"None at all?"
"None that matters."
The finality in his tone tells me to drop the subject, but something about his expression, a flicker of old pain quickly suppressed, makes me push further.
"Everyone has a past, Franco. Even mysterious guys who appear out of nowhere to save women and children in alleys."
He's silent for so long I think I've overstepped. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.
"I grew up in the system. Foster homes, mostly. Some better than others." His gaze is fixed somewhere past my shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes. "When I was sixteen, I enlisted. Lied about my age. The recruiter knew, but he needed to meet his quota. The military became my family. Until it wasn't."
The economy of his words tells me there's much more to the story. Years of experiences compressed into a few sparse sentences.
"What happened?" I ask gently. "With the military?"
Franco's eyes refocus on me, his expression shuttering. "A mission went wrong. People died. I didn't."
The weight of guilt in those simple words is palpable. Whatever happened, he clearly carries the burden of survival when others didn't make it.
"I'm sorry," I say, knowing the words are inadequate.
He shrugs. "It was a long time ago."
"Not to you."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I see past the pain underneath, old wounds that never properly healed, just scarred over enough to function.
"No," he concedes. "Not to me."
The admission seems to cost him something. He stands again, moving restlessly to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator as if to check that the groceries he brought are still there.
"And after the military?" I ask, watching as he rearranges items on the shelf. "How did you end up working for the Venezianos?"
Franco closes the refrigerator and turns to face me. "I was drinking too much, fighting too often. Lucas Veneziano—Dante's father—found me after I'd put three of his men in the hospital. They'd started it. I finished it." His mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "He said anyone who could take down three of his best deserved a job, not a bullet. So, he hired me."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Franco leans against the counter, arms crossed. "It was supposed to be temporary. A way to pay rent while I figured out what to do with my life. Then Lucas was shot, and suddenly seventeen-year-old Dante was in charge, with every rival family circling like sharks. He needed someone he could trust. Someone with my particular skills."
"So, you stayed."
"I stayed." Franco's gaze is steady. "Fifteen years now."
"That's loyalty."
"That's necessity. For both of us."
I consider this, trying to imagine the young, traumatized soldier Franco must have been, finding purpose in protecting a teenage boy thrust into a dangerous world. How that relationship must have shaped both of them over fifteen years.
"And you've never wanted something else? Something more?" I ask. "A life outside of... all that?"
Franco's expression doesn't change.
"My life suits me," he says.
But this time, I don't quite believe him.
Chapter 7 - Franco
