I nod, relieved that she's accepting my inadequate explanation. "You should sit down. Ice that ankle."
To my surprise, she complies without argument, limping to the couch and sinking onto it with a poorly suppressed wince. I retrieve an ice pack from the box I brought, wrap it in a dish towel I find in a drawer, and bring it to her.
"Elevate it," I instruct, handing her the ice pack.
She arranges a pillow under her ankle and places the ice pack on top, then looks up at me. "Do you still want to pick up Tommy? The school probably won’t release him to you."
"I remember," I say. "I'll take you to get him. You can stay in the car if your ankle's too bad. Or I can take you to your mother's house, and she can pick him up."
Sarah considers this, clearly weighing her options. "My mom will ask a million questions if you show up with me."
"Can you handle his pickup from the car? You'd just need to walk a few steps to sign him out."
She nods. "That would work. Thank you."
I check my watch. It's just past 1:00 PM, still a few hours before Tommy's school lets out. Plenty of time to finish putting away groceries and make sure Sarah's ankle is properly iced before we need to leave.
"I'll finish with these," I say, gesturing to the remaining grocery bags. "You keep that ice on."
I return to the kitchen, emptying the bags and placing items in cupboards and the refrigerator. Her kitchen is small but organized, the effort of someone trying to create order within limited means. The refrigerator was nearly empty before my additions: a half-gallon of milk, some eggs, condiments, and not much else.
As I work, I'm aware of Sarah watching me from the couch, her expression thoughtful. The silence between us should be awkward, but somehow it isn't. There's a strange comfort in the simple task of filling her cupboards, knowing that tonight when Tommy opens the refrigerator, he'll find fresh fruit and properfood instead of whatever Sarah would have scraped together from nearly bare shelves.
When I finish, I wash my hands and join her in the living room, taking the armchair across from the couch. "Do you need anything else?"
She shakes her head. "No, this is... more than enough." She hesitates, then asks, "What did you say to Rosie? My boss? She's never given anyone time off before, especially not with pay."
I consider how much to tell her. The full truth—that Dante owns the diner, that I'm his right hand, that Rosie was terrified when I invoked his name—seems unwise.
"I suggested it would be in her best interest to take care of her staff," I say finally.
Sarah raises an eyebrow. "And she just... agreed? Because you suggested it?"
"I can be persuasive."
She glances at me, connecting dots I'd rather she didn't. "Are you... involved in something illegal, Franco?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. Most people in this city know better than to ask such things outright.
"Why do you ask?"
"The way you fight. The influence you seem to have. The car. The clothes." She gestures vaguely toward me. "Everything about you screams 'dangerous.' And last night, when those kids attacked us, you didn't hesitate. Breaking that boy's wrist was... easy for you."
I don't immediately answer. The truth could frighten her, make her ask me to leave and never return. But lying feels wrong, especially after she's been direct with me.
"My work sometimes operates in gray areas," I say. "I'm head of security for a... business organization. I protect people and interests. Sometimes that requires methods that wouldn't be considered conventional."
"You're with the Venezianos," she says, not a question but a statement.
I keep my expression neutral, but inwardly I'm impressed. She's perceptive. "What makes you say that?"
"I've lived in this city my whole life. I know the major players. And you mentioned someone named Dante—that would be Dante Veneziano." She looks down at her ice pack, adjusting it slightly. "Plus, there are rumors about who really owns Rosie's. The staff speculates sometimes."
The revelation that she knows, or at least strongly suspects, who I work for changes things. She's not naive.
"Does that bother you?" I ask, curious despite myself.
Sarah looks back up at me, her eyes direct. "It should, shouldn't it? My mother would have a heart attack if she knew I was sitting here with... someone like you." She sighs. "But you saved Tommy and me. You got me time off when I desperately needed it. You brought groceries when my fridge was nearly empty." She shrugs. "So I guess I'm reserving judgment."
