Page 7 of Franco
*His loss*, I'd said. Two syllables I can't take back. Two syllables that represented more personal information than I've shared with anyone in years.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the road, on the job ahead. By the time I reach the docks, I've locked those thoughts away, buried them beneath layers of indifference. I park beside Dante's sleek Mercedes and step out into the salt-tinged air, already scanning the area for threats, for inconsistencies, for anything out of place.
Dante stands near a shipping container, deep in conversation with Raphael. Both look up as I approach, Dante's expression hardening.
"Nice of you to join us," he says, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I know too well.
"Won't happen again," I reply, falling into place beside him, ready to deal with whatever problem requires my particular skill set.
As Dante explains the situation—a shipment short by two crates, a manifest that doesn't match what was delivered—I listen, compartmentalizing, analyzing, preparing. This is what I do. This is who I am. Not some good samaritan helping single mothers in distress.
By the time dawn breaks over the harbor, we've identified the discrepancy, tracked down the missing crates, and left a very clear message for those who thought they could skim from Dante's shipment. My knuckles are split again, blood drying in the creases of my skin. I wash it off in the harbor bathroom, the cold water stinging the fresh wounds.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me—hard eyes, stubbled jaw, the face of a man who solves problems with calculated violence. Not a hero. Not even close.
I drive back to my apartment as the city wakes up, traffic beginning to build on the streets. My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind remains alert, vigilant. Sleep will come later.
My apartment occupies the top floor of a secure building downtown, with keycard access and a doorman who knows better than to engage me in conversation. The space is minimal, functional—leather furniture I rarely sit on, a kitchen with appliances that still look new after five years, walls bare exceptfor a single painting Dante insisted I accept as payment for a particularly difficult job.
I shower, washing away the night's activities, then stand at my floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city as it bathes in morning light. Somewhere out there, Sarah is probably getting ready for work, waking her son, preparing for another day of constant struggle.
I turn away from the window, from the thought. It's not my concern. She's not my concern.
I sleep for four hours, then wake to a text from Dante confirming that our message was received and understood. The problem is resolved. Business as usual.
I spend the day reviewing security protocols for Dante's newest acquisition, a hotel downtown that will serve as a front for more lucrative operations. The work is straightforward, requiring my full attention—analyzing vulnerabilities, identifying potential threats, establishing countermeasures. It's what I excel at. What I was trained for.
But as evening approaches, as I finalize my report and send it to Dante, a face keeps intruding into my thoughts. Dark hair in a messy bun. Tired brown eyes. A curve of gratitude that softened lips chapped from stress and winter air.
I find myself opening my laptop, typing in a search: "Sarah Mitchell." Too common a name to be useful. I narrow the parameters: "Sarah Mitchell, single mother, son Tommy."
Nothing relevant emerges. I sit back, rubbing my jaw, annoyed at myself for the attempt. What am I doing? Looking up a woman I helped once and will never see again? This isn't like me. I don't form attachments. Don't allow distractions.
And yet, I can't shake the image of her standing in that dingy hallway, asking if she'd see me again. The hope in her voice. The resignation when I said no.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up my phone and call Rico, one of our lower-level associates who specializes in information gathering.
"I need to find someone," I tell him without preamble. "Woman named Sarah Mitchell, late twenties, has a five-year-old son named Tommy. Works two jobs, one at a diner. Lives in a third-floor apartment in that rundown building on East Maple, the one with the green door."
"What'd she do?" Rico asks, the clack of his keyboard already audible in the background.
"Nothing. Just find her."
There's a pause. Rico is smart enough not to ask more questions. "Give me an hour."
I hang up and immediately regret making the call. This is a breach of my own protocols, using organization resources for personal curiosity. Dante would raise an eyebrow at best, question my judgment at worst. I should call Rico back, tell him to forget it.
Instead, I wait.
Forty minutes later, Rico calls back.
"Found her," he says. "Sarah Mitchell, 28. Single mom to Thomas Mitchell, 5. Works morning shift at Rosie's Diner on Campbell Street, then evening shift at QuickMart on 8th. Lives where you said. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. Financial history shows she's drowning in medical debt. It looks like the kid was premature, spent time in the NICU. She's three months behind on rent."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "The diner—Rosie's. Who owns it?"
"Checking." More keyboard sounds. "Looks like it's owned by a shell corporation called Campbell Street Holdings LLC, which traces back to... huh, Veneziano Enterprises."
Dante's company.
