sarah looks at me, clearly at a loss for how to respond. I keep my eyes on the road, giving her space to decide how she wants to handle this.
"Franco and I are... friends," she says finally. "Good friends. We're still getting to know each other."
Tommy considers this answer for a moment. "But you like him, right? Because you're smiling a lot more today. And your eyes look happy."
I risk a glance at Sarah, finding her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Yes, Tommy, I like Franco," she admits. "He's been very kind to us."
"I like him too," Tommy declares with the absolute certainty only children possess. "He's strong and he has a cool car and he doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."
I've spent decades cultivating a reputation built on fear and respect, yet somehow this child's unguarded opinion matters more than any of that.
"I like you too, Tommy," I say, the words feeling foreign but necessary.
In the rearview mirror, I catch Tommy's wide grin before he launches into another subject, asking if I know how to play baseball because they're learning it in PE, and he's not very good at hitting the ball.
By the time we reach Sarah's building, Tommy has extracted half a dozen facts about my life—that I played baseball in high school (true), that I have a dog (false, but easier than explaining why I don't have pets), and that my favorite food is pasta (true, though I rarely have time to enjoy it properly).
I park and help Sarah out while Tommy unbuckles himself, chattering about showing me his baseball glove that hisgrandmother bought him for his last birthday. As we approach the building entrance, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, focusing instead on supporting Sarah up the first few steps.
It buzzes again, more insistently. Then a third time in rapid succession. Only one person sends triple texts. Dante, and only when it's urgent.
"I need to check this," I tell Sarah, helping her to sit on a step while I pull out my phone.
Three messages from Dante:
*Need you at the Harbor Street warehouse. Now.*
*Emergency situation.*
*Code Red. Moretti's crew made a move.*
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, quickly texting back: *On my way.*
I look up to find Sarah watching me, left eyebrow arched. Tommy has continued up the stairs, oblivious to the sudden tension, his backpack bouncing with each step.
"You have to go," Sarah says. Not a question.
I nod, slipping the phone back into my pocket. "Work. It's urgent."
She accepts this without pressing for details, which I appreciate. "Can you help me up the rest of the stairs first?"
I nod, carrying her the remaining two flights. Tommy is waiting by their apartment door, fishing the key from his backpack.
"I got it, Mom!" he announces proudly, holding up the key. "I can open it all by myself."
"Good job, buddy," Sarah says as I set her down gently. "Go ahead and unlock it."
Tommy successfully opens the door, then turns to me with expectation in his eyes. "Are you coming in? I want to show you my baseball glove!"
I crouch down to his level, meeting his gaze directly. "I can't right now, Tommy. I have to go to work. But I'll come back another time, okay?"
His face falls slightly, but he nods with surprising maturity. "Do you promise? To come back?"
