Instead, we got a guardian angel in the form of a dangerous man with gentle eyes who's now sitting in my living room after filling my refrigerator with more food than I've been able to afford in months.
Franco sits perfectly still in my secondhand armchair, his posture relaxed but alert, like he's perpetually ready to respond to a threat. His dark eyes scan the apartment occasionally, a habit I suspect is so ingrained he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
"You're good at that," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "At what?"
"Sitting still. Most people fidget, look at their phones, need something to occupy themselves. You just... exist. Perfectly comfortable with silence."
"It's necessary in my line of work. Patience. Observation."
"Security," I say, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from my voice. We both know that's not the whole truth, but I appreciate that he's not insulting my intelligence by elaborating on the lie.
Franco meets my gaze directly. "Not just security. Protection. Ensuring the safety of people and... interests."
"For Dante Veneziano."
He nods once, neither confirming nor denying the implication behind my words. We both know what the Veneziano family does in this city. Everyone knows, even if nobody talks about it openly.
"How did you get into that line of work?" I ask, surprising myself with my boldness.
It's not the kind of question you ask a man like Franco, but the ice pack on my ankle and the groceries in my kitchen have created a strange intimacy between us, as if the normal rules of caution don't quite apply.
Franco is silent for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful.
"I was in the military. Special operations. When I got out, I didn't have many transferable skills." His mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "At least, not for conventional employment."
"And Dante Veneziano offered you a job?"
"His father did, initially. Dante was seventeen when he took over the family business. I've been with him ever since."
"That's a long time," I observe.
Franco nods. "It is."
"Do you ever regret it? The path you chose?"
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger but in consideration. "No," he says finally. "I'm good at what I do. It suits me."
"Breaking wrists and intimidating diner managers suits you?" The words come out more judgmental than I intended.
To my surprise, Franco doesn't take offense. "I protect people who need protection. The methods vary based on the situation."
"Like protecting Tommy and me last night."
"Yes."
"And what about today? The groceries, the time off, picking up Tommy from school... what situation are those methods responding to?"
Franco looks away, his gaze landing on Tommy's drawing hanging on my refrigerator. "I told you, I don't know."
"I think you do know," I say softly. "You just don't want to admit it to yourself."
His eyes return to mine. "And what is it you think I know?"
I shrug. "That helping feels good. That maybe you needed to do something that wasn't about violence or intimidation. That maybe you're more than just Dante Veneziano's employer."
Franco's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture—a barely perceptible tensing of his shoulders, as if my words have found a target.
