Page 6 of Franco
"I have to go." He steps back, already turning toward the stairs.
"Wait," I call after him. "Will I... see you again?"
I'm not sure why I ask this. Maybe because despite his intimidating presence, he's the first person in a long time who's helped me without expecting anything in return. Or maybe because Tommy seemed to like him, and Tommy rarely warms to strangers.
Franco pauses, looking back at me with those impenetrable dark eyes.
"No," he says simply. "Lock your door."
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading as he descends the stairs. I stand in the doorway for a moment longer, listening until I can't hear him anymore.
I close the door and lock it, leaning against the worn wood for a moment before limping to the bathroom where Tommy is making a mess with toothpaste.
As I help him clean up and get ready for bed, I try to push thoughts of Franco from my mind. He was clear enough. Our paths won't cross again.
He exists in a different world than mine, one of expensive cars and designer suits and casual violence, a world where he can break a teenager's wrist without hesitation.
It's better this way. Safer.
But as I tuck Tommy into bed and lie down beside him, my throbbing ankle propped up on a pillow as Franco suggested, I find myself wondering who he really is and what kind of "business" brings a man like him to our neighborhood after midnight.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to my routine: morning shift at the diner, evening shift at the mart, picking up Tommy from my mother's house, making dinner with whatever's on sale at the grocery store. The endless cycle of barely getting by.
But tonight, just for a little while, I'd glimpsed another world. One where danger and protection wore the same face, where a stranger could appear from the shadows exactly when needed and disappear just as quickly.
As I drift toward sleep, Tommy's warm body curled against mine, I wonder if Franco ever thinks about the people he helps or if we were just a momentary distraction from whatever "business" had brought him to our part of the city.
Probably the latter. Men like him don't waste time thinking about women like me.
Chapter 3 - Franco
"No," I tell her, ignoring the strange tightness in my chest at her question. "Lock your door."
I turn away before she can say anything else, descending the stairs quickly. The sooner I put distance between myself and this complication, the better. I've wasted enough time on this detour already, and Dante is waiting.
As I step outside, the cold night air hits me like a wake-up call. What was I thinking? Driving a woman and her child home, carrying her up the stairs like some kind of—what had the kid called me? A superhero? The thought would be laughable if it weren't so dangerously misguided.
I slide into my car, the leather seat still warm. The faint scent of her lingers. Something cheap and floral mixed with the kitchen grease that clung to her uniform. In the back seat, the boy's small handprints mark the window where he'd pressed his face against the glass, watching the city blur by.
I start the engine, but don't immediately pull away. Instead, I look up at the building, my eyes finding the window where a light has just come on. Third floor, second window from the left. The blinds are crooked, one slat bent where it's been caught in the sill. Through the gap, I can just make out movement. Sarah limping across the room, the boy trailing behind her.
My phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. Dante's name flashes on the screen.
"Where the hell are you?" he demands when I answer. "I've been waiting for thirty minutes."
"Had to handle something," I reply, finally pulling away from the curb. "On my way now."
"The shipment's arrived. There's a problem with the manifest. I need you here."
"Fifteen minutes," I say, accelerating through a yellow light.
Dante hangs up without another word. He doesn't need to express his disappointment. It's implied in the silence. In more than 20 years, I've never been late for an assignment. Never let a distraction interfere with the job. Until tonight.
I merge onto the highway, pushing the Audi to ninety, weaving between sparse late-night traffic. I need to focus, to put the woman and her son out of my mind. They're nothing to me. Just a random encounter, a momentary deviation from my routine.
But as I drive, my mind keeps circling back to her ankle, swollen beneath the worn sock that had a small hole near the toe. The exhaustion in her eyes. The way she'd looked at me with such naked gratitude for doing the bare minimum of human decency.
And the boy—Tommy—with his ninja turtles and his earnest questions. The casual way he'd mentioned his father's abandonment, like it was just another fact about himself, like his preference for the color red.
