Page 26 of Franco
"I promise," I tell him, meaning it more than I've meant most promises in my life.
This seems to satisfy him. He nods again, then surprises me by throwing his arms around my neck in a quick hug before darting inside the apartment. "I'll keep the glove ready!" he calls over his shoulder.
"You have to go," Sarah says again, but this time there's a question in her voice, “Dangerous?”
I consider lying, giving her reassurance, but I promised honesty. "I don't know yet. But probably."
"You better come back," she says, her voice firm despite the worry in her eyes. "I'm trusting you, Franco. With a lot more than just my own heart."
I understand what she's saying. Tommy has already formed an attachment, already expects me to return. Disappearing now would hurt him, add me to the list of people who've left him. I won't do that to either of them.
I pull Sarah to me, my hands finding her hips before wrapping my arms around her completely. She feels soft against the hardness of my body, her breasts pressing against my chest, her warmth seeping through my clothes. I press my lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"I finally found my family," I say quietly, the words surprising me as much as they seem to surprise her. "No way I'm leaving them this soon."
She looks up at me, her eyes bright with emotion. "I believe you."
I kiss her then, a gentle press of lips that contains the promise of my return. When I pull away, she's smiling despite the concern in her eyes.
"Go," she says, pushing lightly at my chest. "Do what you need to do. We'll be here when you get back."
I nod, reluctantly stepping away. "Lock the door," I remind her.
"I will." She pauses, then adds, "Be careful, Franco."
I don't make promises I can't keep, so I simply nod again before turning away, descending the stairs much faster than I climbed them. My mind is already shifting, compartmentalizing, preparing for whatever situation Dante has called me into. But a part of me remains with Sarah and Tommy, a tether I've never had before.
In the car, I check my phone again, finding another message from Dante with an address—the Harbor Street warehouse, as I suspected. It's an old building we use primarily for weapons storage and occasionally for more unpleasant business that requires privacy. If Dante's calling me there for a "Code Red," it means things have already gotten bloody.
I drive through the city, the setting sun casting long shadows across the streets. Traffic is heavy with rush hour, but I navigate through it, taking side streets and shortcuts unknown to most citizens. Throughout the drive, my mind keeps trying to return to Sarah, to her soft body beneath mine, to the trust in her eyes, to Tommy's eager questions. I force myself to focus on thetask ahead instead. Distraction in my line of work is dangerous, potentially fatal.
When I arrive at the warehouse, I spot Raphael leaning against his car outside, smoking a cigarette. Dante's driver and his left hand, Raphael is one of the few people in the organization I consider something close to a friend. He nods in greeting as I approach.
"What happened?" I ask, noting the tension in his normally relaxed posture.
"No idea," Raphael says, exhaling smoke. "I'm just the driver. You know I hate the bloody stuff."
I shake my head, a hint of amusement breaking through my focus. "I don't understand how a man afraid of blood ended up as the personal driver for the most targeted man in the city."
Raphael laughs, the sound sharp in the quiet evening air. "I said I hate blood, not that I don't know how to protect myself. Besides," his expression sobers slightly, "I always have an extra reason to come home."
Unlike most in the organization, Raphael has a son—a fact known only to Dante, Elena, and myself.
For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine Tommy and Raphael's son playing together, forming the kind of normal childhood friendship that neither Raphael nor I experienced. Maybe Raphael could even offer parenting advice, having navigated the complicated waters of balancing being a single dad and our particular line of work for years.
The fantasy is shattered when Raphael stubs out his cigarette and nods toward the warehouse entrance. "You should go in. Everyone's waiting for you."
The reminder of duty pulls me fully back to the present. I nod, checking that my weapon is accessible before heading inside.
The interior of the warehouse is dimly lit, the concrete floor stained with fresh blood that forms dark puddles around three bodies laid out in the center of the space. Dante stands nearby, his immaculate suit jacket removed, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms spattered with red. Around him stand several of our enforcers, their expressions grim.
"Franco," Dante acknowledges my arrival without looking up from the corpse at his feet. "Glad you could join us."
There's a hint of something in his tone. Not quite accusation, but definitely curiosity about my delayed arrival. I'll have to explain later, but for now, I focus on the situation at hand.
"What happened?" I ask, moving closer to examine the bodies. I recognize two of them as members of Vincent Moretti's crew, mid-level enforcers who've been pushing into our territory for months.
"Moretti's people hit one of our shipments at the docks," Dante explains, finally looking up at me. His eyes are cold, calculating. "Killed two of our men, would have taken the entire cargo if Raphael hadn't been nearby with extra security."
