tornethics

[tornethics]

Francesca felt her chest tighten at his words, the pain of the betrayal curling around her heart, a knot she couldn’t quite undo. She knew him, knew the worst sides of him—his flaws, his missteps, his unspoken truths—but she trusted him. She had trusted him in a way that felt different from anyone else in her life. And now, hearing him speak with such vulnerability, her emotions were a confusing storm, mixing anger, hurt, and a deep, aching disappointment. “You never meant to hurt me, Donovan?” she repeated quietly, her voice trembling just a little, though she did her best to keep the tears at bay. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to see how much it stung. "Is that why you kept something this huge from me? Something that could change everything between us? You knew, deep down, how much I value honesty—how much I value trust—and yet you kept this secret." She took a slow breath, trying to steady herself, but the more she thought about it, the harder it became to mask the feeling of betrayal. She stood there, her posture poised but her heart torn, her eyes flicking away from him for just a moment, unable to meet the sincerity in his.

"You think I don’t understand things are complicated?" she continued, her voice softening, though still carrying the weight of her hurt. "I get it, Donovan. I do. But you—" She paused, her words coming out in a rush now, a mix of frustration and something deeper, something painful. "You’ve always been the one who tells me I can trust you. And I do trust you. I did." Her gaze finally met his again, this time sharper, filled with confusion and raw emotion. "And yet here you are, telling me you care about me... after everything. I just don’t know how to process that." She shook her head, a quiet laugh escaping her, though it was hollow, devoid of humor. "You’ve shattered something, Donovan, and I don’t know if I can just... piece it back together." She bit her lip, the weight of the situation settling in as she realized how much she had believed in him, in their connection, despite everything else.

Donovan’s grin falters, slipping away like a mask he never intended to wear. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. The words she’s just thrown at him hang in the air like a weight he can’t escape. He’s seen her angry before, but this is different. This isn’t anger. This is hurt. And it cuts deeper than he ever expected. He takes a step toward her, the playful spark in his eyes dimming as he drops his usual carefree demeanor, the one that always keeps things light.“Francesca…” His voice is softer now, careful, as if the wrong word could break something delicate. “I didn’t think you’d find out about that. I was hoping—” He stops himself, unsure of what he was hoping for. He’s never been good at explaining himself, never been good at putting his feelings into neat little boxes. But this? This is different.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says, his tone quieter, more vulnerable than she’s ever heard from him. He’s never been vulnerable with anyone—especially not her. “You’re… you’re important to me, more than I know how to say. And I don’t know how to make sense of this either. I didn’t ask for any of it, and the last thing I want is to cause you more pain.” He shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair, the weight of his words sinking in. He could only imagine that discovering this on top of the death of her father was sending her into a spiral. “Look, I didn’t want to be in this situation. I never thought it would actually come to this,” he continues, his voice faltering for just a second before he regains his composure. “Emilio… he’d been pushing, and I’ve been trying to avoid it. I thought I could get around it… but it doesn’t matter I can’t pretend that I don’t care about you—because I do. I care more than I’ve let on.” His words seem to tumble out in a rush, as if he’s finally breaking down the walls he’s built.

He looks at her, really looks at her for the first time in ages. “I can’t explain why things are the way they are. But please… don’t think I’ve been playing games with you.” His voice is steady now, earnest in a way she’s never heard before. “With what’s happened… I don’t even know if the agreement is still binding.”

[tornethics]

Francesca’s breath caught in her throat at his words, and for a moment, she felt her chest tighten, a mix of gratitude and something heavier tugging at her heart. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to hear it, to hear him say that, even though she’d always known he’d show up, always known he would be there in his quiet, steadfast way. Her fingers tightened instinctively around his hand as he placed it on hers, a silent reassurance.

"Leo," she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly as she spoke, "you always know what to say to make me feel... seen. Even when I don’t deserve it." She hesitated, looking down at their hands, her fingers tracing the lines of his palm. "I never meant to make you feel like you have to fix everything. I guess I’m just... afraid sometimes. Afraid of losing everything, of not being able to hold it together." Her gaze lifted to meet his, her eyes vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed anyone to see. "You’ve always been there, haven’t you? Always knowing when to push, when to pull back, when to just be. I’m so proud of who you’ve become, Leo. You’ve... you've always been the steady one for me, even when I didn’t know I needed it." She gave him a small, wistful smile, the weight of her words hanging between them. "Thank you. For showing up. For just being here. I don’t know what I’d do without you." Her voice cracked a little, but she smiled through it, not wanting to seem weak, though her heart ached with the unspoken truths they both shared in that moment.

end on your reply?

Leo sat across from Francesca, his gaze steady, watching her closely as she tried to piece together her words. He could see the cracks in her walls, the vulnerability she was trying so hard to hide. He didn’t need her to explain it all—he knew. He always knew when it came to her. The way she spoke, the way she looked at him, like she was searching for some kind of answer he couldn’t give. Her words hit him, though. "You’re so confusing..." It stung, but in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. Leo had never been good at showing emotion, never been the guy who’d wear his heart on his sleeve. But this, the way she was looking at him, the way her voice trembled, it made something inside of him twist uncomfortably. He had to admit, he didn’t know how to process this either. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this, so... small.

"You always pushed me," Leo said, his voice rough, but there was no aggression this time, just truth. "Someone had to, right?" His lips twisted slightly, a semblance of a grin that was gone as soon as it appeared. He didn’t know how to do this—this part. "I was always the one who kept everything in, kept it locked down. Never thought I needed to change. But I did. For you." There was an unspoken understanding in the way he said that, a lifetime of friendship that had shaped them both. Her words about the blackmailer, the gang—it cut through him. He wanted to reassure her, wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but he couldn’t lie. The stakes were high. And with everything hanging in the balance, it was hard for him to tell her there was no chance of things going wrong. Because there always was.

"I’m not some hero, Francesca," Leo said, his voice firm, but the warmth in it was undeniable. He wasn’t about to sugarcoat it, though. "I don’t have all the answers. Hell, most of the time I’m just making it up as I go." His eyes softened as he leaned forward a little. "But I’ll always be here. For you. We’ve been through too much for that to change. And you’re damn right we’ll figure it out. We always do." Leo hesitated, trying to swallow the words he didn’t always want to say out loud. The lump in his throat wasn’t something he could shake as easily as he’d hoped. He hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of her. But it was hard to ignore the truth—the raw, painful truth—that his world felt empty without Francesca’s presence. Without her strength.

"And for the record," he added, his voice softer, but still unmistakably Leo, "I’m doing this because you matter. More than you’ll ever know. And I’m not going anywhere." He shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to make his words stick. "So stop acting like I’m doing this because I have some 'better idea' of how to fix things. I’m just showing up, like I always have. No matter how much of a mess it is." He reached out, placing a hand over hers on the table, something so rare, so raw, that it almost startled him. He didn’t do this, but for her, for everything they’d been through, it felt right. "Don’t thank me," Leo muttered, his voice thick. "Just... let me be here for you, okay? That's enough."

[tornethics]

Francesca took a slow sip from her mug, feeling the warmth seep through her fingers as she watched Cami carefully. She could see the hardness in her eyes, the way she fought against anything that might make her feel more vulnerable. Francesca understood that instinct all too well, but she also knew the weight of keeping everything locked up. "You don’t have to talk, Cami," she said softly, her voice gentle, "but I want you to know you don’t have to carry it alone. If you need to say anything, or even if you just need someone to listen, I’m here for you. I won’t push, I promise. But it’s okay to let it out when you’re ready." Her eyes softened, a mix of empathy and understanding, knowing that sometimes just being there was enough, even if it wasn’t easy for Cami to show it.

She paused, watching Cami closely for any sign that her words were sinking in. "Grief doesn’t have to look a certain way. It doesn’t always come with tears or big moments of breakdown. Sometimes it’s just there, underneath, tugging at you in quieter ways. You don’t have to be strong all the time, and you don’t have to have it all figured out. The world might keep moving, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel what you feel." Francesca offered a soft smile, a quiet reassurance that she didn’t expect anything from Cami except whatever she felt comfortable sharing. Franceca has seen all types of reactions to grief with her work with at-risk youth. She could handle whatever Cami threw at her.

After everything that had unfolded at the gala, the only thing Cami wanted was a drink strong enough to drown anything soft or vulnerable that lingered. She had never been one to sit around and pick apart feelings or dig through old wounds. It was why she never took up therapy.

Cami met Francesca's eyes, the hard edges around her own hardening briefly before slipping, against her will, into something softer, begrudgingly sincere. "Isn't it a little early for fucking feelings hour?" She scoffed, pouring hot coffee into a mug and pushing it toward the other woman. She brought her own cup to her lips, swallowing bitterness that did nothing to shake her exhaustion.

What happened to the board wasn't a tragedy, it was a fucking declaration of war, and war didn't pause for the mourning. "Shit happens," She said with a shrug. "People are dead, and i'm sure it's only gonna get worse."

[tornethics]

Francesca blinked a few times, trying to place the woman who stood before her, her words laced with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The familiarity of Iara’s presence tugged at the edges of her mind, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. She shifted slightly, her hand still hovering over a bouquet of lilies, trying to keep her composure even as the weight of her grief settled deeper in her chest. "Thank you," Francesca murmured, offering a polite but strained smile. "It’s been... a rough week. My father’s death was so sudden, you know? It’s just been—" She paused, her voice faltering for a moment before she cleared her throat and regained her poise. "I’m just trying to find some peace in it all, if I can." Her eyes glanced at the flowers around her, feeling their soothing presence but also the irony of seeking solace in something so fleeting.

She took in the other woman’s words carefully, unsure of how to respond. Something about Iara’s sympathy felt almost too measured, too perfect. Still, Francesca couldn’t help but be drawn in by the way she spoke, her voice calm and soothing in its own way. "I suppose flowers are comforting, in a way," Francesca continued, her eyes drifting back to the blooms. "They’re here, but... they’re not here for long, are they? It's a bit like grief, isn't it? You have to make peace with it, even though it's... always there, just beneath the surface." She hesitated, feeling a flutter of uncertainty. "Sorry, I’m rambling. I didn’t mean to unload on you like that." Her gaze flicked back to Iara, the nagging sense that she knew her intensifying. She gave a small, apologetic smile, trying to be polite, but also sensing something else—something she couldn’t name but that felt... a little too familiar.

Location: A Flower Shop

Closed Starter: @tornethics

The faint scent of roses and lavender mixed with the earthy undertones of fresh-cut stems as Iara wandered through the flower shop. The soft hum of the place was a far cry from the chaos of her usual surroundings, and she enjoyed the moment of stillness, her fingers brushing against petals with calculated grace. She’d never been the type for sentimental gestures, but even she could appreciate the quiet beauty of a well-arranged bouquet.

She turned a corner, her eyes landing on a woman picking out funeral flowers. Her posture was stiff, an air of quiet mourning hanging around her. Iara’s gaze lingered for just a beat longer than it should have, her intuition already picking up on the familiar aura—the aura of someone who didn’t exactly belong in a place like this, yet fit in too well.

Francesca.

She recognized the woman from somewhere deep in the underworld, but there was no reason to show she knew. After all, pretending ignorance always worked better in situations like this. Iara's lips curled into a soft, almost sad smile, her voice smooth and laced with feigned sympathy as she stepped closer.

"Such a shame," Iara began, her tone honeyed but with a slight edge of calculated curiosity. "I didn’t expect to run into someone from The Family in a place like this." Her words were easy, casual, as though she wasn’t in the presence of someone who could easily ruin her day with a single move. "My condolences for your loss."

Iara’s gaze drifted toward the flowers, her fingers instinctively flicking at a soft petal of a nearby orchid. “It’s not easy, is it? Dealing with grief in silence. But at least flowers are a kind of... temporary comfort, aren’t they?” She let that hang in the air, a thinly veiled observation.

[tornethics]

Francesca’s eyes flicked to the bag, her stomach twisting—not in shock, not in disapproval, but in the sharp, instinctual urgency that always came with moments like this. Cash like that didn’t belong out in the open, not here, not where anyone could see. Her hand curled gently around Celestina’s wrist, not harsh, not forceful—just enough to guide her inside. “Come on,” she said, keeping her voice light, but firm. “Let’s talk in my office.” The warmth of the community center wrapped around them as they stepped inside—the quiet hum of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter from the children’s reading area, the scent of fresh coffee from the tiny kitchenette. This place, her place, had always been a haven. A shield from the world she was born into but never truly belonged to. And yet, no matter how much distance she tried to put between herself and the Family, it always found its way back in.

Once inside her office, Francesca shut the door, then turned, her arms crossing as she took in the sight of the bag again. It was funny, in a way—anyone else, and she might’ve hesitated to take it. But Celestina? Cel had never asked for anything in return. Never held it over her head. That meant something. It meant everything. A small, weary smile tugged at her lips. “You really didn’t have to do this,” she said, though they both knew it was a pointless sentiment. Celestina did what she wanted, always had. And Francesca? She wasn’t fool enough to refuse help when it was freely given. She exhaled softly, stepping forward and taking the bag from Cel’s grip. “Thank you,” she said, quieter this time, her fingers tightening around the handle. “Really.” Her gaze flicked back up to Celestina’s, searching, as if trying to find something unspoken between them. “How much trouble am I going to have to pretend I don’t know about for this?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice—half a joke, half a genuine question.

──── @tornethics. ──── fran's community center.

It wasn't uncommon for the two of them to meet this way. In fact, it had become a recurring theme ever since Francesca and Celestina were younger. Cel had always been acutely aware of what The Family was and what it entailed. She knew she had the ability to stomach it, swallow it down, and even thrive in it. Francesca, on the other hand, had always been different—better, in the sense that her moral compass was firmly in place.

Few people held a place in Cel's heart, but Fran had always been one of them. The promise she made to her years ago had never wavered, and it never would. That was exactly why she now stood outside the community center, one hand holding the almost completed cigarette to her lips, the other lazily gripping the handle of a Birkin bag stuffed with cash. It was when she spotted her friend's familiar face that Cel dropped the cigarette to the ground, a smile spreading across her lips. "For your new project," she said, lifting the bag. "You wanna go in, or talk out here?"

[tornethics]

Francesca’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first. Did she want to be involved? The question was so direct, so straightforward, but it made her pause. Not because she didn’t know the answer—no, she knew—but because putting it into words felt heavier than simply feeling it. Her gaze drifted away, lost somewhere in the past, before she let out a quiet breath. “I was twelve the first time I saw what this life really meant,” she murmured, her voice softer now, distant. “Not the fancy parties, not the power, not the whispered promises of protection and loyalty.” She swallowed hard. “I mean the blood. The cruelty.”

Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, like she could shake off the memory, but it was as vivid now as it had been then. “It was late. I wasn’t supposed to be awake, let alone wandering the house. But I heard voices—low, urgent—and I was a nosy little thing.” A dry, humorless chuckle left her lips before fading just as quickly. “So I peeked in through the door.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed forward. “There was a man slumped in the chair, his body barely holding together, like he’d been stitched back up just to be torn apart again.” Her stomach twisted as if she were twelve again, standing frozen in the shadows. “I remember the way his blood had started to dry, that deep rust color against the floor. And his face—” she stopped herself, shaking her head. “It wasn’t fear I saw in his eyes. It was the kind of pain that makes you beg for death.” She exhaled shakily, finally meeting Nico’s gaze. “I knew then that I wasn’t meant for this. That I couldn’t be.” Her arms crossed, as if bracing herself. “There’s already enough cruelty in the world. Enough people willing to be the reason someone else suffers. I’d rather not be one of them.”

She let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh, tilting her head. “That makes me weak, doesn’t it? That I’d rather not stomach it?” Her lips pressed together, before she shook her head. “But I can’t change that. And I don’t want to.” Her fingers traced absently along the hem of her sleeve, a telltale sign of her nerves. “I care about the people in the Family. I do. But being involved?” She hesitated, then gave a slight shake of her head. “I’d only ever be a liability.” She glanced back at Nico, searching his expression. “Does that make sense?”

Francesca's take was one he could find himself resonating with, one that actually in amongst the anger literally surrounding anyone he spoke to, was more direct on the worry rather than a need for action. She was right though, it also made him wonder what else The Hollow had over everyone of them, and there was a moment in which he thought to ask her - did she have ay secrets? A tease, really. Yet the words never passed his lips. Nico only nodded lightly in response to change was coming, that was the only certain thing. Good or bad? He figured they'd all find out soon enough.

"Does it make you... want to be involved?" he asked her, knowing he was bold enough to get straight to the point there. Did she want in? Nico wouldn't judge either option, he just wanted to ask. He shook off her apology - or what it seemed like to him, maintaining her gaze he only tugged a smile at the corner of his lips. "You are," he figured to reassure there, she was making sense, "It's fine though, used to people being all..." he raised a fist, clenching dramatically - lightheartedly, before his arm dropped back beside him. What he was trying to get across was that it was a nice change.

"Can't have progress without it," change, that was. Perhaps that was the only positive Nico would ever spin from this entire shitshow. "If you're not ready for it, what're you doing?" it wasn't necessarily a question directed at her, it was more him thinking as he briefly pulled his eyes away from Fran, looking out ahead of him, he sighed before coming back to her. "How're you holding up?"

[tornethics]

Francesca’s pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but the sickening weight of betrayal pressing against her ribs. Everyone had known. Everyone—except her. They’d all stood by, watching, waiting, letting her make a fool of herself while they kept their precious little secret. And Emir—Emir—had just let it happen. Her hands trembled as she clutched the crumpled papers, her knuckles white. “You knew,” she spat, stepping closer, her breath coming sharp and ragged. “You knew, and you didn’t say a damn word. How long, Emir? How long have you been sitting on this, just waiting for me to find out?” Her lips curled, venom lacing every word. “Was this your way of getting back at me? Of punishing me for choosing myself instead of choosing you?”

Her laughter was sharp, hollow, devoid of any real amusement. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You wanted me to find out like this. You wanted to see the look on my face when I realized that everyone—including you—had been keeping this from me.” She shook her head, disgust curling in her stomach. “All this time, you’ve been waiting for a way to hurt me like I hurt you. And God, you must be so satisfied right now.”

She shoved the papers against his chest, the force of it fueled by the rage burning through her. “Well, congratulations, Emir. You got what you wanted. I feel humiliated. I feel played. Are you happy now?” Her voice rose, sharp and laced with bitterness. “Is this enough for you? Or did you want me to beg, too?”

Her eyes burned, but she refused to let a single tear fall. Instead, she exhaled sharply, stepping back as she glared at him with all the fury she could summon. “You chose this life,” she seethed. “You chose them over me. And now you want to stand there and act like you had no part in this?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Don’t insult me.” Her hands clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. “I never asked for this,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “I never asked for my sister to be used as a pawn while I was left in the dark. But you? You let it happen. And don’t you dare try to tell me you had no choice.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the words cut just as deep. “You made yours a long time ago.”

there had been no avoiding it. the anger that would bubble up inside of her, that would be unleashed upon the first person within her path. and in that moment, emir was directly within her path. a prime candidate for the anger that she did not know what to do with. did not know where to direct it because, unfortunately, the person who had created this mess. the man that had advised all to withhold this information from her, had perished on the gala evening. emilio would not be able to receive the verbal lashing that he deserved. but would emir stand to receive it himself ? to let her direct this anger at him simply because he had happened to receive the information. to know of the potential marriage shortly after it had been devised .

the muscles in his jaw clenched, shifted. as he restrained his own anger. not at her, never at her. but at her father, who had been stupid enough to devise this plan in the first place. who had been idiotic enough to leave the goddamn papers in his desk as if they would be left undiscovered. and perhaps, just a small fraction of that anger, had been directed at the knowledge that rooted itself in the back of his mind. because he knew both the names on that paper. he knew that one belonged to her younger sister. while the other belonged to the man whose arm francesca had come attached to on that fateful night .

" what, you think i've enjoyed this ? " the words came out harsher than he had wanted. as his gaze snapped back up to meet hers. there was anger there, unrestrained. and maybe, just maybe, because in that moment. it felt as if she didn't know him. that she hadn't known him, for so many years. that she could think he would get any pleasure out of this. though he supposed that he had dug this hole himself. for the anger that had edged in when she had ended their engagement. for the way that he had lashed out, toyed with her during the times that they had found themselves within each other's orbits. but how did one stop the hurt, the anger that came with watching their world fall apart ?

" i was doing my job , " he furthered. as his jaw clenched that much tighter. as he stepped closer. but what could he do ? she had already seen the documents, had already understood the gravity of the situation. emir wouldn't be able to prevent anything that she did, how she used this knowledge. even if he could get the documents away from her. " you didn't want this life, remember ? you wanted out of it. and now what, you're mad because they did as you asked ? "

[tornethics]

Francesca let out a slow, measured breath, her fingers tapping idly against the side of her glass as she studied Nolan. The worst part? He really did look like he had all the time in the world, like this was just another game and he’d already planned out his next three moves while she was still deciding if she even wanted to play. She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “I don’t think you’re full of shit,” she corrected, tilting her head slightly. “Just… partially full of it.” Her tone was light, teasing, but the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed her concern. Because this? This wasn’t just another one of his risks. Francesca had seen Nolan take his fair share of them, had even stood by him through a few, but this felt different. People were paranoid. And when people were paranoid, they made bad decisions. They made desperate decisions.

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table, her voice dropping just slightly. “Alright, then. If you know so much—if you’re really ten steps ahead—tell me. What do you know? Because if you’re as confident as you say, then I’d love to hear it.” It was a challenge, plain and simple. Francesca knew what happened and Nolan was digging into a mess. And yet, she sighed, already knowing how this was going to go. He’d dodge, he’d smirk, he’d tell her just enough to keep her intrigued but not enough to really satisfy her. That was the problem with Nolan—he gave just enough rope for someone to hang themselves with, but never enough to pull him back from the edge.

She exhaled through her nose, sitting back again. “You know what? Fine.” A delicate shrug, casual, as though she wasn’t still very much worried about him. “Go ahead. Stir the pot. Play your game. But if this goes sideways—if someone decides you’re the problem that needs to be dealt with—that’s on you.” There was no anger in her voice, just a quiet, resigned sort of frustration. Francesca had spent enough time around Nolan to know she wasn’t going to talk him out of this, no matter how much she wanted to. He was who he was. And at the end of the day, she could either let him go into this blind, or she could at least make sure he knew she’d warned him. Her lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Just don’t expect me to write your obituary, alright?”

A nonchalant shrug pulled at his shoulders as she repeated his plan, head tilting slightly as he noted the hesitation in her voice. “You think I’m full of shit.” Because of course she did, because – in her defense – it sounded like a death wish put into writing, with her as the author no less. That was the thing with Nolan, though; he was a risk taker. Someone who’d jump off a high ledge just to see if he could fly -- but regardless of if he managed to sprout wings or not, he always landed on his feet. Nolan exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the backrest like he had all the time in the world. “Who says I’m pushing them? It’s just a little mention in an article – I have no intention of bringing a lawsuit to their doorstep and a target on my head.” Ulterior motives were the name of the game, weren’t they? It was all part of a bigger plan, one that, admittedly, Nolan was coming up with as he went, but it was the results that mattered. Not the journey. “I think I know a lot more than you think I do,” he noted, letting the words settle between them for a long moment before letting out a scoff. “Come on, don’t patronize me. I made a name for myself years ago. I don’t need a fucking byline in one of your articles to remind people of that." The lawyer leaned in slightly, meeting Francesca’s gaze. “Everyone’s paranoid right now, and I need to know who is scared enough – who is bold enough – to paint a target on their back by hiring someone like me.” Nolan had already elaborated far more than he normally would, but he could see where this was going. She was concerned, and throwing some money or a favor her way wasn’t what she was in search of; it was reassurance that he wasn’t about to get himself killed. “Come on, lass. You know me, you know I’m ten steps ahead of this.”

[tornethics]

Francesca held her sister tighter, pressing her cheek against Alessandra’s head as though she could somehow will away her pain. The sobs wracked through her, and Francesca only held on, firm and unwavering, though her own grief curled tight in her chest. “Oh, Ale,” she murmured, her voice soft, steady. She didn’t shush her, didn’t tell her not to cry. Alessandra needed to grieve, needed to say these things aloud, to spill them from the place where they had been festering. Francesca knew guilt well. It was a cruel thing, one that wrapped itself around the heart and refused to let go. She had felt it, too, in her own way. What could she have done differently? Had she been too passive, too hesitant? Had she held back when she should have reached out? But she knew this, too: no matter how much guilt whispered its cruel accusations, it could not change the past. Francesca's own relationship with her father was tumultuous was a constant reminder.

“You didn’t know,” Francesca said gently, her hand running slow, soothing circles over Alessandra’s back. “You couldn’t have known. And he—” her breath caught for only a moment before she forced herself to continue, ���he wouldn’t have wanted you to carry this. He wouldn’t have wanted you to punish yourself.” She pulled back just enough to look at her sister, brushing damp hair from her face with careful fingers. “You loved him. He knew that, Ale. No one fight, no moment of anger could ever erase that.” Her voice was steady, even as tears welled in her own eyes.

“I know it doesn’t feel like enough,” she admitted, her throat tightening. “I know it won’t bring him back, or undo what’s already happened. But if he were here, if he could tell you himself—” Francesca’s voice broke then, and she took a shuddering breath before she pressed her forehead to Alessandra’s. “He’d tell you he loved you, too. That he was proud of you. That nothing—not time, not distance, not one argument—could ever change that.” She squeezed Alessandra’s hands, holding them between her own, as if she could tether her back from the endless current of grief. “We can’t change the past,” she whispered, her own tears slipping free now. “But we still have each other. And we’ll get through this together. I promise.”

It was like a dam broke when her sister pulled her into a hug. Alessandra felt the tears fall, the sobs coming like the floodgates had opened up. Shaking, she wrapped her arms around Francesca and buried her head in her chest as the sobs rocked her body. Her sister, in true Fran fashion, was trying to help her, to ease the pain and comfort her. But she wouldn't be able to, because she couldn't erase what Alesandra had done and what she hadn't done. "I should have though!" She cried against her sister's shirt. "I threw a fit, and took the jet and went off on a fucking vacation." The word was said with such bitterness as it burst from her lips. "I should have been here. Looking for him! Instead, he died... oh god." Sobs took over her body once more and she tightened her hold her on her sister. "I loved him, Fran. And my last words to him were me being a brat." Her voice grew quiet then, breaking. "I can't take that back... I can't make it right."

[tornethics]

Francesca’s lips curved, amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she tilted her head ever so slightly, as if considering Diego’s words with the utmost seriousness. "Nancy Drew?" she echoed, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. "I must say, that’s a new one. Most people go straight for Lois Lane." Her gaze danced with a knowing glint, as if she had heard every variation of the comparison and yet still found some delight in it. She leaned in ever so slightly, just enough to give the impression of conspiratorial mischief. "But you wound me, Diego. You think I’d be a poor sport at cards? I’d never cheat, you know. I just happen to be… very good at reading people." Her tone was light, teasing, but the meaning was clear. She wasn’t the sort to rely on luck—she preferred skill, observation, and just a touch of manipulation to get what she wanted.

As he parried her words back at her, that subtle push-and-pull they often danced around, Francesca let out another laugh, soft and knowing. "Oh, well done," she admitted, as if acknowledging a well-played move in their little game. "Though I’m not so sure you should be reminding me of my own words. That only proves that you do pay attention, which means you have no excuse for evading my questions." She listened as he finally—finally—gave her something real, something that wasn’t just banter wrapped in misdirection. Farsi. Mandarin. Not the sort of answer she had expected, but that only intrigued her more. Francesca had a talent for picking apart the motivations behind people's choices, but this? This was a puzzle she hadn’t quite put together yet.

"Hmm." She leaned back slightly, studying him as if she might find the answer in the way he held himself, in the subtle shifts of his expression. "I must admit, I’m impressed. Most men at these sorts of events tell me they’ve taken up fencing, or horseback riding, or something equally dashing to pass the time." Her lips twitched, as though she found the whole thing vaguely ridiculous. "Languages, though… now that is interesting." A pause, just enough to make it seem like she was considering letting it go, before she pressed, ever so casually, "And why Farsi? I can see Mandarin for practicality, but Farsi… that’s more of a personal choice, isn’t it?" She met his gaze then, all charm and curiosity, her smile deceptively sweet. Francesca might have been playing, but she was playing to win.

"Trying to make the world forget about Nancy Drew, are you?" He asked, having never read a Nancy Drew novel. Or a Hardy Boys book, although he remembered reading How to Kill a Mockingbird and feeling unsettled by it. Perhaps there wasn't a similarity between those selections, but it did show how things could permeate the brain simply through word of mouth. He wasn't familiar with any of the Nancy Drew work, but that was who he thought of, and if it had that impact on him, then what of her? What led Francesca Donatelli to being the person before him, the one that saw through word games and smiled about it. "You do seem that type. Remind me not to play cards with you."

He couldn't be trusted to know her tells at a poker table or there at a charity gala, but that didn't stop him from believing her. They said the best lies were those with a grain of truth and she seemed so self aware in that moment, aware of herself and her ambitions in a way he wouldn't credit most of the other attendants with. "The answer to that depends on my resilience, but it also depends on your willingness, doesn't it? It comes down to more than just what I'm willing to answer." He said, reminding Francesca of her own words, feeling not as if he'd scored a point, but as if they'd ended up balancing a scale.

One corner of his mouth curled up in a grin at her laugh, a reaction he didn't usually get, but also didn't mind. It was almost like they had an inside joke, a rarity with his sarcasm that generally led to people calling him an asshole. But perhaps her occupation led to encounters with more prickly individuals than him. "That's a noble ambition," Diego remarked with a contemplative tip of his head, leaving it up to Francesca to deduce just which part of her comment he meant. "Why can't it be both? I have nothing against multitasking, you know. If you can advance two things while working on one, it seems like saved effort."

But that was only teasing, not his true answer at all and Diego felt compelled to give her at least a shred of truth. Perhaps she would be disappointed by it since it was hardly a glamorous answer, but Diego held no pretense of being one of the shiny, prestigious members of society that so many of the gala's guests considered themselves to be. Clearing his throat, Diego shifted slightly, leaning on one elbow and feeling the fabric of his shirt pull at the motion. "First, it's not New Years, so it doesn't count as a New Year's resolution. Call it a… personal development goal. A hobby. " He offered, his opinion from before still unchanged, even if their conversation had lingered with him. That alone was a victory since Diego rarely altered from his course, but he didn't think she needed to know that - if she didn't already suspect. "My Farsi is rusty, so I thought brushing up on that would be a good past time. Mandarin would probably be more useful, but…" Trailing off, Diego shrugged, not entirely sure he could explain the choice.

[tornethics]

Francesca’s lips curled into a subtle smile as Diego responded, his words laced with a challenge. She tilted her head slightly, amused by the way he shifted the conversation back to her. She hadn’t expected anything less. Diego had a way of keeping people on their toes, and it seemed like she had just handed him another opportunity to do so. She leaned back a little in her chair, matching his posture with casual poise, but her eyes remained focused on him, the curiosity twinkling in her gaze. Diego had a way of making everything feel like a game, and while she enjoyed the challenge, it didn’t mean she was going to let him off easy.

“Well, I like to think of myself as more of a detective than a historian." She chuckled lightly, tapping a finger to her chin as if considering his words. "But yes, people definitely want their version of the truth told. Everyone’s got their own lens, their own narrative to spin, don’t they?” She gave him a look that was half playful, half knowing. “You’re not wrong there, Diego. But you’re asking me to lay down a version of events, aren’t you? How very... clever.” His question about her, though, was one that made her pause for just a second longer than she cared to admit. She could feel the subtle shift in the conversation, the pressure to answer with something more than a vague, teasing remark. She didn’t mind the attention, but she didn’t exactly like being put on the spot either. Not when she had more secrets than she was willing to share.

“Well,” she began with a small sigh, leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “I suppose I react in a way that’s a bit... unexpected, perhaps? I’ve been told I’m a bit of a mystery, myself. But,” she said, with a playful smile, “you’ve got me there, Diego. I do like to keep things close to the chest, don’t I?” She rested her chin in her hand, giving him a thoughtful look. “I guess the question is, are you curious enough to figure it out?” Her eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as she let that sink in, enjoying the tension, but unwilling to let him have the upper hand for too long. Then, when Diego brought up the resolution again, her smile grew a little more sincere. She remembered their last conversation on that topic; how he’d made her laugh despite the serious undertones. There was something about Diego’s resolve that both intrigued and amused her.

When he challenged her again, asking her to ask him about his resolution, she couldn’t help but laugh lightly. She remembered their last conversation on the topic, how easy it had been to joke about it then. But now, with him pushing like this, the mood had shifted a bit. She could feel the tension in the air, and it made her wonder just what kind of resolution he had in mind. “Alright, I’ll bite,” she said, leaning forward a little, her eyes now focused on him with genuine interest. "You’re not getting away with that one so easily, Diego. So, tell me—what’s your resolution now? Still trying to change the world, or is it just me you’re trying to keep guessing?" She raised an eyebrow, her smile both teasing and sincere as she gave him a knowing look.

"Not upsetting." He corrected without clarifying at all, his tone light. Exactly what he would call her questions was something of a mystery and that in itself was odd. Things were normally laid out so clearly for him, answers so apparent, and yet just why he was humoring her, why he'd sought her out was opaque. "Is that your version of history is written by the victors? Because you're right that the rich and powerful want their story told, but they also want their version of the truth told." His eyes flicked down for a moment, drawn by the motion of her hand before glancing back up, wondering just how many people had given away their secrets in exchange for having her complete focus on them. Good interrogation wasn't all about fear, after all. "Tell me, Miss Donatelli, how do you react when the tables are turned? The conversation seems to be focused on me, but I've noticed you haven't given anything away, either." He didn't address the remark about his connections, but it caught his attention because one of the wonders of vague remarks was that people could project whatever they wanted into the blank. That was another good way to get people to confess to things and if Diego needed any further proof that she was good at what she did, it came in nonverbal form, the way she leaned back and he wanted to follow. Clever, clever. "Perhaps your question isn't." Because on Diego's part, he was very interested in what she was digging for. "But just for you… ask me about my resolution again."

[tornethics]

Francesca stood in the doorway, her exhaustion almost tangible as she stared at Donovan. She’d expected him, in some twisted way, to show up—though not like this. Not with that damn grin of his, not acting like everything was just fine when she felt like she was about to crumble. His words stung more than they should have, a strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity, as if everything had just gone back to normal after everything that had happened. The night of the gala felt so distant and, at the same time, so painfully close. The chaos. The mess. The way he had looked at her, the way they had danced around what was between them, and then… nothing. He had gone off into his world, and she had been left with nothing but the fragments of herself to pick up. And then there was this.

Her throat tightened, and she leaned against the door frame, not wanting to let him in, but not sure what to say either. She was tired. So tired of pretending. Pretending that things hadn’t shifted, that she wasn’t hurt, that the weight of it all wasn’t crushing her. "I was hoping you could answer a question for me," she said, her voice a little colder than she meant it to be, but she couldn't help it. "Did you mean to knock on right Donatelli's door, Donovan? Because, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the one you’re supposed to be with now, isn’t it?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she immediately felt a rush of frustration, guilt, and anger surge through her. She hadn’t even meant to say it like that. Her mind screamed at her to take it back, but she couldn’t. Not when the truth of it all hung so heavily between them.

closed starter @tornethics francesca's condo

Donovan had been running on fumes for days, cleaning up after the disaster at the Manor of Hope Gala. Echo had been scrambling, covering tracks, dealing with fallout, and Donovan hadn’t had a moment to catch his breath, let alone check in with Francesca. His mind wandered to her often, the way she had been caught up in all the chaos, the way the night had shaken them both. He hadn’t liked seeing her in that state—vulnerable, shaken—but even more, he hated that he hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t made sure she was alright. He couldn’t help it; life had a way of pulling him in a hundred directions at once.

Now, as he stood outside her apartment, there was a small knot of anxiety in his chest. He'd always prided himself on being the easy-going, carefree type, but with Francesca, things were different. She was more than just a friend to him, and the fact that he'd never let himself cross that line left a weight on his shoulders. Maybe he just needed to make sure she was okay—nothing more, nothing less. He could manage that, right?

With a sigh, Donovan knocked on the door, his usual mischievous grin tugging at his lips. He could already imagine the look she’d give him when she saw him standing there, not a moment’s notice, all cocky charm as if the last few days hadn’t happened at all. As the door creaked open, he leaned against the frame with a dramatic flair, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, Francesca," he greeted, voice smooth but with a touch of playful warmth. "Sorry for the radio silence—had to deal with some minor chaos. You know how it is. But hey, what’s more important than making sure you didn’t turn into a cocktail of bad decisions after that gala, right?" He flashed her a grin, leaning in slightly, as though trying to take the edge off the awkwardness he could feel building. "So... how’s the world's most dangerous woman holding up?"

[tornethics]

Francesca couldn't help but chuckle softly as Cami let out that frustrated remark about sleep. She knew the feeling all too well—when it seems like rest is something you just can't catch no matter how badly you need it. It almost made her feel a little lighter, as if Cami’s dry humor was a small, shared moment of understanding between them. “Coffee sounds perfect,” Francesca said with a warm smile, slipping into the familiar rhythm of being around her friend. As Cami moved around the kitchen, Francesca noticed the way she carried herself—eyes tired, movements a little too quick, like she was trying to outrun the heaviness of the situation. She didn’t need to ask; it was obvious something was weighing on Cami.

Francesca watched her for a moment, trying to pick up on anything more. anything she might not have said, but might be hiding behind the sharpness of her words. She wasn’t going to press; Cami had always been a bit closed off when it came to certain things. But Francesca, as curious as ever, couldn’t help but wonder what was really going on behind that dry humor and self-deprecating remarks. She leaned against the counter, her fingers playing with the sleeve of her cardigan as she let the silence hang just a little longer. When Cami finally turned to face her, Francesca met her gaze with a soft smile, not pushing, just... being there.

"Actually," she began, her tone gentle but with a hint of something more serious. "I wanted to check in. It’s been... well, I know things have been hard... everything. I just wanted to see how you’re holding up." She paused, biting her lip slightly. "I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but I’m here if you need to talk, or if you just want someone around. I’m... I’m not going anywhere, Cami." Her eyes softened as she watched her friend, hoping that the quiet sincerity in her words would reach Cami. Sometimes, Francesca knew, it wasn’t about offering answers—it was about offering a space where someone could be real. Even if that just meant sharing a cup of coffee in silence.

Cami shut the door behind Francesca, rubbing her face like she was trying to slap herself awake. She scoffed, barely acknowledging the question as she moved toward the kitchen. "Sleep's a fickle little bitch," she muttered, eyes locked on the fridge as she yanked it open, searching for the creamer she was almost certain was hiding somewhere on the shelfs. "Shows up when I don’t need it, vanishes when I do."

Her fingers finally wrapped around the carton, and she pulled it out from the fridge in one swift motion, then turned to make her way to the coffee maker. "Not that I blame it," she added, punching the machine to life. "I wouldn't spend the night with me either, If I had a choice." A yawn slipped out before she could stop it, her body betraying just how little sleep she actually got. She turned then, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing over her chest as she finally met Francesca’s gaze. "But I’m guessing you didn’t stop by to talk about my fucked up sleep pattern." Without waiting for a reply, she reached for the cabinet beside her, pulling down two mugs. "Coffee?"

[tornethics]

Francesca stared at the papers in her hands, the shock of what she had just uncovered rattling through her. The names on the document weren’t what she had expected, not what she had feared, but the sting was still sharp, almost unbearable. Her younger sister’s name was on the agreement, and the man her sister was bound to marry was none other than the person she had begun to develop feelings for. The man she had let her guard down around. Her mind spun as she processed the reality of what she was holding, her heart sinking into her stomach. The connection between her sister and this man was now inescapable, official. And the worst part? She hadn’t known. She had been completely, blissfully unaware.

But there was more to it, wasn’t there? A small, insidious part of her mind couldn’t help but lash out. She looked at Emir, her ex-fiance, standing there with his arms crossed, seemingly unmoved by the gravity of the situation. The bitterness bubbled up in her chest. Did you know? Did you watch me suffer through this— not knowing? Did you get a laugh out of it, knowing what I didn’t? The words left her mouth before she could stop them, her voice edged with the anger and hurt that had been building inside her. "Did you get a laugh out of it, Emir? Did you enjoy watching me be so… so ignorant?" Her gaze was sharp as she locked onto his, hoping to find something, anything, that would make sense of this. She felt like the biggest fool in the world. She had prided herself on seeing the good in people, on being considerate, on not jumping to conclusions. And yet, here she was, betrayed by her own naivety.

Her chest tightened, and she knew it wasn’t fair. She knew it wasn’t Emir’s fault that her sister had gotten involved with the man she had feelings for, but the frustration was too much. She couldn’t help the way her heart felt, torn between grief for her father and the sudden, intense hurt that came from seeing how her family—and her heart—had been manipulated without her even realizing. She felt so stupid. It was as if the kindness she had shown over the years, the trust she placed in people, had been used against her again. She always assumed the best in people. She always believed that others would act with the same decency she tried to offer. It was one of her most treasured qualities—and one of her biggest weaknesses.

the silence between them soon returned. for what could emir say, that would ease the troubles within her own head. of what she should have done, of what she could have done; all those thoughts that anyone and everyone struggled with after a sudden loss. one that perhaps could have been avoidable, could have been prevented. his tongue had pressed harshly to the roof of his mouth, teeth clenched to stop any useless words from slipping out. this wouldn't be the time for it. to fill the space between them with anything, any words that he could think of. whether they helped or not. so he remained where he stood, with his arms crossed dutifully across his chest. sharp gaze focused upon her, as she returned to shuffling through her father's desk. there would be no telling what documents were in the drawers, whether anything would need to be withheld from her. snatched from her hand before she saw too much. for despite the surname that attached itself to her name, francesca was not a part of the family. what she had already been given was more than what others would have been afforded .

his gaze sharpened, as she pulled forth a stack of documents. though he couldn't rightfully see the words upon the page, it had been her sudden shift in demeanor that alerted him. that warned him that what she had found should have been better left undisturbed. and then the words slipped from her tongue, and he stilled. as a shock of chill ran down the curvature of his spine. fuck. there was nothing that he could do, for francesca had already found the papers. had already understood precisely what it was that she had found. the names on the page, the understanding that something had been chosen outside of her. without her. his arms had uncrossed, as he'd made a step closer. but there would be no halting this moment, no hoping that he could get to the pages before she finished them. it would be right there at the top. and then her gaze shifted with the question, seeking out his own. and he dreaded the look that reflected so heavily within it .

betrayal, uncertainty; pain. for what felt like the first time since she had ended their engagement, emir feels as if he can't bear to look in her eyes. to keep his gaze locked with her own, and so he drops his. instead, he focused upon the desk that sat between them. the one that the papers had been unceremoniously held within. fucking emilio. " ... not everyone , " came his words after a beat. or had it been more ? emir couldn't be certain how much time had passed between her question and when the words finally found themselves upon his tongue. but the real ones, for the question that she had been unable to voice, lingered in the air around them. yes, emir had known too .

[tornethics]

Francesca took a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl around her as she stared at it for a moment, lost in thought. She wasn’t the type to rely on distractions, but today felt different. She wasn’t sure if it was the grief or the weight of everything hanging in the air, but the cigarette helped, just a little. She glanced at Nico, his question hanging between them. “What does it look like from where I’m sitting?” She exhaled the smoke slowly, her eyes momentarily narrowing. "Honestly? It looks like everything is everything about to change. The Hollow knew things. Things that shouldn't have been known, by anyone. It makes me fearful of what they could have on any one of us." The secrets shared would have lasting consequences; she felt it in her bones. She took another drag, her eyes lingering on the tip of the cigarette as she spoke quietly. "I don’t know how, but it’s coming. Change is coming, and it’s not going to be the kind of change we want."

Her voice softened, eyes gliding to the floor before meeting his again. "I care about the people in the Family, even if I’m not as involved. I don’t want anyone to get hurt." Francesca could say it as many times as she wanted, repeating herself like a broken record. She knew why she said no, but every day it felt like it made less and less sense. Francesca flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette, the movement almost mechanical, like she was trying to focus on something, anything other than her thoughts. "I really don’t want to unload all of this on you, Nico, but I feel like I have to say it. To someone, at least. And I don’t know... I don’t know if I’m even making sense." Looking at Nico, she couldn’t help but feel something unexpected. He wasn’t the type to show much emotion, to let anyone in, yet here he was, with her, in a way that felt almost… caring. It wasn’t a sentiment she was used to receiving from him, and it left her feeling a little unsettled. She had never seen this side of him before, so seemingly present, so oddly gentle. It was something she wasn’t sure how to handle, especially when she was barely keeping herself together. She let out a shaky breath, turning the cigarette in her fingers as she gave him a small, wistful smile. "I don’t have any answers. I just know things are going to change, and I can’t figure out if we’re ready for it or if we’ll ever be."

He smiled softly, appreciating the situation for what it was. He didn't expect Fran to unload or tell all he just - maybe - wanted to get her to laugh, smile, whatever, and considering he had achieved that within the first few seconds he thought he was on a pretty good run. Nico nodded lightly, appreciating her need to keep moving - he could get it, even if he hadn't experience grief before. It was funny, really, how he could recognise every single emotion and find some understanding with it, yet not actually feel them himself.

Though when she mentions how she appreciated him asking, Nico only lightly nudged her with his elbow. Not technically knowing what to say to that and so he figured his light jab would say enough.

"Oh, now you mention it..." his hands patted his jeans - he's in searching of something, his phone, playing along with the joke as if he'd have a thousand owl pictures stored on it. Though he eventually settled with a small chuckle, a smile gracing his features as he turned to look at her. "Something to do." he shrugged casually, as if admitting to an apparent interest. Nico just like to be in silence - sue him for picking up hobbies along the way.

As she leaned closer his hand came up just to take his cigarette he had previously offered, turning his head as he took a drag, exhaling the smoke into the air above before holding her eye contact once more, "Not sure you want to know." what he actually thought. "What does it look like from where you're sitting?" he asked, twisting the narrative a little, finding himself wanting her opinion.

[tornethics]

Francesca sat at the kitchen table, her eyes still lingering on the food Leo had brought, but her mind was elsewhere, swallowed up in the overwhelming void of everything that had happened. She should have felt grateful, she knew that. Leo was here, right now, doing what he always did: showing up. And yet, she felt a strange lump in her throat, a mix of gratitude and confusion. "You're so..." Her voice faltered for a moment, and she paused, struggling to find the right words. She felt exposed, like she was standing naked in front of a mirror she couldn’t avoid. "You’re so... confusing, you know that? Like, I don’t even know how to process it. You were always the one I had to drag out of your shell, and now look at you. You've become this... this person who actually knows how to care, how to be there without all the... mess." Her eyes dropped to her hands, picking at her nails as her voice grew softer, more vulnerable. "I don’t know why, but it's kind of amazing, and I’m so proud of you, Leo."

She chuckled bitterly to herself, her gaze drifting to the window, avoiding his stare. "Funny, right? I pushed you to go to therapy, and now... I’m the one who wants to shut everything out." It was a weird twist of fate. She was so used to being the one asking, and pushing, saying it will set you free. However now that she is in the place, she wants to lock every bit of herself away. Her expression shifted, vulnerable once more, as the worries she kept buried deep began to creep out. "And what if... what if it all goes wrong? With everything. The blackmailer, the gang... all of it. I can't shake the feeling that something's coming, something bad. I don't want anything happening to you, Leo." As much as Leo had relied her, Francesca did not realize how much she came to depend on him. Leo was steady, permanent, in a way so many people in her life went. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, and she quickly blinked them away, forcing a shaky laugh. "But we’ll be fine, right? We figure it out. We always do." Francesca was speaking to Leo, but she knew the words were for herself. She paused again, the silence stretching between them for a moment as she fought to swallow the lump in her throat. Then, with a deep sigh, she added, "Thank you for coming. For... for doing this."

Leo gave her a pointed, unimpressed look as he leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed. He wasn’t one for soft words or empty pleasantries. "Rude? You mean direct," he corrected with a dry edge to his voice. "I don’t do all that fake shit. I came here to make sure you’re not falling apart on me, not to hold your hand and coddle you." He watched her with an unreadable expression, his usual intensity turned inward. Leo wasn’t great with emotions, especially not his own, but he cared for Francesca in the way he knew how—practical and no-nonsense, even if it came off as harsh. He wasn’t gonna pretend things were okay when they obviously weren’t. He wanted her to snap out of it, to not drown in whatever mess her father’s death had thrown her into, even if that meant being blunt. "Look, I know you don't want to talk about it. You never do. But you're not alone in this, and I'm not going anywhere." He took a deep breath, frustration flashing in his eyes before he forced himself to tone it down. "I know how you like to handle things on your own, but sometimes, it’s okay to let someone help." Those therapy sessions Francesca forced him into must've been paying off now. He uncrossed his arms, his voice softening just a fraction as he saw her finally acknowledge the meal. "Glad you like it," he muttered, his tone barely shifting but with a subtle warmth. It wasn’t his style to throw compliments around, but he didn’t need to. He was here, and he was doing something—whether she appreciated it or not. "Eat. Rest. If you need something, just say it. I’m not here to leave you alone, even if that’s what you think you want." Leo was protective, sure, but he wasn’t gonna sugarcoat it. He didn’t do feelings the way others did. All he could offer was his presence and his straightforwardness.

[tornethics]

Francesca snorted, rolling her eyes at his light-hearted jab. "Shoes say otherwise? Oh, please," she teased, her voice full of amusement. It felt good to have a lighter moment, especially after everything that had happened. It was strange, though—Nico was the one to start it. She hadn’t had many chances to laugh lately. "I just came back from a run, Nico. I’m not about to let life fall apart because of one thing—especially when I’ve got to keep moving." She paused for a moment, her expression softening as she glanced at him, her eyes showing a quieter gratitude for his concern. "I’m dealing with it, you know. As best I can," she added, her voice calm but carrying a hint of vulnerability. She worked with trauma every day at the community center, but that didn’t make her father’s loss any easier to carry. Francesca looked down at her shoes again before meeting his gaze. "I appreciate you asking, though. It means something."

Her curiosity shifted as her eyes caught sight of the hawk, narrowing with interest. She leaned slightly toward him, a playful smile creeping onto her face. "Wait a minute," she said, tilting her head with mock surprise, "I didn’t realize you were a bird watcher, Nico. Is that your secret hobby? Come on, spill it—what's with the sudden interest in hawks? What’s next, you’re gonna start showing me pictures of your favorite owls?" Her teasing was light, but there was warmth in her tone—something she saved for moments like this. After a beat, she leaned in a little closer, her voice softening as she asked, “But seriously, what do you think of everything that went down at the gala?” She raised an eyebrow. "What’s your take on all of it?" Francesca knew she wouldn't be privy to the choice the Family made, even with her ties to the Donatelli family, but she couldn’t help poking—she cared about the people within the Family, and she wanted to be sure they weren’t struggling in silence.

"Shoes say otherwise." he was making a light joke, one that would no doubt fall flat - or at least that was Nico's experience with just about everyone. As Fran sat beside him and asked her question, he shook his head softly, "No." He got it though, because why else would he be here? "Wanted to check in." of course he had an actual reason for being here, he just found himself with a need to see how she was doing, considering the events at the gala and her very public display of grief. Not that there was anything wrong with it, it had simply just stuck in his mind, mostly because he couldn't ever physically see himself doing anything similar. It was sad, really, the Nico that cried was long lost in his six year old self. "Did you--" he leaned in closer, cheek nearly touching cheek as his focus was in front of him, arm stretched, index pointing ahead of them both before relaxing, "Been sat here a while, you know, sure you've got a hawk."