Page 10 of Franco
Put that way, it's hardly a choice at all. I follow him to the car, sliding into the passenger seat when he opens the door. The interior is immaculate, like the Audi was, but less opulent. Practical luxury rather than showmanship.
"Seatbelt," he says as he starts the engine.
I comply, sneaking glances at his profile as he pulls into traffic. In daylight, I can see the thin scar along his cheekbone more clearly. It looks like it came from a knife. There are other scars too. Small white marks on his knuckles, a longer one disappearing beneath his collar. The hands gripping the steering wheel are powerful, with prominent veins and thick fingers. Hands that have hurt people. Hands that gently carried my son.
"Why are you doing this?" I finally ask as we stop at a red light.
Franco keeps his eyes on the road. "Doing what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely between us. "Showing up at my work. Getting me time off. Driving me home. You said you wouldn't see me again."
"I changed my mind."
"Why?"
The light turns green. Franco accelerates smoothly, his face giving nothing away. "Your ankle needs rest."
"There are thousands of people with injured ankles in this city. You're not driving all of them home."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "No. I'm not."
I wait for him to elaborate, but he remains silent. Frustration bubbles up in me. "That's it? That's all I get? You show up, completely upend my morning, and offer no explanation?"
"What do you want me to say?" he asks, his voice still maddeningly calm.
"The truth!" I burst out. "Why are you really here?"
Franco takes a left turn, bringing us onto my street. "I don't know."
The simple honesty of his answer stops me cold. Before I can respond, he's parking in front of my building, the same spot where the Audi sat. He kills the engine but doesn't move to get out.
"You should have three days to rest that ankle," he says, still not looking at me. "Your boss won't dock your pay."
"How? Why would Rosie listen to you?"
Franco finally turns to face me, his dark eyes meeting mine. "I have some influence."
"What does that mean? Are you... connected or something?" The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they're true. The expensive clothes, the casual violence, the "influence" with local businesses. He's with the mob. Or something close enough that the distinction doesn't matter.
He doesn't confirm or deny it, just holds my gaze steadily. I should be terrified. I should get out of this car right now and run as fast as my injured ankle will carry me. Instead, I find myself studying the lines of his face, wondering about the man behind the dangerous exterior.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For the time off. I really do need it."
He nods once, then exits the car. Before I can reach for my door handle, he's there, opening it for me. This strange courtesy from a man who radiates menace is jarring, but I'm starting to realize that Franco is full of contradictions.
He offers his arm for support as we approach the building. I take it, feeling the solid muscle beneath the leather jacket. We're halfway up the first flight of stairs when I remember.
"Tommy's at school," I say, stopping abruptly. "I was going to pick him up from my mom's on my way home from work, but now..." I check my watch. "He won't be out for hours."
Franco pauses, considering this information. "You should rest. I can pick him up later."
The offer is so unexpected that I laugh, then realize he's serious. "You want to pick up my five-year-old from kindergarten?"
"Why not?"
I stare at him, trying to picture this dangerous man standing among the mini-vans and SUVs at school pickup. "Because you're a stranger? Because the school won't release him to someone who's not on the approved list?"
He frowns slightly, like this hadn't occurred to him. "So add me to the list."
